Day 9 (12 page)

 

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 reached 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.

The next person out of the diner is the one I'm most anxious to see. The one who drove me to doubt my warpath and consider hara-kiri.

She stops a few feet from the door and looks in my direction. I spot a glimmer of surprise on her face when she sees me—maybe the faintest spark of fear, though I can't be sure—and then all expression vanishes. She gazes blankly at me, her emerald eyes flashing like beacons.

"Hello." The self-proclaimed Kitty says it calmly, as if she's not overly concerned about seeing me there. As if she doesn't know who I really am and what I've done to her fellow Poison Oaks.

Of course, she wouldn't
be
concerned if she really
was
Kitty, would she? Or is this just an act?

"Hey, sis!" I grin and wave. "Sorry I'm late!"

"What's he talking about?" The big guy's glaring, trying to look more scary than scared...but he can't fool me. He might make a move before this is all over, but I already have a decisive psychological edge.

Kitty, on the other hand, remains unreadable. She tips her head to one side, considering me, running the same mental math I've already done in my head. Weighing the options.

Not that she has any right now. I've set the scene to run one way only. My script reads like this: we're all one big happy family...until I decide otherwise.

Kitty understands. "Better late than never. What kept you?"

"Traffic." I give her a wink. "And pretty girls."

At that point, the big guy clamps a hand on Kitty's shoulder and tries to pull her aside. "Can we talk for a minute? Over here?"

"Go ahead, you two." I chuckle and pull out one of my guns—the six-shooter. "I've got some cleanup to do."

The big guy hesitates, then walks Kitty a few yards away. They talk quietly, so I can't quite make out what they're saying...and the whole time, he never takes his eyes off me.

Neither does the one on the ground. He's still down there, ass in the red dirt, staring up at me like a baby watching a bear.

I step forward forcefully and grab his upper arm. The gun in my other hand hangs loose—but it's there. "Let's get you back on your feet." I haul him up, then let go when he's standing on his own. "The dusting-off-your-ass part's up to you."

I give Scaredy-Cat some space and raise the gun. Sight in on the big ponytailed guy, aiming right between his eyes as he watches me.

Then, I lower the gun and flip open the cylinder. Pop out and pocket the six shells. Pull out a pipe cleaner and scrub out each chamber.

While I'm cleaning the gun, I see the big guy perk up a little, thinking I'm disarmed. Thinking he has a chance, maybe.

For his benefit, I pull the .45 automatic out of my shoulder holster and wave it around a little. Mr. Gung Ho looks more whipped than ever.

And I go back to cleaning the six-shooter, laughing to myself. Wait till he sees what else I've got up my sleeve.

Just wait.

I let the big guy and Kitty conspire as long as they like. No need to rush them. I'm the one who set the deadline for killing all the Willows, after all; I can extend it as much as I like.

Finally, Kitty raises her voice and chops her hand through the air. "End of discussion."

As she starts to walk away from the big guy, though, he grabs her by the upper arm. "No, wait."

"What
choice
do we have, Quincy?" says Kitty.

"But he'll...
you
know." Quincy gapes at my revolver.

"Easy, big fella." I've finished cleaning the gun, and I'm reloading cartridges in the cylinder. "I have no intention of killing anyone who's a friend of my sister's."

"Well, that's comforting." Quincy tries to sound agreeable for my benefit, but he can't quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice completely.

"Glad to hear it." As I smile at Quincy, I realize I like him the least. Everything about him strikes me as totally false, concealing an unfathomable inner turbulence. I wonder what evil he has done in the name of the Oaks, what secrets he has buried in his rotten black heart.

I swear, before this is over, I will know. I will know everything.

"So where are we headed?" Hands on hips, I walk toward their rent-a-car. "What's our destination, sis?"

"Hannahlee, don't." Quincy tugs Kitty's arm once more. "Remember what he's done..."

Kitty breaks away. "Like saving the Willow family again and again? Saving the town of Justice and all its citizens from criminal monsters? Saving the President of America
himself
and preventing the
Ku Klux Coup
?"

Kitty marches over and gives me a big hug. "Sounds pretty good to me," she says. "Sounds like the best big brother in the world."

I kiss the top of her head. For in instant, just an instant, I forget there's a chance—a big one—that she's not Kitty Willow at all. I have the reunion I've craved all along, the one I've dreamed of, the one I've
killed
for.

And then it all rushes back to me. The Poison Oaks must be destroyed.

I pull away from Kitty, but I keep a hand on her shoulder. "Where to? Where do we go from here?"

Her green eyes flash upon me. "New Justice, New Mexico. What do you say to that, brother?"

Grinning, I tousle her hair. "I call shotgun."

 

CHAPTER 27

 

Barcelona, Spain - July 27, 1909 - "The Tragic Week"

People have been rampaging through the streets for days, but only now do I worry. Only now, as the fires leap to life across the nighttime skyline.

One after another, they flare in the darkness. The fires are scattered, not spreading in a continuous wave...and yet, there is a definite pattern.

I see it all too clearly. They are burning the churches.

For the first time in my life, I experience true fear. Among churches, I am the standout, visionary and unique...unfinished, yet always controversial.

How long will it be until they come for me?

I do not even fully understand why this is happening. I've overheard snippets from people in the streets, but not enough to make sense of it all.

The violence has something to do with a labor strike, and oppression, and human suffering. A distant war. Greed and corruption. The businessmen are to blame...or the government...or the Church. The priests and nuns, the fathers and sisters.

Is that why they're burning us down? To get to the clergy? Or do they blame us for something? Do they hate us for what they imagine we've done?

Don't they understand how little they mean to us?

Flames roar and crackle above the howls of the mobs. Sparks swirl skyward, and the air is filled with ash. I am showered by the charred remains of the rooftops and timbers and crosses and pews of my brethren...though I've never thought of them as such until tonight. As my brethren.

I've always thought of myself as something wholly new and different, having more in common with the man who built me than with any other building. I've always thought of myself as possessing greater powers and a grander destiny. Entitlement. Permanence.

Tonight, I realize I'm as vulnerable as any of them. Men built me, and men can destroy me.

Another fire ignites, closer than the rest. My destiny approaches like a rider on the horizon.

And still, there is no sign of Gaudí. My creator has not come to defend me. I have not seen him since this all started, days ago.

Perhaps I can still find hope in his words, though. His prophecy. Once, he said that I will "rise above all this." He told me I will
soar
.

What better night for this prophecy to come true? What better time to attain my freedom and achieve my epic purpose?

I gather my strength and prepare for the effort. I concentrate as best I can amid the shouts and crashes and gunfire.

Everything has been leading up to this. My entire existence. I can feel it. I've always known I was meant for something grand...and what could be grander?

I focus all my energies on lifting off. Every iota of will, I aim at breaking the bonds of the Earth, leaving behind the flames and madness. Escaping with my life.

And then...as I push with all my might...I see myself climbing higher, ever higher...shedding loose bits of stone and mortar along the way...towers gleaming in the shimmering moonlight...and the mobs stop burning churches and gaze upward in wonder at the spectacle...the first of my kind...

Only none of this is real. It's wishful thinking, inspiring me to struggle...but only for so long.

A distant explosion shatters the vision. I realize I'm not gliding through the twinkling night sky, fulfilling my prophesied purpose. In fact, I haven't left the ground.

I haven't moved at all.

I keep trying, redoubling my concentration and willpower. Straining to get away from Barcelona while I still can.

In the daydreams of my idle hours, it seemed so easy, so natural. As if all I had to do was
want
to soar, and it would magically happen. How many times was I sure, after an especially vivid dream, that I
had
risen, at least a little?

But the knack seems to have left me. Fires burn closer, and I try harder than ever...but nothing changes.

I am trapped. I have always been trapped, but never knew it till now.

There is nothing I can do but sit and wait for the end. And curse my creator.

Where
is
Gaudí? Why has he left me alone when I need him the most?

Have I failed him? I certainly haven't relieved his loneliness, which I once thought was the purpose of my life.

Have I disappointed him? More than once, he has confided his fear of being left with nothing but me...as if that would be a terrible thing.

Have I abandoned him? Over the years, I've pulled away, caring less about him as I've grown and developed. As I've evolved beyond needing him.

Or is the real problem that I dared to
think
I didn't need him? That I reached the point where the strongest emotion I felt toward him was no longer
love
? That I came to think of myself as extraordinary, destined to roam the heavens...

And came to think of my maker as something small, designed to serve me.

If only he were here right now; if only he could hear me. I would beg for his forgiveness, tell him I've seen the error of my ways. I would
swear
to be humble and serve him forevermore...if only he would
save
me in this darkest hour.

But he is not here.

Instead of trying to soar, I focus my mind on calling out to him. Maybe, if I try hard enough, Gaudí will hear me after all and rush to aid me.

If he can. If even
he
can stand against the angry mob and keep them from setting fire to me.

Gaudí.
Help me, Gaudí.

He does not appear, but I think there's still a chance. If only I survive until then.

Suddenly, a pack of men runs into the street from around a corner. One of them stops to look at me.

He carries blazing torches in both hands.

This is it. The end has come.

He calls out, and some of his comrades come back to join him. All of them hold torches or bottles of gasoline.

In times past, in my vanity, I came to think of people as roving spots of warmth, not much bigger than a bird or a cat. I thought that just as I was destined to soar, they were destined to gaze at me in wonder.

I never realized until tonight that what they were destined to do was destroy me.