Day 9

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  It was a pamphlet for Gaudíland.

  "Gaudí was Gowdy's inspiration," said Dunne, paraphrasing for the others. "Gowdy idolized his 'unbridled originality.' He wanted to do for TV what Gaudí did for architecture."

  "So he built this park in Gaudí's honor?" said Starla.

  "He put it in Barcelona, Mississippi because Gaudí was based in Barcelona, Spain." Dunne flipped the pamphlet over and scanned its backside. "He wanted to introduce people to Gaudí's unique work."

  "So now we know the connection to Gowdy," said Hannahlee.

  "But when did he disconnect?" said Quincy. "When did the Martians take over with their little green wee-wees and beeping antennae? Or is that beeping wee-wees...?"

  "Nothing about that here." Dunne tossed aside the pamphlet and went back to fishing in the tub. All he found were copies of the same pamphlet and more financial documents.

  Slapping the lid back on the tub, Dunne got to his feet and stretched. That was when he made the big find.

  Looking up, he spotted another roll of paper tied atop one of the rafters. It had been hidden out of the line of sight while Dunne and the others had searched the shelves and boxes and tubs down below.

  Quincy untied it and brought it down. Everyone gathered around as he carefully unrolled it.

  This time, there were only a few sheets in the roll...three or four. The paper wasn't as yellow...and the drawings weren't as professionally done as the others had been.

  They were more like hasty sketches than detailed plans or blueprints. Each showed a different version of what looked like a town or small city, laid out on a grid on a barren landscape.

  "Holy fit!" Quincy pointed to a title scrawled across the lower right corner of the top sketch. "Does that say what I think it says?"

  Hannahlee read it aloud. "New Justice, New Mexico."

  "Oh, God." Quincy's hands shook, rattling the pages. "Oh, this is just too good. Can you say 'spontaneous orgasm?'"

  "What's the big deal?" said Starla.

  "Cyrus Gowdy created the TV show 'Weeping Willows' in the 70s," said Dunne. "'Willows' was set in the town of Justice, Arizona."

  "Of which this is a map." Quincy's eyes bulged as he jabbed a finger at spots on the drawing. "Here's Posse Ranch...Justice Commons...Crucible Mountain. Not to mention Waystation Cemetery...Highburn...Scratchtown." Quincy's eyes were still huge when he looked up from the pages. "So why is it called New Justice? And why New Mexico instead of Arizona?"

  The hair on the back of Dunne's neck stood up. "What if Gaudíland isn't Gowdy's only park?"

  Hannahlee's fiery green eyes flashed upon him, then swung around to Quincy. "Is there a date on those plans?"

  "Negatory." Quincy ruffled the pages in his grip. "But they don't look as old as the rest."

  Dunne leaned in for a closer look. "What about a specific location? Latitude, longitude, landmarks, anything?"

  Quincy studied the first sheet and shook his head. He did the same for the next two sheets in the roll...then stopped at the last one. "There's an arrow pointing to Antelope...and a distance."

  "That narrows it down," said Dunne.

  "If New Justice exists," said Hannahlee.

  "Yeah." Dunne scratched his face. "You'd think we would've heard of it by now."

  "We never heard of Martianland before today," said Quincy. "Or Gaudíland."

  "Another failure, then?" said Hannahlee.

  "Maybe Gowdy's a better TV producer than amusement park developer," said Quincy.

  Dunne frowned. "But New Justice would be different, wouldn't it? There would've been a lot of interest from Weeping Willows fans, even in a failed park." He shook his head. "I don't think it was ever built."

  "Or it's a secret hideout," Quincy said in a stage whisper. "There's some pretty remote country out thataway."

  "What would Gowdy need to hide from?" said Dunne. "Other than the obvious."

  "You mean other than the guy who thinks he's War Willow who wants to kill him?" said Quincy.

  "Exactly," said Dunne. "Gowdy was hiding long before the killings started."

  "Well, du-uhhh!" Quincy crossed his eyes and bobbled his head. "Have we forgotten a little something called 'Godseye?'"

  "The secret project." Dunne shrugged. "I have my doubts."

  "That it's why he's in hiding?" said Quincy.

  "That it exists," said Dunne. "Sounds more like a rumor whipped up by fans."

  Quincy raised an index finger. "What about Enrique?" He smirked and lifted one eyebrow. "He said Gowdy needed info on digital post-production for a big film project of some kind."

  "Maybe Enrique got it wrong," said Dunne. "Or maybe Gowdy told him what he wanted to hear."

  "You're the one who has it wrong." Quincy shook his finger in Dunne's face. "All wrong."

  Just then, Hannahlee stepped up and grabbed Quincy's wrist. "Anything's possible," she said.

  Hannahlee had an instant calming effect on Quincy. All signs of anger evaporated from his face as he let her guide his arm away from Dunne.

  "Bottom line," said Hannahlee. "Do we try to find New Justice?"

  Dunne thought about it for a moment, then sighed. "We don't exactly have any other clues."

  "Yippie-ki-yay!" Quincy grinned as he rolled up the drawings. "I can't wait to get there!"

  Dunne nodded. "It'd be great if we finally found Gowdy."

  "Gowdy who?" said Quincy. "I can't wait to get to the Oven Mitt for Nina's chicken fried steak and vidalia onion pie!"

  Dunne was starting to feel like a screenwriter. He was starting to think he would get that movie deal after all.

  Not that he acted any less pessimistic in front of the others. As they sat in the Martianland snack bar, he kept up a cynical pose. Quincy and Starla were giddy, but Dunne stayed as low-key as Hannahlee...maybe more so.

  Meanwhile, he was daydreaming about being on the set of the big-screen Willows movie. Listening to the actors recite the dialogue he'd written. Making suggestions to the director.

  No more writing hack tie-in novels for piddling paychecks. No more taking shit from know-nothing editors. No more fighting for every scrap of work and positive reinforcement.

  Soon, he would be in hog heaven, living the dream of a lifetime. In spite of his doubts along the way, he had survived his brush with death—with the killer—and was about to be rewarded.

  Because where else could Cyrus Gowdy possibly be, if not in New Justice?

  "So all we have to do is get Gowdy to sign a release, and we're golden," said Quincy. "The Weeping Willows movie will start production. Our man Dunne will write it."

  "No kidding." Starla smiled and nodded at Dunne.

  "And I...I'll get...uh..." Quincy scowled and pointed a ketchupy French fry at Hannahlee. "Say, what do I get when this is over?"

  "Money," said Hannahlee. "You're on Halcyon's payroll for this job, remember?"

  "What about a bonus?" said Quincy. "Dunne gets to write a movie. What about me?"

  Hannahlee sighed. "Tickets to the premiere?"

  "I was thinking a speaking role," said Quincy. "And co-producer credit."

  Hannahlee held up an index finger. The finger twitched, then shot all the way to one side.

  "Aw, shit." Quincy rolled his eyes.

  "What?" said Starla. "What is it?"

  "Bullshit Detector." Quincy waved listlessly at Hannahlee's finger. "I spiked it again, as fusual."

  Dunne almost smiled. It was easier to take Quincy's goofing around knowing that soon he wouldn't have to take any more of him at all. After New Justice, after they obtained and delivered Gowdy's signed release to the studio, there would be a parting of the ways. No more Quincy shenanigans, maybe ever.

  Of course, that would mean Dunne might never learn the full story of Quincy's dead or not-so-dead brother, Knox. Dunne might never find out Hannahlee's story, either—where she'd disappeared to and what she'd been doing for the last twenty years. What the "biggest mistake" of her life had been.

 
Dunne had to admit, he'd regret not learning those secrets, especially Hannahlee's. The fan in him was dying to know Kitty Willow's true fate; the writer in him craved the details as fodder for future stories. Future screenplays, preferably.

  Still, it would be good to be finished. No more running around the country, racing the clock. No more dead TV stars. No more exposing his cowardice in the face of mortal danger. Time to relax, catch up on his sleep, and savor his reward.

  He was looking forward to it. As he stared into space, he imagined the good times that were coming his way in the days ahead. That was why he almost didn't see the magic marker that was coming his way at that very moment.

  Dunne spotted it out of the corner of his eye, just as the tip lunged toward him. He leaped up and back so fast that he knocked his chair over—but at least the marker missed him. At least he wouldn't get a word scrawled across his face this time.

  Instead, Quincy ended up writing on someone else. Eyes rolled up in his sockets, he lurched around and grabbed Starla's arm. As Starla yelped in surprise and tried to pull away, he scrawled words in black ink across her palm.

  "What's he doing?" said Starla.

  Hannahlee got up and walked around to stand beside her...but made no move to stop Quincy. "Automatic writing. He claims something's speaking through him."

  Starla waved her free hand in front of Quincy's face, and he didn't react. "Like ghosts, you mean?"

  "He doesn't know," said Hannahlee.

  "It's how I got this." Dunne pointed to the fading word Martian that was printed across his face.

  Quincy turned Starla's hand over and wrote on the back of it. Then, he let go and slumped in his chair with a shuddering groan. The uncapped marker dropped from his grip and rolled across the floor.

  "What does it say?" said Dunne.

  Starla turned over her hand and read the words on her palm. "'Help Knox.'" Next, she read the words on the back. "'Hes coming.'" She frowned and reread it. "Ghosts left out the apostrophe. 'He's coming.'"

  "'He' who?" said Dunne. "Knox? He's the one who's coming?"

  "Who's Knox?" said Starla.

  "My...brother." Quincy was starting to come out of his trance. "He...died."

  "And you told me he's not dead, when you gave me this." Dunne pointed to the word on his face. "Or maybe Knox told me himself."

  "What?" Quincy made a grab for Starla's hand, but she yanked it away from him.

  Dunne scratched his face. "So Knox is back from the dead, and he's coming?"

  "Or someone else is," said Hannahlee.

  "Or no one," said Dunne. "And this is just a prank."

  "But he's been right before," said Hannahlee. "About the killer thinking he's War Willow. About Cyrus' connection to Martianland."

  "'He's coming.'" Quincy scowled and rubbed his temples. "'He's coming.' What does it mean?"

  "Cyrus Gowdy." Dunne snapped his fingers. "We're about to find him. He's coming up. Coming soon."

  "No, man," said Quincy. "These messages are always revelations...or warnings. This isn't something good. I can feel it."

  "Whatever." Dunne grabbed the roll of New Justice maps from the table and waved them at the door. "We should get going."

  "But we need to figure this out," said Quincy.

  "We can do it in the car," said Dunne. "It's a long drive to Jackson."

  "Something isn't right." Quincy rested his chin in the pocket between his thumb and forefinger. For once, he looked worried. "I can't explain it."

  Dunne didn't want to wait to get on the road. He wanted to finish the quest and get his Hollywood reward as soon as possible. "Come on, everybody." His hand found the doorknob, and he turned it.

  "No, wait," said Quincy. "Don't do it."

  "I'll meet you outside," said Dunne, and then he opened the door.

  Bugs sizzled in the blue lantern hanging from a pole near the flying saucer's door. An especially big bug—a fat moth, maybe—crackled and burned for an extra-long time.

  Dunne stopped and stood in the blue light's glow, waiting for his teammates to leave the snack bar and join him...but they didn't come. There was movement and talk from inside the saucer, but the door didn't open.

  Now that Dunne was in a hurry for once, Quincy was dragging his feet. Now that Dunne was in half a good mood, Quincy was troubled and grim. Naturally.

  But it was a long way from Mississippi to New Justice, New Mexico. As nonconfrontational as Dunne was, he wouldn't wait forever to reenter the saucer and nudge Quincy and Hannahlee to get moving.

  It was about time he stood up for himself with those two. So maybe he'd run away from a fight with the killer, and maybe he would've been the least heroic character in one of his own books...but the prospect of losing Gowdy and the reward might be enough to make him show the tiniest sliver of a backbone. Just enough to get Quincy and Hannahlee out of their chairs and out the door.

  Dunne kicked at the red Mississippi dust and wished he had bigger balls. Wished he had the courage it took to live life without surrendering every battle.

  Then again, if he'd had that kind of courage, he wouldn't have been there in the first place. He would've been happy at home with his wife, who would not have died because of him. He would've been home with his wife...and his daughter, who would also still be alive. He would not have left his family behind on an open-ended goose chase...if he'd still had a family, that is.

  If he'd had any courage in the first place.

  In his novel, War No More, Dunne had tried to work it out through the hero, War Willow. He'd taken away War's memory and put him in the same situation—losing family because he was a coward. Dunne had hoped that he might come up with a twist that would let War recover, a twist strong enough that it could reach out from fiction to fix Dunne's life, too.

  But War hadn't done any better. The best he'd managed was to block the cowardly incident and the loss of his loved ones out of his memory. To forget them and return to normal life.

  And that was something Dunne couldn't do. Something he wouldn't do, even if he could have. Because all he had left of his wife and daughter were memories.

  And fear.

  Maybe ghosts, too. He felt them sometimes, just out of eyeshot, looking over his shoulder. His wife, Vicky, glaring vengefully, gaze full of blame, waiting for the moment he crossed over into death himself, where she could hurt him. His daughter, Ella, staring in unending pain and confusion over what had happened, asking the same question again and again.

  Why am I dead, and you're still alive, Daddy?

  They came at all hours of the day, but mostly at night. Always when he was alone. He never saw or heard them, but he knew they were there. He sensed them.

  And they made his skin crawl. The hair sprung up on the back of his neck. His heart pounded.

  Just like now.

  Eyes wide, he froze in place. He had been watching the bug light, so his back was to the woods. The dark, dense Mississippi woods.

  The ghosts were there. They were behind him.

  Breathing fast, Dunne fixed his eyes on the flying saucer door. He got ready to do what he always did when he felt the ghosts around him—run away. Rush back into the saucer, trying to look as calm and collected as he could when he got inside.

  Dunne tensed, preparing to run. Sweat ran down the middle of his back.

  Then, just as he was about to take his first step, he heard it. Over the chirping and buzzing of the insect nightlife in the woods, he heard someone cough. Someone behind him.

  In a panic, Dunne jolted forward and spun around at the same time. What he saw between him and the woods was not what he'd expected. It wasn't the ghost of Vicky or Ella.

  But it was still terrifying.

  Dunne kept moving, trying to get away from it. In the process, he stumbled and fell to the red earth.

  His heart hammered as the figure rushed toward him...Day-Glo yellow smiley face t-shirt bobbing in the darkness.

  Dunne scrambled backward, then froze as the figure reac
hed him. As it extended one arm, clad in the sleeve of an Army fatigue jacket.

  As it did something Dunne's ghosts never did. As it spoke.

  "Hey now, hero." It was a man with curly blond hair and muttonchop sideburns. "You look like you could use a lift." He lowered his hand and fluttered his fingers. "Get it?"

  Dunne stared silently. He wished he were still on his feet, because then he could run for his life.

  Instead of being at the mercy of someone he recognized.

  "Name's Warren Willow. 'War' for short." The man's smile was friendly. "Now grab hold. I'll try not to bite."

  CHAPTER 26

  Warpath Journal

  Dateline: "Martianland," Barcelona, Mississippi

  He will not take my hand. He would rather lie in the dirt than touch me.

  This in itself makes me want to kill him. It exposes the truth of his Poison Oak roots, his allegiance to the dark forces that oppose everything we Willows stand for.

  I am sure of it. I can smell the stench of evil upon him like sulfur. My warrior spirit urges me to cut the thread of his wicked life before he can do further damage to my family or America.

  Except for one problem.

  I've decided I must be totally sure before I move forward. Totally sure I'm not making a mistake under dark influence. Totally sure these people are not who they say they are.

  Before I kill them all.

  "Okay, man." I pull back my hand and step away from him...but not so far that he'll feel free to run off. "That's cool. I dig your personal space."

  He stares up at me with sheer terror in his eyes. It is the look of the guilty when confronted with inescapable retribution.

  I want to snuff out that look forever...but it's not time for that yet. I have business with him and his despicable cohorts. I have to find out where they've taken my family, and I have to be totally sure they're the Poison Oaks I believe them to be.

  Only then will I put the seal on their death warrants.

  Suddenly, the door to the flying saucer diner swings open. Out strolls the big ponytailed guy who fought me at the movie studio...but he doesn't look so brave this time. He freezes when he catches sight of me, and his eyes shoot wide open; he can't keep the fear off his face. Unlike the last time we met, he knows full well how dangerous I am, and he doesn't have his pal Enrique to back him up in a fight.