Day 9

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  "I don't think they'd want the Willows dead," said Quincy. "Do you?"

  Suddenly, Hannahlee spoke up. "We stick with our assignment. We head for Sensophile tomorrow and keep tracking Gowdy."

  "Why's that, Kitty cat?" said Quincy.

  "We don't know which cast member the killer will go after next," said Hannahlee. "They're scattered across the country. If there's some kind of predictable order to the killings, I can't see it. I certainly don't know what distinguishes Scott and Luanne from the rest of us."

  "I can think of one thing," said Enrique. "You all were in their vicinity."

  Dunne seized the idea to justify his preferred plan. "Maybe the best thing we can do is stay clear of the survivors and find Gowdy."

  "You've got a point there." Quincy sighed and slumped. "We sure weren't much help to Luanne, were we?"

  Hannahlee's fiery green eyes lighted on Dunne, then slid onward to Quincy. "You did everything you could."

  Quincy put down the water bottle and rubbed his temples. "I just wish I could remember something about that guy. It was all such a blur."

  "I know the feeling," said Enrique. "What about height and weight? Think you could make a guess?"

  Quincy didn't answer.

  Enrique raised his head from the table. "Quincy? You there?"

  He was...and he wasn't.

  Though Quincy still sat on the table, his eyes had glazed over. His lips moved, but no words came out.

  The only sound coming from Quincy was the squeaking of a thick magic marker as he wrote on the table. His hands made jerky movements as he pressed black lines and curves onto the Formica, scrawling letters that made up a word.

  When he got to the end of it, he lifted the marker. Seconds later, he snapped out of his trance-like state with a sudden inrush of breath. His eyes refocused, and his hand relaxed, letting go of the marker.

  It rolled across the table and dropped to the floor, where it rolled some more.

  "Hey, man," said Enrique. "You all right?"

  Quincy shook his head hard and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, I...why do you ask?"

  Dunne walked over and pointed to the word on the table. "Because of that."

  As soon as Quincy saw the word, he winced. "Aw, hell. Not fagain."

  Hannahlee joined them. She read the word aloud.

  "Sendodansu'dinegaan." She stared at Quincy. "Why'd you write that?"

  "Beats me," said Quincy. "I mean, I know what it means...but I don't know why I wrote it."

  Dunne nodded. "It was War Willow's trademark martial art in the show. His own combination of Ninja and Apache fighting techniques."

  "The 'clawed death dance,'" said Enrique.

  "What did you mean," said Hannahlee, "when you said you don't know why you wrote it?"

  Quincy shrugged. "How could I know if I don't remember writing it?"

  "So, what?" said Dunne. "Instant amnesia?"

  "Automatic writing," said Enrique. "Quite popular among las espiritistas, for talking to fantasmas."

  "So you're channeling ghosts now?" said Dunne. "Is that it?" He knew he sounded sarcastic, but he couldn't help it. Quincy's list of annoying quirks just kept growing.

  "I don't know what I'm channeling," said Quincy. "All I know is, every once in a while, something or someone speaks through me. That's why I always carry a magic marker. I zone out, and when I zone back in, I've written something I don't remember writing."

  "Whatever." Dunne didn't buy Quincy's story but decided to play along. "So why 'Sendodansu'dinegaan'? What does War Willow's martial art have to do with anything?"

  "I think I know," said Enrique as police sirens arrived outside. "I can't believe I didn't realize it sooner."

  "Tell us," said Hannahlee.

  "It's what he was fighting us with," said Enrique. "The killer was using War Willow's moves."

  CHAPTER 13

  Barcelona, Spain - April 1891

  My father Gaudí and I celebrate. This is a very special day for us.

  Gaudí sits in a pew in the heart of me, in my crypt, and toasts the occasion with a glass of water. He shares the toast with me, dribbling a little on my floor.

  It is the most wonderful moment of my life so far. I feel so close to him, especially now that the crypt is done and we are about to begin our true work.

  My crypt is a temple unto itself. It has seven chapels, each dedicated to a different aspect of the faith—the Saints, the Sacred Heart, the Immaculate Conception. Its spacious vault is set with gleaming marble and glittering gold. The workmanship of every square inch is impeccable.

  For some, it would be a finishing point...but for us, it is just the beginning. The rest of me will grow around the crypt, swelling to fill a vastness many times its size.

  And the rest of me will be much more my father's creation. Though Gaudí directed the crypt's completion, the design was not his own. He agreed to follow the design, inherited from his predecessor, until the crypt was finished—and from the day after that, he would follow only his own vision.

  Today is that day.

  "You have a sound heart," Gaudí tells me, patting the pew with his hand. "Tradition at the core. Now we modernize. Cultivate the new...beyond new, forever new. What do you say to that?"

  I reach out with every atom of my being to tell him, to say that I approve, that I rejoice. If he hears me, he doesn't say so. He never does.

  But I never stop trying.

  "I see you in my dreams." He gets up and paces the floor, glass of water in hand. "You as you will someday be. Too beautiful for words." Gaudí sighs. "And in my dreams, we two are alone. There is no one else."

  To me, this sounds like heaven. I cannot imagine a more perfect dream.

  I love my father, and I cherish our time together. No one else makes me feel so good; no one else talks to me, explains to me, confides in me. If I had my way, I would choose to be alone with him every minute of every day.

  I soon realize, however, that he might not feel the same about me.

  "I worry that my dreams will become reality," says Gaudí. "That all I will have left someday...is this. Is you." He lets his fingers trail over one of my marble pillars. "That my work will consume me. Drive away all human contact."

  His words sting. He talks about being left alone with me as if it would be a bad thing.

  Yet I can understand his need for human contact. When Gaudí is gone for days or weeks at a time, I am crushed. The thought of being without him forever is too terrible to contemplate for long.

  "Love is not for me," says Gaudí. "I accept that. The women I've loved and lost have taught me well. But to be completely alone, with no family or friends...could I bear it?"

  He enters the chancel and runs his hands over my cool, smooth altar. If only I could reach out to him with hands of my own, hands of marble and gilt sprouting from the altar, and reassure him.

  "Could you be enough for me?" Gaudí looks up, eyes searching the sculpture on the wall. "If everyone else falls away, will you be strong enough to support me? Will your love be enough to keep me warm through long, lonely days and nights?"

  I try as hard as I can to shout my answer. Yes, I will support him! Yes, I will keep him warm! He is everything to me.

  "I ask because I want to believe," says Gaudí. "I need to believe, if I am going to follow through with this endeavor." He closes his eyes. "If I build this, will you promise never to leave me? Will you pledge that I will never be alone?"

  Gaudí shudders as I strain to send him my answer. Maybe I am getting through after all. Maybe the force of my promise shakes him, convinces him, even if the words themselves don't penetrate.

  For I know now what I must do for him, what he expects of me. I must stand by him, no matter what. I must give him love and support.

  And I must ensure that my father is never alone. That is why he once told me he would make me "a cathedral like no other." Because I must become great enough, unique enough, to draw people to him. They will come to see me, and h
e will never be alone.

  So now I know my purpose. I know why I'm here. I understand why I'm meant to bring people together to worship a "God" I've never seen.

  It never occurs to me that I'm not the only one Gaudí is talking to today. That just as I, a thing of stone, reach out to him, he reaches out to the stone statue of Christ above my altar.

  CHAPTER 14

  Asheville, North Carolina - Today

  "You can't fire me," said Quincy. "I fwit."

  "'Fwit?'" said Dunne.

  "It's flanguage, dumbass!" Quincy pounded his fist on the table, making the plates and silverware jump. "I fucking quit!"

  Dunne ran fingers through his sandy brown hair, stealing a look around the restaurant. Every customer, waitress, and busboy in the place was staring at Quincy at once.

  Maybe a late dinner after flying in to Asheville, North Carolina hadn't been such a great idea after all. The mood at the table had been lousy from the start. Hannahlee hadn't even been eating, just drinking ice water.

  That, in fact, was what had led to the outburst. Quincy had said something about Hannahlee not eating anything. Then, he had said this:

  "Are you still anorexic? Is it true you had an eating disorder during the filming of Weeping Willows?"

  At which point, Hannahlee had raised her index finger. The Bullshit Detector.

  And she had flicked it all the way to one side. Held it horizontal and quivering, pegged to the maximum reading.

  She had locked her fiery green gaze upon him like a gun sight. "No more blog fodder," she had said. "I give you nothing."

  Quincy had scowled as if she were insane. "'Blog fodder?' What in Gawain's green manhood are you talking about, my dear?"

  "I know you've been posting online," Hannahlee had said. "From your cell phone. You couldn't resist breaking the story on the internet, could you?"

  Quincy had chuckled. "Zounds! What the fuck's the finternet? Some sweetmeat or the like?"

  "Halcyon's paying you a stipend," Hannahlee had said. "By selling reports to the news sites, you've been double-dipping. And you know what that is." She had flicked her finger hard several times, as if the needle on the gauge had been bouncing. "Bullshit."

  "Okey-fenokee, Pokey." Grinning, Quincy had seized Hannahlee's finger. "So are the rumors about the anorexia true?"

  Hannahlee had reached out her other hand. "Give it to me. Your phone."

  Quincy had laid a French fry in her palm. "My food? You got it!"

  Hannahlee had tossed the French fry in his face, then leaned across the table. "You're fired."

  And that was when it had gotten nasty. That was when Quincy had pounded the table, drawing stares from around the restaurant. That was when he'd told her he'd "fwit."

  So now, everyone in the restaurant awaited the outcome. Watched to see if the ponytailed giant lashed out at the poor woman.

  He stared at her across the table, shoulders heaving, smiles nowhere to be found. She stared back at him with teeth clenched.

  Dunne should have known better than to try to defuse the situation. "Hey, guys," he said. "I'm sure we can work this out."

  Neither Quincy nor Hannahlee said a word in reply. They continued to stare at each other, giving no sign that either was considering compromise or surrender.

  Then, finally, Quincy made a move. He pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his black-and-red vest and held it in front of Hannahlee's face.

  "Hi! I'm Quincy's cell phone!" He said it in a high-pitched voice. "Wait till you see the next item on the news sites. The one about your behavior at this dinner table!"

  That said, Quincy swept the phone back into his vest pocket, got up, and slid out of the booth. Dunne watched as he bounded into the night, leaving the sound of the jingling doorbells in his wake.

  As Dunne turned to Hannahlee, he felt a wave of relief. He was sure they were better off without unpredictable, uncontrollable, irreverent Quincy in the mix.

  Still, Dunne thought he should steer clear of the subject for now. He didn't want to look like he was gloating.

  "When should we leave for Sensophile tomorrow?" He held up his cup as the waitress approached, and she refilled it with coffee. "Eight A.M., maybe?"

  Hannahlee locked him in her fiery emerald gaze. "Are you going to quit, too?"

  Dunne was caught off guard by the question. "Why do you ask?" He frowned nervously.

  Hannahlee continued to stare. "Would you have signed on if you'd known we'd be facing a killer? That your life would be in danger?"

  Dunne covered his hesitation with a sip of coffee. "Of course."

  Hannahlee raised her index finger and flicked it all the way to one side. "Bullshit."

  "Excuse me?" Dunne was stunned to be the target of the Bullshit Detector for once. "Are you calling me a liar?"

  "I'm thinking about firing you," said Hannahlee.

  "What?" said Dunne. "Why?"

  "Because you drink coffee." Hannahlee winced. "Why do you think?"

  Dunne stared at her, speechless, for a long moment. He remembered the way she'd looked at him after they'd hidden from the killer. After he'd run from the fight.

  Maybe she'd seen through him. Maybe she understood him better than he'd thought.

  "What do you want me to say?" Dunne sat back and folded his arms.

  Hannahlee's green eyes flared. "I've made terrible mistakes in my life." Her voice rose, edged with anger and sadness and power. "But I've stopped running from them."

  Dunne looked away.

  Hannahlee got up from the table. "I won't let my mistakes turn me into a liability anymore." She snapped up the check and started toward the register.

  Then, she stopped and turned. "Should Quincy and I wait for you in the morning?"

  "What?" Dunne frowned. "But he quit."

  "Not for long. Trust me," said Hannahlee. "But don't let that stop you."

  "From what?" said Dunne. "From quitting?"

  "I'll leave it up to you," she said. "This time."

  And then she was gone.

  Dunne was left sitting at the table alone, head spinning from the events of the past few minutes. It was as if the three of them, after traveling together for days, had finally reached critical mass. Time to let off steam or melt down.

  Dunne tried to take a sip of coffee, but his hand was shaking too much. He felt like he'd been smacked around.

  As he put the cup down on its saucer, he wondered how Hannahlee seemed to know so much about him. Did she have a knack for reading people? Was she just a good guesser? Or had she studied his background before the mission?

  And if she'd studied his background, just how much did she know? Some of it...or all of it?

  Dunne held his head in his hands. The thought that Hannahlee...Lianna Caprice...Kitty Willow...knew all of it filled him with shame. The thing that he'd done, that had ruined his life, had been despicable.

  He wondered if he could even face her again. If he could bear to feel the weight of her accusing gaze and know that she knew.

  If he could stand before her ghost, as he did so often in his dreams, and smother in the heat of her rage. Choke as she cut his throat. Scream as she shot him in the face.

  Not Hannahlee.

  His wife.

  He wondered.

  CHAPTER 15

  "Ring ring!" Quincy spoke in a high-pitched squeak as he held out a tiny computer chip on the tip of his thick finger. "I'm another piece of Quincy's cell phone! Please take me, pretty Kitty!"

  Hannahlee took the chip and dropped it in her purse. It was the twelfth cell phone piece that Quincy had handed over that morning. Apparently, though he'd decided to turn over his phone, he was going to surrender it one piece at a time.

  Hannahlee had been right about him not quitting. He'd shown up promptly at 8 A.M. in the hotel lobby, all smiles and pockets full of cell phone parts.

  This latest piece, he gave up in front of the headquarters of Sensophile, just as Hannahlee was opening the door. The two of them had
come to hunt Cyrus Gowdy in Sensophile's online game, Willowtopia.

  And they weren't alone. Dunne caught the door and held it open for them both, then followed them through. In spite of his doubts and shame, he'd been the first one waiting in the lobby that morning. The lure of writing the script for the Willows big screen movie had outweighed his other concerns. Maybe, with luck, the three of them would find Gowdy, and Dunne could avoid more danger long enough to claim his prize.

  Sensophile, at least, promised to be a non-threatening stop. Housed in a nondescript glass and steel box of a building, the company's lobby looked bland to the extreme—plain gray walls, fluorescent lights, and one reception desk with nothing on it. Even better, as far as Dunne knew, no original Willows actors were on the premises. No targets for the killer.

  Except Hannahlee. And maybe, since Quincy was no longer posting online updates of her whereabouts, and not everyone recognized her current appearance, she could stay off the radar.

  "Where is everybody?" Quincy rapped on the receptionist's desk. "They know we're coming, right?"

  Dunne tried the knob of the only door other than the one through which they'd entered. It was locked. "Maybe there's a fire drill."

  That was when he heard the music.

  It started out soft, thrumming from the walls. It quickly grew louder, pulsating with drums and guitars.

  Dunne recognized it almost immediately. Quincy caught his gaze and grinned with recognition of his own.

  "'Face Hockey Smash Cut,'" said Quincy. "It's the feme song, baby!"

  Hannahlee nodded. "The opening theme of Weeping Willows."

  Right after she said it, the door swung open, and the music blared. People poured into the lobby, every one of them wearing a different colorful costume.

  Every one of them dressed up as a different Weeping Willow.

  The costumed Willows surrounded Dunne and Hannahlee, cheering and whooping, throwing confetti and playing kazoos. Some sang along with the Willows theme song, rattling off the lyrics from the unrecorded version written by Cyrus Gowdy.