Day 9

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  In fact, he never says a word. He just walks around me, running his hand along my stone wall, smiling up at my towers and Nativity façade. Nodding in his black frock coat and black hat in the moonlight.

  I look for clues to where he has been, but I see nothing. He looks no different than he did three days ago, when he left.

  Now, a new question occurs to me. Why is he lingering outside instead of going straight to bed? Why all the smiling and staring and touching? Is he just that glad to see me again?

  Suddenly, he does something even more unexpected. He gets down on his knees by my cornerstone, the first one he laid forty-three years ago. He rests his hand against it for a moment; he sighs and shakes his head.

  Then, he bends down and kisses it.

  I feel his lips upon me as a roving spot of warmth. Though it is the first time he has ever kissed me, it brings a memory to the surface of my mind. I remember the first words he ever said to me.

  "I will make of us a cathedral like no other."

  Then, suddenly, it is over.

  Gaudí is gone, and the sun is shining. He was only a dream, I realize, and I am just waking up.

  So nothing has changed. I am still alone, and I still have no idea where he might be.

  Another day passes in a haze of worry and woe. Yet again, not only does Gaudí stay away, but his workers do, too. Even the dogs won't piss on me.

  By sundown, I begin to wonder what I will do if Gaudí never returns. What if no one ever comes back, and I am left incomplete to decay and crumble? Will I lose my mind, then, as I fall into dust?

  At what point will I cease to exist? How does a cathedral die?

  One more hopeless night melts into morning. As the songbirds raise their dawn chorus, my spirit withers. I did not even dream of him last night.

  By now, I believe the truth is plain. Gaudí has left me for good.

  Finally, he has broken the curse he feared.

  "Must I die alone," he once asked me, "in a prison of stone of my own making?"

  The answer is no. In a way, I am happy for him.

  But as the day wears on, I begin to feel something else toward him, too. Something new.

  I begin to hate him.

  Whatever his fears and demons, how could he just leave me? Am I that unimportant to him?

  I thought he loved me.

  I have stood by him all these years. I have grown as he wished, to match his visions. I have done everything in my power to please him.

  And now he has left me. Just like that. Without any warning or apology or explanation. Without a goodbye, after all we've been through. All we've meant to each other.

  How could he?

  Tonight, it is hate that keeps me restless, not worry or longing. Hate that starts out small and quickly grows.

  As the hours wind past, I stop watching and waiting. I realize I no longer want him to come back. If he can treat me so heartlessly, I want nothing to do with him.

  I am glad he is gone.

  When morning comes, I have made my peace with his abandonment. I have decided it is his fault, not mine, and I will move on but never forget. I have resolved that if he ever returns, I will harden my heart against him.

  That is when it happens.

  That is when he returns.

  When it starts, I think the riots are beginning again. The streets are busier than usual for a Saturday, and they just get busier. By late morning, they are so full of people, it seems as if all Barcelona is there.

  I watch, expecting them to produce torches and gasoline, but no one does. In fact, on the whole, they are much more subdued than the mobs of Tragic Week. They might very well be the same people who burned the churches that week, but now they are quiet and grim. Many of them wear black.

  As the sun reaches its highest point in the sky, church bells chime in the distance. The people draw back to either side of the street, opening a lane down the middle.

  The lane ends at my front door.

  I wonder what is happening. The people are too orderly for a riot. They are not festive enough for a celebration. They have turned out for something else, something dark.

  Something to do with me.

  But none of them looks at me. They all stare in one direction, down the street, watching and waiting. For what, I don't know.

  And then, when I do know, I wish I didn't.

  As the people crowd closer to my walls, I pick up snippets of conversation. I don't understand at first.

  "He was a genius." That's what one man says. "This is terrible."

  "The streetcar..." says another.

  "Can you believe it?"

  "...left him in the street..."

  "...people thought he was a tramp."

  "He was a madman," says someone else. "A holy madman."

  I try to piece the story together from what I've heard, but understanding eludes me. I strain to hear more...and get more of the same. Disconnected bits and pieces.

  Then, I hear something new. Something unexpected.

  Human voices raised in song. Scores of human voices.

  A melancholy song.

  I hear them from a distance, coming closer. All of them singing in perfect unison.

  Getting louder with each passing moment like a rainfall approaching. Rising and rising, becoming one giant voice, the voice of a city. The voice of Barcelona.

  And then, at a bend in the street, the crowd suddenly presses back to widen the lane in the middle. Seconds later, two priests appear, wearing black robes and caps. Two black horses surge around the bend behind them, pulling a carriage through the lane.

  As the horses and carriage pass, men in the crowd take off their hats and hold them over their chests. Women shut their eyes and kiss the beads of their rosaries. Children stand on tiptoe to get a look.

  The carriage is open all around. As it approaches, I see a large object inside, long and narrow and draped with a red velvet cover. There are flowers in a little pile on top of the cover...white lilies.

  The carriage is followed by an enormous procession of people on foot: first, a score of men in dark suits and hats and canes, looking important; then, the singing chorus, an army of men and women in black robes, pouring forth in an endless rank.

  The singing reaches its peak...and stops. The black-clad driver steers the horses off the street onto my lot, following the priests.

  Not far from my front doors, they stop. The priests turn and raise their arms.

  And that is the last moment of blissful ignorance I will ever know.

  The elder priest speaks to the sky. His words explain everything.

  "Oh, Lord, we ask that you bless this great man's final resting place." The elder priest raises his voice and arms higher. "For this, his greatest monument, shall now become the sanctuary of his mortal remains."

  Gaudí.

  This is why he did not come home.

  "As we deliver his body to the crypt he once built," says the elder priest, "we ask that you deliver his soul to your heavenly kingdom."

  The priests walk to the carriage and take up position on either side of it. They each place a hand on the cargo and bow their heads.

  "Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to you the spirit of your servant, Antoni Gaudí. May he serve you as faithfully in death as he did in life." The elder priest makes the sign of the cross over the cargo. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

  The priests step back, and six of the dark-suited men of importance step forward. The men surround the carriage, and two of them remove the red velvet cover draped over the cargo.

  I see that the cargo is a box of dark, polished wood. The men lift it from the carriage and slowly march it toward my front doors.

  Gaudí is in that box.

  They have brought him home to me.

  The choir sings as the men carry Gaudí to my doors. People in the crowd wipe their eyes with handkerchiefs. The priests light incense and swing the golden brazier from a chain, spreading c
louds of acrid smoke.

  I never thought this could happen. Gaudí spoke often of dying, but I never took it seriously. I imagined, as my maker, he had a special dispensation—that he was somehow more than merely human and not subject to the same limitations.

  But I was wrong. Again.

  As they open my doors and bring Gaudí inside, I burn with the loss of him. With the love of him and also the fear of what will become of me without him. Incomplete as I am, will I be razed? I can't imagine anyone else finishing what Gaudí started.

  I feel suddenly weak, as if my body is about to collapse around him. I wish that I could collapse, or tremble, or weep. I wish that I could do anything to let out this sorrow that builds and blazes within me.

  But as always, all I can do is stand, and watch, and wait. Listen to the choir in their hundreds roar majestically in the street. Wish with all my might that this could somehow be undone.

  That I could see him one last time.

  Suddenly, I remember his visit two nights ago. He smiled in the moonlight and kissed my cornerstone. I thought it was all a dream.

  But now, I think it was not a dream after all. I think it was him, his spirit, coming to see me one last time.

  The dead are always with us. He said that once. Maybe he was right.

  And maybe I will see him again. See him alive.

  I ignore the body in the box and concentrate on reaching out to Gaudí's spirit. I focus all my energy on calling him back to me, just one more time.

  I am still doing the same thing that night, after everyone has gone home. And the day after that. And a week later, too.

  Gaudí.

  Gaudí, I need you.

  CHAPTER 38

  New Justice, New Mexico - Today

  "He's dead," said Leif. "Cyrus Gowdy is dead."

  Dunne felt light-headed as he thought about it. Was it possible he'd come all this way and gone through so much, only to find that his objective no longer existed?

  Was the one person in the world who could make his dreams a reality already dead?

  "That can't be." Quincy turned to Dunne. "Enrique Bocagrande said he talked to Gowdy in Willowtopia a month ago."

  "When did Cyrus die?" said Dunne.

  "A year ago," said Leif. "He died in a terrible fire...which is when the war started. Like I said, it was his fault."

  "For dying," said Dunne.

  Leif sighed and shook out his gleaming, golden hair. "If he was still alive, there wouldn't be a war. He was the one who always kept the balance between good and evil."

  Dunne grimaced. He was having a hard time fitting the pieces together. "So, wait. You mean Cyrus was guiding the role-playing scenario?"

  "He guided us," said Leif, "but there was no playing. He was the priest at Everyfaith Temple."

  "Gowdy's a priest?" Quincy's eyes bugged, and his mouth fell open.

  "Was a priest," said Leif.

  Dunne was still confused. "What did you say your name was?"

  "Leif Willow." Leif played with the starfish that dangled from his pukka shell choker. "And you're...?"

  "Dunne Sullivan. This is Quincy Windsor." Dunne left out the part about the two of them being new Willow foster brothers. "Now what's your real name, Leif?"

  "Real name?"

  "Before you got here, bro," said Quincy. "Before you came to New Justice. What did they call you?"

  Leif smirked. "Dummy."

  "They called you Dummy?" said Quincy.

  "You're the dummy," said Leif. "I've always been here."

  Dunne rubbed his eyes hard. Leif sounded like he really believed he'd never been anywhere else...but that didn't make sense. Then again, that in itself fit with the rest of the picture. Nothing in New Justice seemed to make much sense.

  Not yet, anyway.

  "Look," said Leif. "We shouldn't be standing around out in the open like this. Weed's guardsmen will arrest us sooner or later." Leif revved his motorcycle. "Well, they'll arrest you, anyway. They'll try to arrest me."

  "We need to rescue Kitty," said Dunne.

  "I already told you, Kitty's been locked up for three months." Leif looked around nervously.

  Dunne decided not to argue the point. "Our friend's also called Hannahlee...and Weed took her. We want her back."

  Leif narrowed his eyes and directed a measured stare at Dunne. "I can try to pull together an operation, but it'll take time. There isn't much of a resistance left, you know."

  "How much time?" said Dunne.

  Leif shrugged. "Two, three hours. Hard to say."

  "While you get that ready, the two of us can pay our respects to Gowdy." Smiling, Quincy clapped a hand on Dunne's shoulder. "You say he was head holy roller at the Everyfaith Temple?"

  "Yes," said Leif. "But he's buried in Waystation Cemetery. Shouldn't you go there to pay respects?"

  "We'd respect him more alive than dead," said Quincy. "We'll stick with the temple."

  "Do you want to call us on our cell phone when you're ready?" said Dunne. "Assuming there's service out here."

  "Cell phone?" Leif looked puzzled. "You mean like a jail cell?"

  Dunne didn't try to fight the 1970s time warp act. "How about if you just meet us at the temple?"

  "Okay," said Leif. "Like I said, it'll take some time. No one's attacked Jeremiah Weed's stronghold in ages."

  "His stronghold?" said Quincy. "Where's that?"

  Leif's expression darkened. "Posse Ranch," he said. "Former home of the Willows."

  Then, without another word, Leif bent over the handlebars, revved the engine, and roared off on his motorcycle, leaving a trail of dust in the air.

  ***

  Warpath Journal

  Dateline: Las Cruces, New Mexico

  As I check the dashboard clock again, the words of Amish Amos come back to me.

  The hands of the clock are not afraid of you.

  Meaning watching the clock won't make time run any faster...though I wish with all my heart it would. I wish I were closer to killing the Poison Oak imposters who got away from me.

  Now that I'm totally sure of their wickedness, I can't get my hands on them fast enough. Even the three hours it should take me to reach them is three hours too long.

  I hate to think it might take even longer, but it might. The truth is, I don't know the exact location of New Justice—only its direction and distance from Antelope. Just what was on the drawings the Oaks had.

  At least I've got a fast ride to get me there. It's the third one I've stolen since Salt Basin, a Mazda—and third time's the charm. This baby's got plenty of horsepower...and a radar detector to keep my nose clean.

  So life is good. And bound to get better soon.

  As I drive, I play out scenarios in my mind: who I'll kill first, what I'll do to them, what happens after that. The only thing I've decided so far for sure is my pick for Number One on the dead Oak list.

  That would be the Scaredy-Cat, the one who tricked me. Brother Dunne. As for what I'll do to him...

  A rotten timber will bring the barn down on your head if you tax it.

  That's what Amish Amos would say. He would counsel me to resist the urge to make the Oaks suffer. He would babble on and on about the immorality of torture and murder...and normally, I would agree with him.

  But this time, I don't know. Time is running out, not just for the captive Willows, but for all America. I need fast, accurate answers, and that leaves no room for pussyfooting around.

  Plus which, would it be fair to America and mankind not to put those Poison Oaks down permanently?

  As wise as Amish Amos is, I can't let him skew my own wisdom. Or the sense of justice seeded in my heart by Father Law.

  Or the outrage watered with the blood of my brother and sister Willows.

  The white-hot afternoon sun blazes as I race toward it. Daydreams of justice and vengeance dim as the vision of the bloody church flares in the back of my mind. It hasn't stopped repeating since the diner in Alexandria, Louisiana...since Impo
ster Kitty asked me how she could know for sure I'm not a Poison Oak.

  I wonder if I'm meant to see something in this vision. Is that why it won't go away anymore? Because there's something I've missed in this bloodbath, something vitally important to my mission?

  Maybe it's meant to drive me harder to annihilate the Oaks. Maybe it's a vision of what will become of America if I don't destroy my enemies.

  For that is how I know for sure I'm not a Poison Oak. Because I would never allow such a nightmare to happen. I would sacrifice anything to prevent it.

  No matter what Amish Amos says.

  I focus on the details of the vision, prying them apart for clues. I look harder at the familiar faces, their eyes and mouths lolling open in death.

  Suddenly, I have an idea. If this vision reveals the future, who's to say it's a bad one? Who's to say the dead are innocents?

  What if what I'm seeing are Poison Oak casualties? What if this is what awaits me at the end of my warpath?

  What if this is what awaits me in New Justice, New Mexico?

  I check the time on the dashboard clock. There is still too much of it left until I find my answers.

  CHAPTER 39

  New Justice, New Mexico

  "That's him, all right." Quincy stared at the black-and-white eight-by-ten photo behind the glass. "'Father' Gowdy."

  Dunne stood beside him in the lobby of Everyfaith Temple and nodded. The photo was indeed a head-and-shoulders shot of the man they'd been looking for, Cyrus Gowdy. He had short, silver hair, bright eyes, and a wide smile. He wore the reverse of a minister's traditional outfit—a white shirt with a black collar band instead of a black shirt with a white one.

  The label under the photo identified him as Brother Gowdy, but Dunne didn't bother to correct Quincy. "So we came to the right town. He was here."

  "But is the rest of the story true?" Quincy jabbed the display case glass over the photo with his finger. "Is he dead, or is he just playing dead?"

  The two of them continued from the lobby into the main hall of the temple. As with everything else in New Justice, it was identical to its TV counterpart from the Weeping Willows show.