Day 9 (6 page)

 

CHAPTER 11

 

Dunne wouldn't go first. Not charging through the darkness on the way to face a killer. He let Quincy and Enrique take the lead, chasing the flashlight's beam down the corridor.

Even that was a stretch. If Dunne had had his way, he would've stayed back with the crowd, as far as possible from the screaming victim.

It was what he did best, even better than writing tie-in fiction. He hated himself for it, but the self-hatred was not enough to make him change.

What would change bring him now, anyway? It was too late to make a difference.

He'd already lost everything that mattered.

"No more screams." Quincy puffed when he said it. "
Now
what do we do? How far up ahead was she?"

"Around the corner," said Enrique. "The cafeteria, maybe?"

Big Quincy and Enrique barreled around the corner and down another hall. Dunne and Hannahlee followed as they crashed through a set of double doors at the end...and then they all stopped.

A blindingly bright beam of light blazed from the heart of the cafeteria, pinning Quincy and Enrique in its glare. The two of them squinted and shielded their eyes, Enrique dropping his flashlight in the process.

Blocked from the worst of the glare by Quincy's body, Dunne could see the outline of a person behind the light.

"Who's there?" said Enrique. "
Que pasa
?"

The figure bearing the light didn't answer.

Then, suddenly, he broke into a run. He ran straight toward them.

Dunne's mind raced. He wasn't about to stick around and fight...but Hannahlee was by his side, and she wasn't budging.

He had to get her out of there first.

"Go!" he told her, pushing the door open. "Hurry!"

Hannahlee stepped through into the hallway, then stopped. She turned and watched as the man with the light attacked Enrique and Quincy both at once.

To their credit, the big men fought back, lunging and swinging their huge fists. Maybe, if they hadn't been half-blinded by the light—which Dunne could now see was mounted on some kind of headband—they would have had a chance.

Or maybe not.

The attacker unleashed a quick-fire series of moves, spinning and striking with incredible speed and precision. He moved like a pinwheel, swirling between his opponents—every one of his blows landing, every one of their blows missing.

Even in the topsy-turvy light from the guy's headband, Dunne could see that he was trained and dangerous. He could tear Dunne apart in a heartbeat, whether or not Dunne tried to fight back.

So Dunne knew what time it was.

"Come on!" Grabbing Hannahlee's hand, he pulled her away from the fight. "Let's go!"

Hannahlee resisted for an instant, then went with him.

The two of them sprinted down the hallway by the light of the gyrating headlamp behind them. They swung left at the first intersection, running back toward the gymnasium soundstage and the biggest concentration of people.

The hallway was dark, so Dunne stuck to the middle and held tight to Hannahlee's hand. When they'd gone some distance, the commotion of the fight at the cafeteria ceased. Dunne heard a single set of footsteps approaching from that direction.

Then, Quincy called out, his voice hoarse. "Look out!" he said. "He's coming after you!"

Heart pounding, Dunne flew to the side of the hall, feeling along the wall for a hiding place. Quickly, his fingers found a door and latched onto the doorknob.

Yanking the door open, he pushed Hannahlee inside and closed and locked it behind him. Moments later, he heard the killer's footsteps approach and stop outside the door.

Too terrified to move in case he made a telltale sound, Dunne stood in place and clutched Hannahlee's hand. He tried to breathe as quietly as he could.

Sweat poured down his back and sides. His brain turned to ice, locked in a single stark pattern of repeating interference.

You're going to die
, it said.
You're going to die.

It was so much like before. He remembered. The burn in the belly. The tightness in the groin. The inescapable knowledge that this was the end, unless he did something.

Her face swam up at him from the darkness. From his memory.
Her
face. Not Hannahlee's.

He wished oh how he
wished
he could forget.

Her tear-filled eyes locked with his. Her mouth moved, forming silent syllables.

Help m—

Suddenly, a flare of light burst through the frosted window in the door. Dunne jerked and sucked in his breath but didn't gasp so the killer could hear. Hannahlee did not move or make a sound.

Panic rushed into Dunne's mind...but then he caught himself. Without backlight from inside the room, the killer couldn't see inside; even if there had been backlight, he could only have glimpsed shapes through the frosted glass window.

The doorknob turned—and stopped. The killer tried it a few more times, but it was locked.

So he moved on. The headlamp light bobbed away down the hallway.

And Dunne began to breathe again. He realized he was going to live.

He was going to survive. Just like before.

And someone else had died instead. He hadn't saved them. He hadn't tried.

Also just like before.

 

CHAPTER 12

 

Dunne stared down at Luanne's bloody body on the cafeteria floor. Her eyes seemed to stare right back at him. Trying to tell him something.

The lights were back on throughout the building. The killer, whoever he was, was long gone, though no one had seen him leave.

And no one had gotten a good look at him. Even those who'd been in direct contact with him couldn't say what he'd looked like.

"That damn
headlight
of his." Quincy sat on a cafeteria table, drinking a bottle of water. His face and arms were bruised, his pink Kitty Willow t-shirt torn at the neckline. "It kept blasting in my
eyes
. I couldn't see a
fing
."

Enrique was in worse shape. "Me, either." He sprawled on his back on another table, one arm and one leg hanging crooked and limp. "I was too busy with the sixteen fists and feet he kept whomping me with."

Quincy whistled. "That boy sure could dance."

Hannahlee raised her stare from dead Luanne to Dunne. She fixed her fiery green eyes on him, pinning him with their radiance, making him squirm.

And she didn't say a word. She didn't ask him why he'd run from the killer. She didn't ask him why he hadn't stayed and done everything in his power to stop and hold him. She didn't ask him how it felt to know he would be responsible for whatever murders came next.

But Dunne guessed that those questions were on her mind, nonetheless.

"I wish I'd gotten a better look at him," said Quincy. "He was
right there
. I had my
hands
on him. We
both
did."

"Hey, that's good," said Enrique. "The cops are on their way. Maybe C.S.I. can find some fibers or DNA evidence on one of us."

"No prints, though," said Quincy. "He had gloves on. I just wish I could remember
more
."

Dunne sighed and turned away from the piercing stares of Hannahlee and dead Luanne. "So what's next? Look for Gowdy's IP through Willowtopia? Where's the parent company located?"

"It's called Sensophile," said Enrique. "It's based in Asheville, North Carolina."

"Should we even be looking for Gowdy at this point?" said Quincy. "I mean, he's doing a
perfect
job of
hiding
from everyone as it is. Maybe he can take care of himself. Maybe we should focus on the surviving
Willows
cast members."

"Yeah," said Dunne, "but the studio isn't paying us to protect cast members. They're paying us to find Gowdy." The truth was, Dunne didn't like any idea that increased his chances of crossing paths with the killer again.

"I don't think they'd
want
the Willows dead," said Quincy. "Do you?"

Suddenly, Hannahlee spoke up. "We stick with our assignment. We head for Sensophile tomorrow and keep tracking Gowdy."

"Why's that, Kitty cat?" said Quincy.

"We don't know which cast member the killer will go after next," said Hannahlee. "They're scattered across the country. If there's some kind of predictable order to the killings, I can't see it. I certainly don't know what distinguishes Scott and Luanne from the rest of us."

"I can think of one thing," said Enrique. "You all were in their vicinity."

Dunne seized the idea to justify his preferred plan. "Maybe the best thing we can do is stay clear of the survivors and find Gowdy."

"You've got a point there." Quincy sighed and slumped. "We sure weren't much help to Luanne, were we?"

Hannahlee's fiery green eyes lighted on Dunne, then slid onward to Quincy. "You did everything you could."

Quincy put down the water bottle and rubbed his temples. "I just wish I could
remember
something about that guy. It was all such a
blur
."

"I know the feeling," said Enrique. "What about height and weight? Think you could make a guess?"

Quincy didn't answer.

Enrique raised his head from the table. "Quincy? You there?"

He was...and he wasn't.

Though Quincy still sat on the table, his eyes had glazed over. His lips moved, but no words came out.

The only sound coming from Quincy was the squeaking of a thick magic marker as he wrote on the table. His hands made jerky movements as he pressed black lines and curves onto the Formica, scrawling letters that made up a word.

When he got to the end of it, he lifted the marker. Seconds later, he snapped out of his trance-like state with a sudden inrush of breath. His eyes refocused, and his hand relaxed, letting go of the marker.

It rolled across the table and dropped to the floor, where it rolled some more.

"Hey, man," said Enrique. "You all right?"

Quincy shook his head hard and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, I...why do you ask?"

Dunne walked over and pointed to the word on the table. "Because of that."

As soon as Quincy saw the word, he winced. "Aw, hell. Not fagain."

Hannahlee joined them. She read the word aloud.

"
Sendodansu'dinegaan
." She stared at Quincy. "Why'd you write that?"

"Beats me," said Quincy. "I mean, I know what it means...but I don't know why I wrote it."

Dunne nodded. "It was War Willow's trademark martial art in the show. His own combination of Ninja and Apache fighting techniques."

"The 'clawed death dance,'" said Enrique.

"What did you mean," said Hannahlee, "when you said you don't know why you wrote it?"

Quincy shrugged. "How could I know if I don't remember writing it?"

"So, what?" said Dunne. "Instant amnesia?"

"Automatic writing," said Enrique. "Quite popular among
las
espiritistas
, for talking to
fantasmas
."

"So you're channeling ghosts now?" said Dunne. "Is that it?" He knew he sounded sarcastic, but he couldn't help it. Quincy's list of annoying quirks just kept growing.

"I don't know
what
I'm channeling," said Quincy. "All I know is, every once in a while, something or someone speaks
through
me. That's why I always carry a magic marker. I zone out, and when I zone back in, I've written something I don't remember writing."

"Whatever." Dunne didn't buy Quincy's story but decided to play along. "So why '
Sendodansu'dinegaan
'? What does War Willow's martial art have to do with anything?"

"I think I know," said Enrique as police sirens arrived outside. "I can't believe I didn't realize it sooner."

"Tell us," said Hannahlee.

"It's what he was fighting us with," said Enrique. "The killer was using War Willow's moves."

 

CHAPTER 13

 

Barcelona, Spain - April 1891

My father Gaudí and I celebrate. This is a very special day for us.

Gaudí sits in a pew in the heart of me, in my crypt, and toasts the occasion with a glass of water. He shares the toast with me, dribbling a little on my floor.

It is the most wonderful moment of my life so far. I feel so close to him, especially now that the crypt is done and we are about to begin our true work.

My crypt is a temple unto itself. It has seven chapels, each dedicated to a different aspect of the faith—the Saints, the Sacred Heart, the Immaculate Conception. Its spacious vault is set with gleaming marble and glittering gold. The workmanship of every square inch is impeccable.

For some, it would be a finishing point...but for us, it is just the beginning. The rest of me will grow around the crypt, swelling to fill a vastness many times its size.

And the rest of me will be much more my father's creation. Though Gaudí directed the crypt's completion, the design was not his own. He agreed to follow the design, inherited from his predecessor, until the crypt was finished—and from the day after that, he would follow only his own vision.

Today is that day.

"You have a sound heart," Gaudí tells me, patting the pew with his hand. "Tradition at the core. Now we modernize. Cultivate the new...beyond new,
forever
new. What do you say to that?"

I reach out with every atom of my being to tell him, to say that I approve, that I
rejoice
. If he hears me, he doesn't say so. He never does.

But I never stop trying.

"I see you in my dreams." He gets up and paces the floor, glass of water in hand. "You as you will someday be. Too beautiful for words." Gaudí sighs. "And in my dreams, we two are alone. There is no one else."

To me, this sounds like heaven. I cannot imagine a more perfect dream.

I love my father, and I cherish our time together. No one else makes me feel so good; no one else talks to me, explains to me, confides in me. If I had my way, I would choose to be alone with him every minute of every day.

I soon realize, however, that he might not feel the same about me.

"I worry that my dreams will become reality," says Gaudí. "That all I will have left someday...is this. Is you." He lets his fingers trail over one of my marble pillars. "That my work will consume me. Drive away all human contact."

His words sting. He talks about being left alone with me as if it would be a bad thing.

Yet I can understand his need for human contact. When Gaudí is gone for days or weeks at a time, I am crushed. The thought of being without him forever is too terrible to contemplate for long.

"Love is not for me," says Gaudí. "I accept that. The women I've loved and lost have taught me well. But to be
completely
alone, with no family or friends...could I bear it?"

He enters the chancel and runs his hands over my cool, smooth altar. If only I could reach out to him with hands of my own, hands of marble and gilt sprouting from the altar, and reassure him.

"Could you be enough for me?" Gaudí looks up, eyes searching the sculpture on the wall. "If everyone else falls away, will you be strong enough to support me? Will your love be enough to keep me warm through long, lonely days and nights?"

I try as hard as I can to shout my answer.
Yes
, I will support him!
Yes
, I will keep him warm! He is
everything
to me.

"I ask because I want to believe," says Gaudí. "I
need
to believe, if I am going to follow through with this endeavor." He closes his eyes. "If I build this, will you promise never to leave me? Will you pledge that I will never be alone?"

Gaudí shudders as I strain to send him my answer. Maybe I am getting through after all. Maybe the force of my promise shakes him, convinces him, even if the words themselves don't penetrate.

For I know now what I must do for him, what he expects of me. I must stand by him, no matter what. I must give him love and support.

And I must ensure that my father is never alone. That is why he once told me he would make me "a cathedral like no other." Because I must become great enough, unique enough, to draw people to him. They will come to see me, and he will never be alone.

So now I know my purpose. I know why I'm here. I understand why I'm meant to bring people together to worship a "God" I've never seen.

It never occurs to me that I'm not the only one Gaudí is talking to today. That just as I, a thing of stone, reach out to him, he reaches out to the stone statue of Christ above my altar.