He had never been here before, but he felt as if he had. It was all known to him, deeply imprinted: the same backdrops from scenes he'd watched hundreds of times; the same colors and shadows and textures and names. It stirred feelings and memories and sensations from years gone by—inexplicable associations of moments from his own life and the unreal images on a TV screen.
Now come full circle, brought to life within his life.
He had never been here, but he knew every step by heart. From here, without a map, he could find anything in town. He could never get lost.
It was knowledge that couldn't be put to use anywhere else in the world...except, maybe, in the pages of a Weeping Willows tie-in novel. It was the stuff of reflected, refracted reality, filtered and spun and recycled in dreams, misremembered as actual experience.
He had never been to the Oven Mitt in his life...but as he walked through the front door, he felt as if he'd been there a thousand times. A million.
The jingle of the little bell on the back of the door was as familiar as the voice of any friend he'd ever known. More familiar.
The inside of the diner, with its black-and-white checkerboard floor, white Formica tables and counter, and red pleather benches and stools, was better known to him than any of his childhood bedrooms. Than any of the foster homes in which he'd grown up.
He knew which stool Gary Escuchar the ranch hand always occupied, and he knew the table where Agent Mohican had proposed to Holly Willow. He knew the history and geography of this one diner as well as he'd known the history and geography of any place in his life.
And better than he'd known most people.
In a daze, Dunne wandered over the checkerboard floor. He stopped and touched Gary Escuchar's stool, second from the end. It didn't look right without Gary sitting on it.
The whole diner looked wrong without any customers or employees. It sounded wrong without the noise of conversation and sizzle of the grill and clatter of silverware on plates.
"Hey, Nina!" Quincy went straight to the kitchen door and stormed through it. "Hack me off a slice of vidalia pie, wouldja?"
Hannahlee checked the ladies' bathroom, then knocked on the door of the men's room and checked it, too. "No one here."
Quincy slammed the kitchen door open on his way out. "Nobody back here, either. And no vidalia pie."
"They must be waiting to see if we're friendly." Hannahlee looked up and scanned the ceiling from corner to corner. "Watching us on hidden cameras."
"Hey everybody!" Quincy grinned and waved at the ceiling. "We come in peace, man! We dig your drift! And this is the original Kitty Willow!" He gestured at Hannahlee. "Take us to your Gowdy."
Nothing happened. If anyone was listening, they didn't respond to his performance.
"Well, someone's been here recently." Dunne swiped the edge of his hand across the counter, then held it up to show the lack of dust. "Otherwise, out here in the desert, this place would be dirty as hell."
Hannahlee headed for the door. "Let's move on."
Dunne and Quincy followed her outside, and they all looked around. Still, there was no one in sight.
"Look." Quincy pointed across the street. "Collette's Coverup! Sounds like a good hiding place to me!"
The three of them crossed Main Street and entered Collette's—Buzz Willow's favorite haunt, the town bookstore. Inside, like the Oven Mitt, it was just as Dunne remembered, reproduced exactly from the show.
There were books everywhere, overflowing from every shelf and counter and table and tub and basket. Even the brightly colored beanbag chairs on the floor were heaped with hardbacks and paperbacks.
Origami figures hung from the ceiling on fishing line—cranes and dragons and tigers and roses and more. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, just like in Collette's on TV. Zen Willow made a new one—so the story went—for every life his family saved.
"Hello?" said Hannahlee. "Anyone home?"
"Come out, mon petite Collette!" Quincy used his over-the-top French accent. "We weesh to deescuss le baguette!"
Near the rear of the store, Dunne thought he heard a voice. As he approached the bead-curtained doorway to the stock room in the back, it got louder.
"Hello?" Cautiously, Dunne parted the beads with his hand and leaned in for a look. He quickly spotted the source of the voice: an old transistor radio atop a stack of books, playing what sounded like a Mexican talk show.
"Nobody back here either," Dunne told the others after searching the stock room. "But there's a radio on. We just missed them."
"What da fudge is going on here?" said Quincy. "It's like something out of an old fience fiction movie."
Without a word, Hannahlee walked out of Collette's. Dunne and Quincy went after her.
"They might not come out until we leave," said Dunne.
"If worse comes to worst," said Quincy, "I'll kick out the slashfic filk jams! That'll bring 'em running!"
Dunne smirked. "Not for the reasons you think, though."
"Well, we've come too far to give up," said Quincy. "I'm not leaving till we get a face to face."
Hannahlee cocked her head and frowned, listening intently to something. "You're about to get your wish," she said.
"Meaning fwhat?" said Quincy.
Just then, Dunne understood. He heard the sound of a roaring engine, getting louder, getting closer. Coming from the direction of the park, Justice Commons.
"Oh," said Quincy. "I hear it now."
"Get ready," said Hannahlee.
Seconds later, a black Firebird Trans-Am tore down the street toward them, dead center on the middle line.
CHAPTER 36
Dunne glimpsed a man with bushy black hair and a bushy beard at the wheel of the Trans Am. He saw big black sunglasses and a gray fur coat.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a motorcycle flashed past the driver's side and cut in front of the Trans Am. The car swerved hard and braked, missing the motorcycle—and spinning out in a squealing, smoking circle. When the Trans Am stopped, it had spun 180 degrees and was left facing the direction from which it had come.
The white-helmeted motorcyclist spun out, too, and darted back toward the car. Before it could get there, the bushy-haired driver burst out of the Trans Am and swung a machine gun from under his fur coat.
Now that the driver was out of the car, Dunne recognized him instantly: he was the spitting image of Jeremiah Weed, black-hearted king of Scratchtown.
"Down! Get down!" Quincy threw himself into the doorway of the bookstore.
As the machine gun chattered, Dunne and Hannahlee ducked behind the closest cover they could find—a blue bus stop bench. It wasn't much protection, but at least they could see the action between the slats.
The motorcyclist zigzagged toward Weed, then bolted away at the last instant. He flew around the Trans Am, whipping into Weed's line of fire...snapping away again before he caught a round.
Fur coat flapping, Weed charged after the motorcyclist on foot, howling with rage as he fired a storm of shots from the machine gun. The rider evaded the flurry of bullets and swooped around a corner, out of sight.
Dunne held his breath as Weed ran past the bench where he was hiding...then stopped. And stood for a long moment in the street, looking from side to side, listening carefully with head cocked.
Dunne tried not to move a muscle. It wasn't easy with his hands shaking and his heart slamming like a wrecking ball in his chest.
And it didn't help. Weed turned and looked right at him, a nasty smile curling like a worm underneath his bushy beard.
As Dunne and Hannahlee scrambled to their feet, Weed stormed toward them. Before they could run, Weed lunged over the bench and grabbed one of them by the arm.
Hannahlee.
As scared as Dunne was, he stopped and turned. "Let her go!" His voice was more panicked than forceful.
"But I just got her!" Weed laughed and pinned Hannahlee against his broad chest. "I'm nowhere near done with her!"
&nbs
p; "Enough of this," said Hannahlee. "We're not interested in playing this game. My name is Hannahlee Saylor, and I'm here to see Cyrus Gowdy."
"Then you've come to the wrong place, Saylor Girl." Weed planted a rough kiss on the top of her head. "I know everyone in town, and there is no Cyrus Gowdy here."
"You can drop the act," said Hannahlee. "We're not paying customers. You won't lose your job."
"My job? My job?" Weed guffawed. "I'm the boss of this entire town. You don't have to tell me I won't lose that."
"Please let her go," said Dunne.
Hannahlee craned her head back, fixing Weed in her blazing emerald stare. "We're here to help. I'm an old friend of Mr. Gowdy's."
"Which means nothing in my town," said Weed.
"Maybe you know me by another name," said Hannahlee. "Does the name 'Lianna Caprice' sound familiar?"
Weed leered at her. "I've just had a thought. How would you like to be one of my Rainbow Brides?"
"I was Kitty Willow on the show," said Hannahlee. "Just tell Cyrus I'm here, and I'm sure he'll see me."
"Time to go, sugar-bear." With his machine gun trained on Dunne, Weed hauled Hannahlee toward the black Trans Am. "Tonight's your honeymoon, happypants!"
Dunne watched helplessly. With the machine gun in play, he wasn't about to make any kind of move. If New Justice was a theme park, the gun's ammo wasn't real—but he couldn't be sure.
He knew everything about the place in terms of layout and background and cast...and yet, he knew nothing of its plan or purpose. Nothing of what lay behind the scenes.
Or in the guns.
Hannahlee, for her part, was as calm as ever as Weed pulled her toward the car. "Find Gowdy," she told Dunne. "Tell him to switch off the freak show."
Dunne nodded.
"'Freak show?'" said Weed. "Is that any way to talk about your new old man, lollipoop?"
At that moment, Dunne heard a roar like an animal. He turned just in time to see Quincy run out from behind the corner of a building, headed straight for Weed.
Dunne guessed Quincy had gone through the bookstore and circled around. As he charged, Weed whirled and raised the machine gun.
Dunne realized he was about to find out if the ammo was real or not.
Instead of firing shots, Weed raked the barrel of the machine gun across Quincy's face. Quincy stumbled, grabbing for his eyes...and his momentum was gone. He kept moving forward, but Weed easily sidestepped, hauling Hannahlee with him.
As Quincy grappled with thin air, trying to land a paw on his opponent, Weed plowed a booted foot into his groin. That was all it took to send Quincy howling to the pavement.
Cackling, Weed covered the last few steps to the Trans Am and shoved Hannahlee inside. "Remember one thing!" He slammed the passenger's-side door shut and trotted around to the driver's side. "I'm not the bad guy! You are!" It was Jeremiah Weed's tagline from the Willows TV show.
With that, the Weed lookalike dropped into the Trans Am, fired up the engine, and tore off down the street with the scream of tires.
So Hannahlee was gone. The one person the team absolutely could not do without had been abducted.
And, naturally, Dunne had just stood there and watched it happen.
"Little help over here?" Quincy's voice was strained, as if he hadn't quite beaten back the pain. He'd managed to prop himself up on one elbow, and that was as far as he'd gotten.
Just as Dunne was helping Quincy to his feet, the white-helmeted motorcyclist returned. He rode his cycle out of a side-street at a high rate of speed, then whipped three circles around Dunne and Quincy before sliding to a stop in front of them.
As soon as he lifted off his helmet, Dunne knew who he was supposed to be.
The rider had a boyish face with bright blue eyes and blond, shoulder-length hair. He wore his blond sideburns long, right down to his jaw, and he had beauty marks on both cheeks. At his throat, he wore a pukka shell choker, with a small, orange starfish dangling in the "V" of his denim shirt collar.
He wasn't an identical twin of Scott Savage, but Dunne recognized him immediately as a close copy of teen idol Leif Willow.
So did Quincy. "Willow alert! They took Kitty!" Quincy pointed up Main Street. "They went fataway!"
Leif frowned. "But they already have Kitty. They've had her for three months."
"Okay, wait a minute," said Dunne. "We're new in town. What's going on here?"
"You've just landed in the middle of a war," said Leif. "Good versus evil...and evil's winning."
"Is that why Weed said he's the boss of this town?" said Dunne.
Leif nodded. "He's been the boss for the past year. He and his Rainbow Brides are running the show, with help from Ballantyne Foster and Scandinavian Steve."
"Fincredible," said Quincy. "Now this is what I call a role-playing game."
"This isn't a game," said Leif. "Not even close."
"Maybe we can help," said Dunne. "Do you know where we can find a man named Cyrus Gowdy?"
Leif shook his head sadly. "I wish I did, man. This war is all his fault."
"For creating Willows?" said Dunne. "For building New Justice?"
"No," said Leif. "For dying."
CHAPTER 37
Barcelona, Spain - June 7-12, 1926
At first, I think this is another Tragic Week. I think the mobs will return to the streets, torches in hand, to finish the job they started seventeen years ago. This time, they will burn me along with the other churches.
This is what I think when Gaudí does not come home the first night. I think he must have stayed away because the mobs are on the run. Perhaps he has gone into hiding.
Not that he has anywhere else to hide. He has been living in his studio on my grounds since last year; I have become his home, and he only leaves me for mass or short visits with friends.
But if Gaudí is not hiding from rioters, where could he be? He never spends the night with anyone but me. He hasn't mentioned any lady friends, and he hasn't packed a bag for travel.
When he left at the end of his workday today, he said he was on his way to St. Felipe Neri Church. Then, he was going to visit his friend, Dr. Santaló. Gaudí said nothing about being gone for the night or longer.
The one thing he did tell his helpers was to come back early tomorrow. I cling to that. Even if he has found somewhere unexpected to go tonight, I will know soon enough that all is well. He will keep his promise and return to me when the sun rises.
If the riots don't break out first, of course.
So I wait through the night, staying alert for Gaudí and for rioters. But neither come.
The next morning, I expect relief. There are no riots to keep Gaudí away, so he is bound to come early, as he said he would. He will tell me his simple explanation and get about his business, and I will relax.
I fully expect another day of the kind of joy I've known since Gaudí came to live with me. The perfect happiness of creator and creation living in harmony, sharing simple pleasures and thoughts and dreams. Growing closer and more in tune with each other with each passing moment. This is the heaven for which I've waited my whole life, the paradise I expect to return to this morning.
But as the morning wears on, paradise cannot be found. Gaudí does not appear. Stranger still, none of his workmen or colleagues show up for work, either. For once, I am completely deserted.
And it begins to seem that I am not the only one who notices how strange things have become. Passersby on the streets stare at me and whisper. They frown and shake their heads as if they see something wrong that I cannot see.
By nightfall, there is still no sign of him. I start to worry again that he has abandoned me...but for some reason other than riots. Perhaps he has run out of money to continue construction. Perhaps the church or the government has forced him to stop.
Or maybe, he has just grown tired of me. I know I haven't always been enough to soothe his loneliness, that he feared being left with only me in his old age. Maybe he finally couldn't ta
ke it anymore and had to get away...had to seek out the human touch I can never supply.
As the night deepens, my worry intensifies—then turns to anger. How could he keep me waiting like this, alone in the dark for hour after hour? How could he be so inconsiderate, knowing as he does I have no one else to turn to? I thought he cared. I thought we had an understanding.
The anger doesn't last. After fuming for a while, I start worrying again...and then I go back to clinging to hope. I tell myself he'll be back tomorrow morning, that he was only delayed, and things will return to normal then. Even if he had to stop construction, he can hardly stay away forever; after all, I am his home. Even if he grew tired of me, the feeling would pass soon enough; after all, I am his greatest creation, his life's work.
So I wait through the night and well into the next morning. Again, the work crew fails to appear. The passersby continue to stare and whisper.
Gaudí does not return to me.
If only I could move. If only I could soar, as I once imagined. I would rise from this hole in the ground and find him. I would bring him home myself, or take him far away to soothe his lonely feelings.
But he did not make me to move. That is not one of my gifts. He made me to watch and wait, but not to move.
So I watch and wait some more. The sun sinks behind the skyline, and no one comes near me. No one says a word to me.
Eventually, I sink, too. Mentally exhausted, I fall asleep; my mind and senses shut down for a while, granting blessed release from the stress of my vigil.
The next thing I see is his face.
Gray-haired and bearded, he stares at me. He stands at the base of my one finished bell tower, St. Barnabas, and gazes up at my heights.
And he does something I've hardly ever seen him do. He smiles.
I am overjoyed. If I could embrace him, I would. If I could ask a thousand questions about where he's been, I would.
But all I can do is wait for him to explain. Which he does not do.
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