Day 9

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Someone they knew for a fact they could trust.

  "Okay then," said Quincy. "Let's not aim so high. How about this?" He leaned over even further. "What can you tell me about why you disappeared for twenty years?"

  Hannahlee turned her blazing emerald gaze on him. "Disappeared?"

  "You worked steadily on TV for ten years after Weeping Willows...starred for three years on Big Hair, till it went off the air in '86...then poof." Quincy twirled his hand in the air with a flourish. "No more Lianna sightings on screen or off. Now here you are. In the flesh, calling yourself 'Hannahlee Saylor.' What's with the alias?"

  "Why don't you tell me, Mr. Pittenger?" said Hannahlee. "Or do you prefer 'Gilbert?'"

  Just then, Dunne saw something he couldn't believe: Quincy at a loss for words. It only lasted a moment, but it was still amazing.

  When Quincy spoke again, his voice was subdued. "Call me Quincy."

  "'Gilbert Pittenger?'" said Dunne.

  "His real name," said Hannahlee.

  "Congratulations. You've done your research." Quincy leaned back, giving Dunne's rib cage a rest.

  "So tell me," said Hannahlee. "Why 'Sweet Quincy Windsor' instead of Gilbert Pittenger?"

  "Stage name," said Quincy. "'Sweet Quincy Windsor' sounds more like a professional filker."

  "If you say so," said Hannahlee.

  "So tell me about your name," said Quincy. "Why 'Hannahlee Saylor?'"

  Hannahlee's mouth twitched. She looked away, then back at Quincy. "It's my real name. The one I was born with. Lianna was my stage name."

  Quincy leaned over again, putting the pressure back on Dunne's aching ribs. "So why'd you go back to Hannahlee?"

  "My career was over," said Hannahlee. "And I was tired of fending off horny fanboys."

  Dunne laughed. That might have been the reason Quincy suddenly jabbed him between the ribs, turning the laugh into a gasp.

  "Seriously." Quincy stared at her intently. "What happened to you? Where'd you go? Why'd you come back?"

  Hannahlee winced. "I'm done talking about this," she said. "Unless you'd like to tell us about Knox."

  Quincy's expression went blank. He gave her a last look, then settled back in his seat.

  "All right then." Hannahlee got up and stepped into the aisle. "I'll be right back."

  As she headed for the bathroom at the end of the cabin, Dunne turned to Quincy. "What's Knox? Like Fort Knox?"

  Quincy ignored him and pulled a blue mp3 music player out of the pocket of his leather vest. Though he'd switched from the puffy white shirt to a pink Kitty Willow t-shirt underneath, he still wore the same black vest etched with flames that he'd had on at Willowcon.

  "What's Knox?" said Dunne. "Or should I say who?"

  In the midst of plugging the music player's white ear buds into his ears, Quincy glared. "Remember that guy up in Idaho?" His nasally voice was tight with strong emotion. "The one who killed and ate over fifty people ten years ago in honor of the death goddess Kali?"

  Dunne frowned and shook his head.

  "Well, that wasn't Knox," said Quincy. "Now fleave me alone."

  "'Fleave' you alone?" said Dunne.

  "Short for 'fucking leave me alone!'" Quincy plunged the buds into his ears. "Didn't anyone ever teach you to speak flanguage?"

  "No," said Dunne.

  "Well how could they?" said Quincy. "I just made it fup!"

  And that was all Dunne got from him at that point on the subject of Knox.

  The Kitty Willow lookalike skated right into Hannahlee, bowling both of them over. They ended up in a tangle of arms and legs on the cement floor at Quincy's feet.

  An enormous, leering grin spread across his face. He tilted his head back and spoke to the ceiling. "Thank you, God. All these years of praying have finally paid off."

  Dunne darted around him and helped Hannahlee get to her feet. When he tried to do the same for the skating Kitty, she fell and pulled him down on top of her.

  "Sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry! I'm usually not this clumsy, but I'm really nervous today."

  "Why's that?" said Dunne as he rolled off her.

  "I have my big scene with Luanne today." Roller Kitty used a handrail on the wall to pull herself up. "Can you believe it?"

  "Luanne...Diego?" said Hannahlee.

  Roller Kitty tossed her great feathery mane of golden 1970s hair. "Bella Willow is in the house!" She let out a little squeal of excitement. "I am so pumped."

  Then, she spun around and skated off down the hallway.

  "Luanne Diego is here?" Dunne got up and faced Quincy. "To shoot a Willows movie?"

  "Poor, poor Funne." Quincy shook his head. "Haven't you ever heard of a fan film?"

  "Since when does Luanne freakin' Diego appear in a fan film?" said Dunne.

  "Since now, you fidiot." Quincy pushed past him and headed down the hall after Roller Kitty.

  "Enough with the flanguage, already!" said Dunne. Then, with a huge, exasperated sigh, he fell in step behind Quincy with Hannahlee by his side.

  The three of them emerged in a film studio that had once been a high school gymnasium.

  The giant space was full of sets and equipment—lights, microphones, and cameras. Actors and crew rushed in every direction, adjusting makeup, costumes, and gear.

  All of it looked a little haphazard, low-budget...but still. The scene in the gym looked pretty close to the way Dunne imagined a real movie set might look.

  Hannahlee stared. "These are all fans doing this?"

  Quincy nodded. "Some pros, too...but they're all doing it for the love."

  "And Halcyon Studios just lets them?" said Dunne.

  "As long as no one makes any money," said Quincy. "Fan films, especially quality ones like this, create fan goodwill and build buzz on the 'net for the property."

  "I can't believe Luanne's doing one," said Hannahlee.

  Quincy shrugged. "She's not the first Willows actor to do a fan film. Pete Hodges did The Mark of a Willow last year, and he got a reality show gig right after." Quincy patted Hannahlee's shoulder. "Maybe you ought to consider it."

  Hannahlee turned her emerald glare on him and held it there until he moved his hand.

  "You said Gowdy's supposed to be here?" said Dunne.

  "Just a frumor at this point," said Quincy. "He's either working on this film or his secret dream project."

  "Secret dream project?" said Dunne.

  "Haven't you heard of 'Godseye?'" said Quincy. "Everybody else has."

  "Then how can you call it 'secret?'" said Dunne.

  "Just because we've heard about it," said Quincy, "doesn't mean anyone knows what the fell it is."

  At that moment, a blond man in Fidel Castro-style olive drab and black boots hurried over from the set. "Don't just stand there!" he said. "You're needed on the set!"

  "What the hell?" said Dunne.

  The Castro blond grabbed Quincy's arm and pulled him along. "We're burnin' daylight here, assholes! Shake a leg!"

  "You directors are all the same," said Quincy. "A bunch a' slave drivers and fegomaniacs! Shove it up yer fass!"

  Blond Castro—who was actually a little taller than giant Quincy—spun and snarled in Quincy's face. "Who do you think you are, talkin' smack in my house?" In a flash, he pulled a pistol from a holster on his belt and jammed the barrel between Quincy's eyes. "Say them! Say the only words that can possibly save your shriveled soul!"

  "I'm a little teapot, short and stout!" Quincy bellowed the lyrics in his resonant singing voice. "This is my handle, this is my spout!"

  With a wild howl, blond Castro pulled the trigger.

  And nothing happened. Which was pretty much the outcome Dunne had anticipated, considering the bizarre characters involved.

  "Saints preserve us!" Quincy clapped his hands and beamed skyward. "I've got a second chance at life! It's a miracle."

  "No." Blond Castro pointed the gun at his own temple and pulled the trigger. "It's a prop."

  "Ladies and
gentlemen, Enrique Bocagrande!" Quincy threw an arm around blond Castro's shoulders. "Writer, actor, director, fellow filker, Renaissance man!"

  "Welcome to Scratchtown Studios," said Enrique. "Mi casa es su casa."

  Quincy leaned forward and spoke his hand in a stage whisper. "I know it's hard to believe, but he isn't a real Mexican. He just wants to be."

  "Mr. Bocagrande," said Dunne.

  "Call me Enrique, por favor," said Enrique.

  "Cyrus Gowdy wouldn't happen to be here, would he?" said Dunne.

  Enrique chuckled. "You just missed him, señor. He and Santa Claus just skedaddled out the back door with the Tooth Fairy."

  "This one's full of shit." Quincy hiked a thumb at Enrique. "Knowing him, he probably has Gowdy stashed in a meat locker somewhere."

  "Aw shucks." Enrique bobbed his head and scuffed his feet. "Maybe I do know a little somethin'-somethin'."

  "Like what?" said Hannahlee.

  Suddenly, a loud crackling noise flared up, and Enrique grabbed a walkie talkie radio from his belt. He conducted a brief conversation...every word of which, on both sides, sounded like total gibberish to Dunne.

  Then, Enrique clicked off the walkie talkie and pointed at the set, his expression verging on panic. "We'll have to talk about this later! If you don't get on the set in ten seconds, this movie will self-destruct!"

  Dunne felt, for a moment, as if he were in the 1970s, on the set of the original Weeping Willows.

  A production assistant closed the clapper board with a loud crack and darted out of the shot. As soon as Enrique shouted, "Action!" Luanne Diego began to speak.

  Luanne Diego, the original Bella Willow herself.

  "This isn't possible." Luanne wandered around the set, which was an almost perfect copy of the Team Room from the Willows' old headquarters on the TV show. "I can't have gone thirty years back in time...can I?"

  According to the movie's plot, as Enrique had explained it, time travel—or the illusion of it—was exactly what had happened to Bella. It was one way to return her to the 1970s world of the Willows while justifying that she looked thirty years older.

  Not that she looked thirty years worse. In fact, Dunne was impressed by just how good she looked. The oldest sister on the show, Luanne had to be at least in her late 50s, more likely her 60s...and she'd managed to keep her slender, perfectly accented figure. She had minimal crow's feet around her eyes, and her neck lacked major folds or wrinkles. Her long hair looked as lustrous and dark as it did in reruns of the show.

  Time—and plastic surgery—had been much kinder to her than to Hannahlee.

  "Excuse me." The actress playing Kitty, who'd skated into the real Kitty earlier, made her entrance. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

  "Kitty?" said Luanne. "Is that you? Oh my God..."

  Kitty pulled a pistol from her macramé bag. "I've never seen you before. How do you know my name?"

  Luanne wiped away tears. "Oh, Kitty. I haven't seen you in thirty years, since the day you d—" She caught herself and turned away.

  Quincy, who was off-camera, followed her with the boom microphone that hung from a pole over her head. Like Dunne, he'd been recruited by Enrique to help with the film.

  Only Hannahlee had not volunteered. Instead, she stood beside Enrique, solemnly watching the proceedings.

  Dunne wondered what she thought of it all. Did she feel nostalgic for the original show? Did memories, good and bad, swirl within her? Did she long to join Luanne on the set and try to recapture the magic? Did she feel anything at all?

  Looking at her, he couldn't tell. Her face remained unreadable, as if it were only a plastic place-holder representing the real woman, who was located a thousand miles away.

  "Can it be?" Luanne's emotion-packed line pulled Dunne's attention back to the set. She whirled to face the actress playing Kitty. "What day is this?"

  Kitty raised the pistol. "Are you on PCP or something?"

  "What day is it?" said Luanne. "Please tell me."

  Kitty narrowed her eyes. "May 6th, 1977. Friday." She glanced at her watch. "Nine forty-three A.M. All right? Are you happy now?"

  Slowly, Luanne sank to the sofa. "Oh my God." She looked dazed. "This is it. This is the day."

  "Okay, honey." Kitty moved toward her, keeping the gun leveled in her direction. "We'd better get you back to the hospital now."

  Luanne spoke her next words in a stage whisper, gazing directly at the camera. "This is the day...when Kitty died." Then, she buried her horrified expression in her hands and began to sob.

  A moment later, Enrique shouted, "Cut!"

  Everyone relaxed instantly. The cast and crew hustled around the soundstage, tending to their usual between-scenes duties.

  Except Luanne. The second the scene ended, she leaped off the sofa and made a beeline for Hannahlee. Before Hannahlee could react, Luanne flung her arms around her and squeezed.

  "Thank you," said Luanne. "Oh, thank you for being here."

  Hannahlee stood stiffly, letting the hug happen around her without actually participating.

  Luanne leaned back and cupped Hannahlee's face in her hands. "You made that scene possible for me. Seeing you out here enabled me to recapture the feeling of loving and losing a sister." Luanne smiled warmly. "Loving and losing you, Kitty Willow, in particular."

  Hannahlee sighed. "Someone murdered Scott Savage," she said. "If you're not careful, I might not be the only one who ends up loved and lost."

  CHAPTER 9

  Warpath Journal

  Dateline: Scratchtown Studios, Austin, Texas

  So clever are the forgeries, even I am fooled for a moment.

  The film set looks exactly like the Team Room at Posse Ranch back home in Arizona. Other than the cameras and lights, it's perfect down to the last detail—from the I-Ching on the coffee table to the African spears and martial arts weapons on the walls.

  In the middle of it stand Kitty and Bella, my beloved sisters, just like any day in the life of the Willows. I could easily imagine the rest of the family pouring in for a briefing or debriefing—Kenya playing her flute, Buzz tinkering with an invention, Free working on a poem, Leif admiring himself in the mirror.

  Not that Leif is likely to show up, since the Poison Oaks have him. Even his mirror-image imposter is dead.

  Because I killed him.

  And the killing isn't done. Not while the brazen imposters of Kitty and Bella dare to embrace in that diabolical replica of the fabled Team Room.

  Not while a single evil duplicate still walks the Earth. This I swear.

  For I am War Willow, and this is my warpath.

  Rage burns inside me as I perform the menial tasks that let me blend in with the film crew. I can barely hold myself back as I bide my time, watching my target and waiting for the best moment to kill her.

  But I do not take it lightly, this killing. As necessary as it is, I know too well the threat it represents to the salvation of my soul.

  As I sweep the floor with a push broom, crossing paths with Bella and Kitty, I pray to God to prepare me for my task...and forgive me when it's done. God doesn't answer, but that's all right. I feel His blessing upon me.

  I believe in my heart that He, my Creator, is pleased. For would He have made me as I am if He did not intend to love and empower me through even the darkest tribulation? And would He not wish to see His Earth scoured of these vile doppelgängers who seek to ruin the reputations of the finest heroes who ever battled evil in His name?

  The answer's a no-brainer. My target will be one, too, when I'm done with her.

  The thought of it brings a vision of blood swirling upon me. Through my mind's eye, I see a woman's motionless body sprawled in a crimson pool. A vision of the future, when I have snuffed the life from my despicable target.

  Except it's not my target. My vision revolves, revealing another body, and another.

  And they are small. Too small to be anyone now around me. There's another one, also small. Make that tiny.<
br />
  What am I seeing? A vision of the farther-forward future...days or weeks away, perhaps? The distant future?

  Or is it the past? Or a figment of my imagination?

  I feel light-headed and stop sweeping. As I stand there, leaning on the handle of the broom, I smile and shake my head. It's just the jitters. I'm sure of it.

  Thank God Amish Amos Bracken doesn't see me right now. I'd never hear the end of it.

  He'd go on and on about the mighty War Willow turning chicken...reverting to the nonviolent ways I learned during my stay among the Amish. He'd tell me I've finally seen the light, and I'm about to start a new life.

  But he'd be wrong. This time, the teachings of the Amish cannot overcome the teachings of my Apache and Ninja mentors. I am committed to my mission in every way.

  The Poison Oaks will be eradicated. The Weeping Willows will be rescued.

  Taking pleasure in the suffering of others is against my code. Still, I look forward to the rest of my warpath because of what waits at the end of it: my reunion with my brothers and sisters.

  The thought of that reward returns my mind to the work at hand. I finish sweeping the floor and leave the broom in a corner, then look for Bella and Kitty.

  That's when the surprise hits me. Literally.

  A woman on roller skates slams into me, hard. She knocks me back, almost down, but I keep my footing...and I hold her up, too.

  When she looks up at me, I am startled by her face. She has the same features as someone else I know—the same green eyes, upturned nose, and feathered red hair.

  She looks just like Kitty.

  In which case, there are two Kitty Willows in this place—her, and the Kitty who walked off with Bella. The Kitty without roller skates.

  For an instant, my heart leaps. If there are two Kitties here, could one be real? Could this girl in my arms be my sister, escaped from the Poison Oaks and come to help with my quest?

  Not alone anymore. These words are too wonderful to bear.