Day 9

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton when he spoke. "I don't know. I'd never seen him before, and I've never seen him since."

  War raised an eyebrow. "He got away?"

  Dunne did not want to keep answering questions...but the barrel of the six-shooter was still pressed to the side of his head. "Yes."

  "The police never arrested him?" said War.

  "No," said Dunne.

  "I see." War paused. "Did he kill them in front of you?"

  "That's enough." Hannahlee turned and looked back. "The War I know isn't sadistic enough to torture his own brother."

  "Let me rephrase the question." War pushed the six-shooter tighter against Dunne's head. "Did you watch the intruder kill your family?"

  "Yes." Dunne thought of that terrible moment again...though in truth, he never stopped thinking of it.

  Vicky, his wife, on her knees on the living room floor. Holding on to Ella for dear life. One shotgun blast was enough for the both of them.

  Blood everywhere. So much blood. The smell of a slaughterhouse. Acrid smell of gunsmoke. The killer's laughter.

  Vicky's eyes, not quite dead, staring up at him across the room. Beseeching.

  Not beseeching. Betrayed.

  "Next question." War leaned closer. "Why are you still alive?"

  It was as if War had a sixth sense for personal trauma. He had already zeroed in on Dunne's most painful memory. Now, he was quickly closing in on Dunne's darkest secret.

  Dunne couldn't stand the thought of revealing that secret...but the latest question would drive him to the verge of doing just that. He didn't want to answer...but the gun was still there, against his head.

  Insisting.

  Maybe if he said as little as possible. "He didn't shoot me."

  War clucked and rolled his eyes. "More information, please. The name of the game isn't 'Truth or Vagueness.'"

  Dunne shut his eyes, as if that would be enough to block out the danger. As if that would make the threat go away—the threat to his life and the threat of exposure.

  Even as he shivered and cringed, he knew the truth shouldn't matter. What did he care what Quincy and Hannahlee thought—especially Quincy? He barely knew them. After they finished the job—if they didn't die first—he might never see them again.

  But he still didn't want them to know. He didn't want anyone to know. The secret was too painful to bear and too ugly to show the world.

  The question was, would Dunne give his life to keep it? Because it looked like that was what it was going to take.

  The answer was "no." "I'm not sure why he left me alive," said Dunne. "I didn't ask."

  "So this stranger intruded in your home," said War. "He shot and killed your family but left you alive for unknown reasons. Then he just left."

  Dunne started to nod, then remembered the gun at his head and stopped. "Yes," he said.

  "He didn't pistol whip you," said War. "He didn't kick your ass."

  "No," said Dunne.

  War narrowed his eyes and locked his gaze with Dunne's. "Not a bruise on you. Not a scratch."

  "No." Dunne's heart was beating so fast, he thought it would shatter his skeleton. He thought about leaping out of the Hummer and running for his life...but if a gunshot didn't kill him first, the pavement speeding underneath the Hummer would pulp him on impact.

  War nodded slowly. His voice was almost a whisper. "I know the truth."

  Dunne did not answer.

  "Tell me," said War. "We need to hear you say it."

  Dunne's head spun. His stomach ached and twisted.

  War had worked his way to the awful truth. He had hunted it down like a bloodhound and flushed it out.

  Now, Dunne would have to confess it. Either that, or he'd be shot to death in the back seat.

  "War, please," said Hannahlee. "That's enough."

  "Say it," said War. "Tell us the truth."

  Dunne tried. As War pushed the gun barrel further, Dunne opened his mouth, intending to speak.

  But he couldn't do it. The truth was too terrible.

  He'd never told anyone. He felt as if saying it out loud would make it worse. As if everyone would be ashamed and hate him instead of feeling sorry for him.

  "Tell us!" said War. "Do it or I'll shoot you!"

  Dunne tried again. Tried to save his life.

  And he couldn't. Seized by fear, he couldn't stand up in a life-or-death situation.

  Just like when he'd failed Vicky and Ella.

  So maybe the secret wouldn't come out after all. Maybe he could take comfort in that. When he was dead, at least, no one would know the full story.

  No one would know that Dunne hadn't fought for his wife and daughter's lives. That he'd been too afraid to take on the gunman.

  Or to sacrifice his own life for the lives of his loved ones.

  No one would know...unless War told the story himself. "Do I have to say it? You can't even tell your own secret?"

  "Stop it." said Hannahlee. "No more."

  Dunne felt like he was about to pass out. He wanted to say something that would end the torture, but he seemed to have no control over his voice.

  All he could do was sit there in a daze, waiting for the bullet. Remembering Vicky's eyes. The look of betrayal in the moment before her death.

  The realization that he was not the man she'd thought he was.

  "I'll say it, then!" said War. "I'll give away your vile secret!"

  "Cut it out!" said Quincy. "I'll run this thing into a tree, I swear to God!"

  Dunne braced himself for War's next words. For the full revelation of his cowardice.

  He closed his eyes, held his breath, and waited for his life to change.

  War asked the question. "Did you kill your family?"

  Dunne opened his eyes. It was not the question he'd expected.

  Neither was the next one. "Are you a Poison Oak?"

  Finally, Dunne regained his voice. He answered both questions truthfully. "No."

  War's eyes were steely as he searched Dunne's gaze. Finally, he shook his head. "Liars die in this game."

  "I'm not lying," said Dunne.

  "Game over," said War.

  "No!" The Hummer swerved as Quincy reached back for the gun.

  "Stop it!" said Hannahlee. "War would never kill his own brother."

  War grabbed Quincy's hand and twisted it hard, making Quincy howl in pain. The Hummer jolted into the left lane, face to face with an oncoming tractor trailer.

  War let go, and Quincy jerked the wheel hard to the right. The Hummer bucked out of the tractor trailer's path with barely a second to spare.

  The whole time, the six-shooter never left the side of Dunne's head.

  Hannahlee looked back, emerald eyes glinting. "No more nonsense, War. You are not going to shoot Dunne."

  "There's only one way for him not to die," said War. "According to the rules of Truth or Death, someone else can save his life by telling a true secret in his place. A big true secret."

  Hannahlee hesitated only a moment. She looked at Dunne, then swiveled her fiery gaze to fix upon War.

  "Years ago," said Hannahlee, "I got pregnant." Her voice was calm and even. "I gave the child up for adoption."

  The Hummer was silent except for the rumble of the motor. War, Dunne, and Quincy hung on every word from Hannahlee's mouth.

  "I've done nothing but suffer ever since," she said. "My career, my relationships, my whole life have gone straight to hell. Not a day goes by that I don't seriously consider killing myself."

  That was the end of it. For a long moment, no one said a word.

  Finally, Hannahlee spoke. "Do you believe me?"

  "Yes," said War. "I know that was true."

  "Was it a big enough secret for you?" said Hannahlee.

  "Yes." War pulled the six-shooter away from Dunne's head.

  "Good." Hannahlee turned around to face front. "Now why don't you give it a rest for a while?"

  "Will do," said War, and then
he slumped in his seat, staring out the window.

  CHAPTER 31

  Barcelona, Spain - July 28, 1909 - "The Tragic Week"

  I cannot believe I am still alive.

  So many churches were burned during the rioting, but not me. More than a few times, men eyed me with torches in their hands—but always, they passed without setting fire to me.

  Why I survived, I cannot guess. Once, perhaps, I would have imagined it was because of my uniqueness or superiority, my powers or grand destiny. Not anymore.

  I know how close I came to destruction last night. How defenseless I was against handfuls of mere mortal men. Roving spots of warmth that once had seemed so inconsequential.

  Any one of them is greater than I.

  Today, as the sun rises, I see the damage they caused in the city. Smoldering piles of charred rubble where proud churches once stood. Piles of long-dead clergy unearthed from desecrated tombs. Blood and glass everywhere, glittering in the brightening dawn.

  All is quiet. No more screams or howls or crashes or gunshots or roaring flames. The symphony of madness is over.

  I wonder how long it will last.

  If only I could rise up in the sky like the sun before it all starts again. If only I could soar the way I'd once imagined, the way I'd thought I was destined. Leave behind a dusty crater and make port on more peaceful, enlightened shores.

  But that, I now know, was a fantasy. As hard as I tried last night, I could not fly away.

  And if I couldn't soar on a night like that, with my life in imminent danger, I will never soar.

  None of the other churches could fly, either—or they would have last night. One after another, they would have fled the torches and gasoline, taking to the skies in a vast moonlit armada. But none of us made that flight.

  And none of us ever shall.

  When death rampaged among us, we stayed planted in our holes in the ground, utterly helpless...and utterly alone. No one came to save us.

  We were abandoned.

  Even my creator, Gaudí, did not stand by me last night. As the mobs ran wild around me, waving torches, he was nowhere to be seen.

  Whether he abandoned me for my failures or conceit, I cannot know...though another possibility occurs to me in the stark daylight. Maybe he didn't come because he couldn't.

  Because he was dead.

  As the morning wears on with no sign of Gaudí, I start to think it must be true. In a way, it makes me feel better, knowing my maker did not abandon me by choice. Knowing he never lost faith in me. It makes me think there is still hope of redemption for me.

  That is why I am almost disappointed when I see Gaudí threading his way toward me from down the street.

  He teeters around the puddles and shards of glass, looking unsteady. When he stops at a corner, removes his black hat, and gazes up at me, he looks relieved.

  Then deeply, deeply sad.

  He approaches silently, walking along the street around me. Looking up and down my walls, shading his eyes as he stares up at my towers.

  Even if I could cry out to him, I would say nothing yet. Now that he has reappeared, I am on shaky ground—longing for his attention, yet hurt and betrayed. Since Gaudí was not dead last night, he must have stayed away for another reason. Because he judged me unworthy of salvation.

  Because I deserved to be punished.

  After long minutes of touring my outskirts, Gaudí draws closer. Picks his way across the rugged lot, dodging piles of dirt and stone.

  Breathing hard, he approaches the front of me, the Nativity façade. Stops short of the giant doorway and hangs his head.

  My mind is wild with anticipation. With speculation. Why has he come here? What will he say?

  Is this the last I will see of him? Has he come to say goodbye? Or has he come to apologize? To explain why he left me to die?

  Slowly, he proceeds across my threshold.

  On the other side, which will someday be inside me, he follows the boundary of my wall. Lets his fingertips drift along the surface, brushing over the stone blocks.

  And then he stops. And he speaks.

  "Now this is a miracle." His voice is low, but I can hear it. "I couldn't reach you through the riots, but the Lord has protected you."

  His tone is not angry. I don't think he wanted to punish me, after all.

  "Of all the churches in Barcelona, only you remain intact." Gaudí's brow furrows. "It has to be for a reason."

  I hang on my creator's every word, eager to make sense of what has happened. If I could speak, I would beg him to tell me everything.

  "It is up to us now. We must redeem them."

  I don't understand. What is he talking about?

  "The people of Barcelona have gone astray. The people of all Catalonia." Gaudí rubs his eyes and shakes his head. "They have lashed out at God Himself. Attacked His servants. Burned His temples.

  "But you were spared." Gaudí rests the palm of his hand against my wall. "By His grace, you were spared for a reason."

  I wonder what reason that could be, since I no longer believe in my grand destiny. Since I no longer believe I play a greater role than any man or woman in the scheme of things.

  "We were both spared," says Gaudí. "And now, we must work harder than ever. It is up to us to lead them back to the flock."

  Hands folded, Gaudí walks out to the middle of what will someday become my interior. He stands in my heart, with no roof overhead and a wall along only one side, and takes out his rosary beads.

  He falls to his knees. He rubs the beads, and his lips move, but I can no longer hear what he says. I cannot hear his prayer.

  But for the first time in my existence, I offer a prayer of my own. To a God I've never seen or heard or felt, in whom I don't truly believe. Gaudí's God.

  I thank Him for the one thing that makes my life worth living. The one thing I'd thought I'd left behind in my rush to greatness. The one thing I'd thought I'd lost forever in my fiery night of pure terror.

  The one thing I swear never again to take for granted. The one thing I beg never to be apart from again.

  I thank Him for Antoni Gaudí.

  CHAPTER 32

  Warpath Journal

  Dateline: Salt Basin, Texas

  As brother Quincy barrels the Hummer across the dunes, I search the white horizon for a sign of our missing brother.

  If Free Willow is out there, I pray we will find him and bring him home safe.

  But my faith is not strong. "Still nothing!" The Salt Basin is desolate, and the sun is going down. "How much further?"

  Kitty checks the GPS tracker in the dashboard. "Just over a mile."

  "What if he's already dead?" says Quincy.

  "I'm not even going to answer that question," says Kitty.

  For a moment, I am convinced she is my sister...not a Poison Oak. She wants to find Free as badly as I do; she has been completely committed from the beginning.

  She is the one who started the search, in fact. While we rode through the edges of Guadalupe Mountains National Park, Kitty got a call on her cell phone from the Poison Oaks. They gave her coordinates for the middle of the Salt Basin and told her they'd left our brother to die.

  Suspicious, I'd hesitated to start searching—but not for long. I couldn't afford not to look for Free if there was a chance he was really in mortal danger. Leaving him to die in the Salt Basin was something a Poison Oak might do...but not me.

  So now we rocket off-road in the Hummer, charging toward the coordinates...and the answers I've been seeking all along. For if we find Free or some proof he was here, I'll finally be totally sure that Kitty, Quincy, and Dunne have been telling the truth. Totally sure I've been killing the wrong people under a dark influence.

  Or totally sure they're lying imposters, in which case they'll get what they deserve.

  "Far enough." Kitty watches the GPS. "Stop here."

  As the four of us get out of the Hummer, my nerves crackle with anticipation. We are miles from the r
oad, miles from any human habitation. Something big is about to happen, and the end is uncertain.

  I draw two of my guns and walk carefully through the fine, white sand. "Watch for booby traps. This whole thing could be a trap to get rid of us."

  "Says the human booby trap with the strap-on bomb." Quincy fans out to one side, kicking at low dunes.

  "Look for trap doors, too," says Kitty. "The Oaks might have buried him."

  "Or just left him in the sun to fry." As I continue my slow plod forward, I am very aware of everyone and everything around me. The shadowy ranks of dunes in the deepening twilight. The towering hulk of the mountain, El Capitan, in the distance. The salty tang in the whisper of a breeze. The voices of my fellow searchers, calling out Free's name.

  Kitty has a flashlight and combs its beam through the shadows. Quincy reels in circles, loping back toward me.

  "Nothing," he says. "I'm seeing fabsolutely nothing."

  "Keep looking." Kitty continues to sweep the flashlight methodically before her. "We have a lot of ground to cover."

  Dunne, meek as ever, keeps his distance from me. I watch as he stoops to pick something up from the sand.

  He notices me watching him and shrugs. "It's nothing." He juggles a small object in his cupped hand. "I thought it was a clue."

  Just then, I hear the sound of liquid hitting the sand. Turning, I quickly see where the sound is coming from.

  It's Quincy. He's pissing in the sand ahead of me.

  "Ahhh." He throws his head back. "What a relief."

  "Way to respect the emergency, bro," I tell him.

  "I held it as long as I could." Quincy gets out a few last squirts, then zips up. "It's not as if anyone's gonna care. If anything, I did a good deed, watering the desert."

  "My Amish mentor had a saying." I wave a gun at him for emphasis. "'He who plants his field by night will go hungry by night and day.'"

  "What the fell does that mean?" says Quincy.

  "Pay attention to what you're doing." I resume my forward search, gazing into the waves of shadows that roll out before me.

  Quincy and Kitty spread out on either side of me. We widen the radius of our search, racing the deepening darkness.