Day 9 E-Book

Robert Jeschonek

• Herausgeber: Pie Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Somewhere in the world, a genius builds a machine to bring mankind closer to God. Somewhere in time, another genius builds a cathedral with a mind of its own. Somewhere on the road, three searchers race a serial killer to find the man with the key to salvation. It takes the sound and fury of Day 9 to bring them all together. If God took six days to make the world and rested on Day 7, humanity has spent Day 8 tearing it all apart. Everything changes on Day 9, when we get it right at any cost…or lose everything. On Day 9, a God’s-eye view of the world collides with the visions of a living, breathing cathedral in a war between the delusions of yesterday and the dreams of tomorrow. A war between beauty and mediocrity…love and hate…madness and sanity…life and death. If the unlikely heroes in the heart of the storm can’t face down their own demons, the deepest secrets of maniacs and murderers could bring the hope of the future crashing down forever. Don't miss this edgy, exciting, surprising, and thought-provoking thriller in the tradition of Tim Burton, the Coen Brothers, Thomas Pynchon, and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. It’s the latest novel from award-winning storyteller Robert Jeschonek, a master of unique and unexpected fiction that packs a punch.

Leseprobe

DAY 9

A NOVEL

ROBERT JESCHONEK

CONTENTS

Also by Robert Jeschonek

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Epilogue

About the Author

Special Preview: The Masked Family

DAY 9

Copyright © 2023 by Robert Jeschonek

http://bobscribe.com/

Cover Art Copyright © 2023 by Glendon Haddix

www.streetlightgraphics.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Blastoff Books

An imprint of Pie Press Publishing

411 Chancellor Street

Johnstown, Pennsylvania 15904

www.piepresspublishing.com

ALSO BY ROBERT JESCHONEK

A Pinstriped Finger’s My Only Friend

Bloodliner

Dolphin Knight

Heaven Bent

Six Fantasy Stories Volume One

Six Superhero Stories Volume One

The Return of Alice

CHAPTERONE

NEAR LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA - TODAY

Three...two...one.

The church exploded in a tremendous blast of fire and smoke. Rubble rocketed in all directions as an ear-splitting boom cascaded across the valley. Flaming debris crashed down on car hoods and bounded over the pavement. A church bell hurtled into the cab of a garbage truck, smashing through the windshield with a loud, discordant bong.

An enormous, blazing crucifix plunged on the roof of a car speeding away from the blast, sending it spinning in circles. Tires squealed as the car swept around and around, finally slamming into the pump in front of a gas station, which then exploded.

A plume of fire shot skyward from the pump, blowing the car end-over-end across the street. The gas station windows shattered inward, and every car on the block bounced from the force of the blast. Power lines snapped and whipped like cobras, spraying showers of sparks through the air.

Then, suddenly, someone yelled, "Cut!" And the whole movie crew erupted in wild applause at once. Everyone behind the cameras clapped and hooted and whistled at the spectacular display of carnage.

Dunne Sullivan clapped, too, though he felt as dazed as he was excited. The mayhem had left him in a state of shock; he wasn't part of the crew and wasn't used to spending time around high intensity action scenes during filming.

It was true Dunne made his living off movies and TV shows, but he did so by writing tie-in novels based on them. Till today, the closest he'd been to a movie set or location shoot was the TV screen in his apartment.

But according to Thad Glissando, producer extraordinaire for Halcyon Studios, he'd be spending a lot more time there from now on. "Hey now, hero!" Thad clapped Dunne on the back, jolting him forward. "Think we got enough bang for our buck here?"

Dunne nodded and grinned. "I want toys like that for my movie."

Thad laughed. "Don't worry!" He ran a tanned hand over his slicked-back blonde hair. "Weeping Willows The Movie will have twice the budget of this picture."

Dunne got a shiver of excitement just hearing the title. He was going from lowly tie-in writer to Hollywood screenwriter just like that. All thanks to a bestselling novel he'd written about the cult classic 70s cop show Weeping Willows, a kickass hit breaking big just as Thad was gearing up for a Willows movie.

So Dunne was about to write a major motion picture. Meeting on location with Thad would seal the deal, and then Dunne, at age 25, would finally get his shit together.

At least as much as he could ever get his shit together after what he'd done to his family.

"Ready to start writing?" Deep crescent dimples set off Thad's mile-wide smile like parentheses. "Does this get the creative juices flowing?" He spread his arms wide to take in the smoky set, hissing with the spray of fire hoses putting out flaming debris from the shoot. The afternoon sun flared on the sleeves of his tailored white suit, giving him a radiant, angelic glow.

"Are you kidding?" said Dunne. "When do you want the first pages?"

Thad threw an arm around Dunne's shoulders and gave him a squeeze. "Actually, you need to do some preproduction first." Thad nodded and raised his blonde eyebrows. "Some research."

"Research?" Dunne frowned. "What kind of research?"

"On location." Thad turned Dunne from the set and pulled him along as he started walking. "Expenses paid, of course. And you'll have a partner."

"Partner?" Dunne kept frowning. Thad was guiding him in the direction of a white limousine parked alongside a trailer twenty yards away. "A writing partner?"

"More like a hunting partner," said Thad. "And inspiration."

Suddenly, Thad jammed two fingers in his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle in the direction of the limo. "Time for your close-up, Hannahlee!"

The back door of the limo swung open, propelled by a slender arm. A woman's arm in a long, black sleeve.

As Dunne watched, the woman's arm withdrew. After a moment's pause, her foot slid out, wearing an ivory pump. It was followed by a shapely leg in pale white hose. A black skirt with white piped trim rippled just below the knee.

Thad elbowed Dunne in the ribs. "Take a deep breath, kid. This is what they call a life-changing experience."

Thad's warning did no good. Dunne still wasn't ready for what he saw. For whom he saw.

When the first foot touched the pavement, the second one swung out beside it. Dunne saw more of the dress: gathered waist, wide white belt, white buttons. Understated, businesslike, crisp. As the woman braced herself against the seat, he saw white piping running from cuff to shoulder along her sleeve.

Squinting into the shadows of the limo, Dunne strained to glimpse her face. For a moment, all he could make out was a faint, gauzy shape, like a veil concealing her features. Like a ghost.

Then, suddenly, she emerged. She pushed up from the seat and stood straight, revealed all at once before him in bright daylight.

Which was exactly when Dunne gasped.

He could not believe his eyes. Not even a little. She couldn't be.

Thad laughed beside him. "I was wrong, wasn't I?" He shook Dunne's shoulders. "Life-changing experience is putting it mildly."

Dunne nodded and stared.

She was striking. The woman at the limo was in her late fifties or early sixties, at least. She was dressed conservatively, and the red color in her shoulder-length hair must have been dye.

But she was still striking. And not just because of who she was. Not just because she'd been the biggest star of the Weeping Willows TV show. Not just because Dunne had worshipped her from afar and written book after book starring her character.

She was most striking because of the way she carried herself. The way she stood there, tall and regal in the late afternoon southern California sun. Thirty years past her Weeping Willows glory days, twenty years since she'd dropped out of the public eye...and still somehow resplendent, impressive, luminous. Still the star of all she surveyed.

Dunne stumbled as Thad walked him to the limo. His heart pounded, and nervous chills flashed through his body. His mouth went dry, and his palms turned wet.

There she was. Right in front of him. The actress who'd played Kitty Willow. Kitty Willow.

"Dunne Sullivan," said Thad. "Meet Hannahlee Saylor."

Dunne frowned as Thad pushed him toward her. He recognized the woman, but not the name. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Saylor." He extended his hand. "Or should I say Ms. Caprice?"

The woman smiled and shook Dunne's hand. "Lianna Caprice was a long time ago." Her voice was so familiar, deep and velvety, yet cracking with age on the lowest notes. "I go by Hannahlee Saylor now."

Dunne shivered as he held her slender hand. Until now, she had never been quite real to him. An image on a TV screen, she might as well have been a goddess, transfigured in distant cloud tops and rainbows.

Dunne held on to her hand for an extra moment, aware of nothing but her face, her presence, her touch. Her blazing green eyes, locked with his.

Finally, Thad broke the spell. "You two will be spending a lot of time together. We need you to find the ultimate Weeping Willows authority."

Dunne let go of Hannahlee's hand. He suddenly felt self-conscious and broke eye contact with her, too. "Who's that?"

"Cyrus Gowdy," said Thad. "Maybe you've heard of him."

Of course he had. "The creator of Weeping Willows."

"Bingo," said Thad.

Dunne combed his fingers through his thin, sandy hair. "But no one knows where he is, right?"

Thad shrugged. "You see our problem."

"He's been off the grid for what? Five years?" said Dunne. "Is he even alive?"

"He's out there somewhere." Hannahlee said it definitively.

"There are more rumors than you can shake a stick at," said Thad. "But we think there's some truth to them. We think he's hiding somewhere in the Weeping Willows fan underground."

Dunne scowled. "There's a fan underground?"

"Is there ever!" Thad rolled his eyes. "Which is why we need you two. Kitty Willow herself and the writer whose books have kept Weeping Willows alive all these years. You'll have instant entrée with the fan community."

Dunne rubbed his chin. "And you want us to find Gowdy why, exactly?" He had a thought, and his hopes and dreams took a sudden nosedive. "Do you want him to write the screenplay?"

"No, no." Thad chuckled and thumped Dunne on the back. "But he is the only one who can save the movie. We need him to sign a release."

"What kind of release?" said Dunne.

"In Gowdy's original contract, he signed over everything to Halcyon Studios...almost," said Thad. "But he still has right of refusal on future Willows projects."

"Like movies," said Hannahlee.

"See where we're going with this?" said Thad. "No signed release from Gowdy..."

"...no Weeping Willows The Movie. Got it." Dunne nodded and clapped his hands together. "So when do we start?"

"Show him the flyer," said Thad.

Hannahlee slid a folded sheet of pale blue paper out of her pocket and handed it to Dunne. It was an ad for the "25th Annual Willowcon" in L.A.

"The world's biggest convention for Weeping Willows fans," said Thad. "Might be a logical place to start, eh?"

"This is tomorrow," said Dunne.

"Then that's when you start." Suddenly, Thad shot his hand in the air. "So can I get a 'Hey now, hero?'"

It was the most famous catch phrase from Weeping Willows. Dunne knew it well, but he hesitated. Meeting the piercing green gaze of Hannahlee, he felt exposed. As if she could see through to what he really was. As if she knew he was as far from being a hero as anyone could get.

Because the truth was, Dunne's wife and baby daughter had died because of him. Because when a murderous gunman had broken into their home, Dunne had been too scared to fight back. He'd been too much of a coward to fight for his family's lives.

The truth was, Dunne was the opposite of a hero. But he said it anyway, to placate Thad. To move forward with this chance to turn his life around.

This chance for him to change.

"Hey there, hero." Dunne said it half-heartedly.

"What're we fightin' for?" said Thad.

"Love and justice," said Dunne.

"You're darn tootin'." Hannahlee frowned at Dunne as she said it.

CHAPTERTWO

BARCELONA, SPAIN - NOVEMBER 1883

I am at a crossroads when he enters my life.

A year and a half ago, a bishop laid my first stone. In the time since then, I have grown; workers have dug and lined my foundations, sprawling over this space in the heart of the city.

It is a fitting spot, as I am meant to become that heart...beating with the rhythm of the faithful, given over to love of God and His creation. Everything about me is intended to express that love for as long as I shall stand.

Yet I do not love God. I know nothing about Him, and I know nothing at all of love.

At least until today.

Today, I see the newcomer for the first time. My patron, Señor Bocabella, walks him around the cavity of my foundation, describing his vision of me with grand sweeps of his hands.

The newcomer weaves a vision with his hands, too, but the pictures he draws in the air are much different than Bocabella's.

I overhear Bocabella call him Gaudí.

"To craft a fitting tribute to Our Lord, we must use His language." Gaudí sweeps his arm overhead, taking in the bright blue sky and shimmering sun. "The language of Nature."

Stern Bocabella grunts and nods. "You are a true believer, Señor Gaudí, and your ideas are inspired...but I am not sure that is enough."

Gaudí drops his arm and shrugs. "What else do you want from me? Spinelessness? Blind obedience? Perhaps your last architect would have lasted longer if he had had more of these."

"Let me tell you what I think of Señor Villar: he is nothing like you."

"I'll give you that." Gaudí rubs his bearded chin. "I am even more stubborn and less cooperative than he...at least when I am right."

"Which is always." Bocabella says it with a sly half-smile.

Gaudí chuckles. "Perhaps we do understand each other."

As they walk onward, I wonder if Gaudí will get the job. I wonder if he will build me. I wonder if I want him to.

This is the crossroads I face: I need someone new to bring me to life. Someone who will not hold me back. Someone who will give voice to the greatness that gestates within me.

Is he the one? I wish I could tell—but for now, his true potential lies as hidden as my own.

"What if I told you I had a dream?" says Bocabella. "A dream that I should hire you?"

"I would say that the only dreams I live by are my own." Gaudí smiles and parts from Bocabella, strolling to a section of the knee-high stone wall rising from my foundation. He crouches, black frock coat brushing the ground, and runs his hand along the row of granite blocks.

I gaze up at him as he touches me. His bright eyes blaze in the sunlight like twin blue flames, piercing the dusty afternoon air with unusual force.

He startles me with the strength of his stare. For the first time, I feel as if someone is looking directly at me—not at my foundation, but my true self, my spirit.

Mesmerized, I watch his every movement and expression. I cannot look away.

And then he does something no one else has ever done to me. Something extraordinary.

He tells me a secret. He whispers it so that I alone can hear.

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

That is what he says. "Us," as if somehow he intends to build himself, too.

His hand is warm on my granite. He smiles, and something quickens inside me. I know that I will never be the same.

"Well, Señor?" Bocabella's sharp voice breaks the moment. "Will you humor me? Or shall I summon the next candidate? Have you turned your back on the Holy Family of Our Lord?"

Gaudí pats my wall...and winks at me. I realize, as he pushes himself to his feet, that I do not want him to go.

Turning, he brushes the dust from his hands. "Congratulations," he says. "You're hired."

"I'm hired?" Bocabella laughs. "And what will you pay me, jefe?"

"Grief and insubordination," says Gaudí. "Struggle and strife and pain. Endless controversy. And genius. All the ingredients we need to exceed our limits.

"And if we are lucky, I will pay you one thing more," says Gaudí. "A prayer for all Barcelona...all Catalonia...all mankind. A prayer so huge and lasting and wild that God Himself will not wish to look away from it."

"Your ambitions match my own," says Bocabella. "Very well. I will go to work for you."

"And I will build your cathedral," says Gaudí. "I will build your Sagrada Família."

My spirit soars as he says my name for the first time. My mind rushes with excitement at the thought of us two working together in days to come...of him lavishing his attentions upon me. Teaching me to fulfill our mutual dreams.

I cannot imagine what he will make of me, but somehow, I know it will be grand. Somehow, though we have only just met, I trust him without reservation.

Somehow, I know that this was meant to be.

CHAPTERTHREE

WILLOWCON 25 - LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA - TODAY

The audience at the panel discussion was huge—hundreds of Weeping Willows fans packed into a hotel ballroom. Everyone watched as five speakers at a table at the front of the room argued about which Willows characters had had sex on the show.

It could only have happened at a Weeping Willows convention.

"Foster kid orgies!" said a chubby, middle-aged woman in a wild sarong at the end of the table. "Is that all you people can talk about?"

The big room erupted with a storm of babble and laughter. The four other panelists at the table fought to talk over each other. All three hundred or so audience members raised a commotion at once.

Except two. In the very last row of chairs at the back of the ballroom, Dunne and Hannahlee sat silently.

If the rest of the crowd had realized Hannahlee was among them, they would have gone even more berserk. They would have swarmed her, clutched her, carried her off like cartoon ants carrying off a picnic sandwich. But Hannahlee had changed so much, no one recognized her as Kitty Willow.

"Oh come on!" The woman who had started it all drowned out everyone else. Her sarong was blindingly bright yellow and pink. "Who doesn't think Leif was banging Kitty?"

"Now that," said a sequined man in a wheelchair at the far end of the panel, "is what I call getting some pussy."

The crowd roared with groans and laughter...but the reaction in the back row was different. Hannahlee turned to Dunne and caught his eye. Though her expression was unreadable, it wasn't a smile of any kind.

Suddenly, a fresh ruckus drew Dunne's attention back to the panelists. Sequin Man and Sarong Woman were having it out with a guy in the front row of the audience.

"I say the Willows are even better role models as brother-sister lovers," said Sarong Woman. "Their shared intimacies create a very functional family."

"Are you nuts?" said the guy in the front row. "There was no incest in Weeping Willows. It was a family show!"

"You're right." Sequin Man stroked his long, purple wig. "It ain't incest if the brothers and sisters aren't blood relations!"

That was when Dunne decided he'd had enough. Turning to Hannahlee, he realized that she was way ahead of him.

Because she was already gone.

* * *

When Dunne walked out of the ballroom, Hannahlee was waiting for him. She sat on a padded bench against the wall of the corridor, eyes trained on the ballroom doorway.

As he approached, she got up and straightened her beige pantsuit. "There wasn't any incest on the show. We played foster kids fighting crime in the town of Justice, Arizona. No orgies."

"I know," said Dunne. "People just like to stir up controversy."

"There sure are a lot of them." Hannahlee gazed into the crowded corridor, which was bustling with noise and activity. "All this for seventeen little shows."

Dunne started to correct her, to point out that the cast and crew had shot twenty-one episodes of Willows, with seventeen aired on network TV, three more released years later on video, and one mysteriously "lost." He decided not to open his mouth, though, because after all, Hannahlee had been there for the filming. If she wanted to say "seventeen," she could say "seventeen."

Better for him to focus on other numbers. "Willowcon draws thousands of people," he said, starting down the corridor. "There are other conventions, but none even comes close to this one."

Hannahlee walked alongside him. "When did it become more than just a cult thing?"

Dunne wondered why she was so out of touch with the arc of her own show's popularity. "The conventions started in the early 80s," he said. "But Willows fandom didn't really take off till the mid-90s, when the unaired episodes were released on video."

"We were cancelled so fast," said Hannahlee. "We never thought it would get this big."

Just then, a girl in braids and buckskin hurried past, and Hannahlee gaped at her. "Was that supposed to be me?"

"From the episode 'War's Path,' yeah." Dunne saw the girl zip through open double doors into a darkened room at the end of the corridor. "Come on."

A sign on an easel outside the double doors read "Masquerade." The auditorium beyond was enormous, packed with thousands of people, all watching a stage at the far end of the room.

The distant stage was full of colorful figures dancing under bright lights. The song "We Are Family" by Sister Sledge blasted over the auditorium's P.A. system.

As Dunne watched, the buckskinned Kitty Willow lookalike ran down the center aisle and leaped onto the stage. As she flung her arms in the air, the song changed to "What's New, Pussycat?" and the audience went crazy.

Hannahlee leaned over to speak in Dunne's ear. "They're supposed to be us? The Willows?"

Dunne nodded. "It's a costume contest. They dress up and act out skits to music."

"I see." Hannahlee's voice was flat.

Suddenly, the music changed again, this time to "War" by Edwin Starr. Someone dressed like Warren "War" Willow—in his trademark Army fatigues and Day-Glo yellow smiley face t-shirt—jumped to the front of the group and launched into a wild break-dance.

Dunne looked at Hannahlee. She watched the stage with no obvious reaction. Whatever was going through her mind, she wasn't letting him in on it.

Just then, without a word, she headed for the exit. Dunne got stuck in the crowd and fell behind. When he finally caught up outside the auditorium, Hannahlee was talking to someone.

The man was in his sixties, with a dark tan and gleaming white teeth. He wore a pale blue madras shirt, white chinos, and huarache sandals. He patted his shaggy mop of silver hair with one hand. His other hand rested lightly on Hannahlee's shoulder.

As Dunne drew up to the two of them, Hannahlee turned. "Dunne," she said. "I'd like you to meet an old friend."

"Still robbing the cradle, eh, Lianna?" The silver-haired man lunged forward and pumped Dunne's hand fiercely. "I should've known you hadn't lost your touch!"

Dunne was speechless. Hannahlee's "old friend" was someone he recognized...someone he'd watched countless times in reruns of Weeping Willows.

Hannahlee smiled. "Dunne is my coworker," she said. "Not my love interest."

"Not yet anyway." The man released Dunne's hand like he was snapping a football. "So what brings you to Willowcon, Dunne? You have a Willows connection?"

"He writes books," said Hannahlee. "He wrote Falling Leif."

"No kidding!" The man gave Dunne's shoulder a squeeze.

"Dunne, this is Scott Savage," said Hannahlee. "He played Leif Willow on the show."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Savage." Dunne couldn't help sounding excited. "I'm a big fan of your work."

"Wish I could say the same, son," said Scott, "but the truth is, I thought Falling Leif was a poor excuse for toilet paper."

CHAPTERFOUR

WARPATH JOURNAL: DATELINE: "WILLOWCON 25," LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

My name is Warren Willow. My brothers and sisters call me "War" for short.

Also because I think peace is groovy, but I believe we must sometimes fight to protect it.

Case in point. Our nation's freedom is in danger from people who look just like my family. Masters of disguise walk among us, agents of a secret far-right organization. They have imprisoned all my brothers and sisters, assumed their identities, and fanned out to execute a brutal master plan.

They call themselves the Poison Oaks. Like the Willows, they are all adopted children, raised and trained by charismatic parents for a mission. Unlike the Willows, they are pure evil.

They are our mirror images.

And I must stop them at any cost. I cannot allow them to commit acts of terror that will break the will of this great country. I cannot allow them to destroy what the Founding Fathers worked so hard to create.

And yes, I realize what I will have to do. I know that they will fight to the death. I know that I cannot show them one iota of mercy.

I know that I will have to battle these people—who look just like my brothers and sisters—and kill them in cold blood.

It will be my most important, and most difficult, mission yet. The thought of it shakes my courage...but not my faith. My adoptive father, Lawson Willow—"Law" Willow to us kids—taught me better than that.

I know I will succeed.

It's like the time I wasn't sure I could take down Ballantyne Foster single-handedly. From his cage over Ballantyne's shark tank, Father Law shouted the words that gave me the strength to defeat my enemy. Those same words have carried me through many battles since, and they come back to me now as I spot my first Poison Oak target.

"Everything you need to win is in your heart."

The target is one of the two imposters standing outside the auditorium. Though my instinct is to charge right in, I keep my distance for now, sizing up these wicked doppelgängers.

I can hardly believe how much they look like my brother Leif and sister Kitty. Seeing them there, such perfect copies, makes me miss my own flesh and blood.

It also makes me wonder if the real Leif and Kitty are still alive. We've heard nothing from them or the other abducted Willows for weeks, not since genius brother Buzz beamed out the Oaks' secret plans on his hidden transmitter.

Maybe I can get some information out of my target...as long as I remember my primary mission must come first.

Save America at any cost.

As I watch "Leif" and "Kitty," they are joined by someone I haven't seen before. A handler, maybe? His pale skin, light brown hair and goatee remind me of Scandinavian Steve.

Whoever he is, he has made the mistake of his life joining up with the Oaks. He'll regret it.

So will all of them, for this no ordinary case. It's a blood feud, with the very existence of my beloved nation and family at stake.

I call it my warpath.

And it can only end one way. No matter how perfect the imposters, no matter how deadly their weapons and skills, no matter how unbeatable their nefarious plans, I will stop them. I will win.

I know this because I see it in my heart, as Father Law taught me. I will win and receive my just reward.

Am I talking about Heaven? Only if Heaven means finishing my warpath...saving America and the Willows in a storm of peace-loving bloodshed.

Or avenging their loss, if I must.

But first things first. And by first, I mean taking out my target.

CHAPTERFIVE

“Maybe Cyrus Gowdy is dead," said Scott Savage, a.k.a. Leif Willow. "Did you ever think of that?"

Dunne shrugged. The truth was, he was having a hard time thinking about anything other than Savage calling one of his novels "a poor excuse for toilet paper."

It was one thing hearing negative comments from a Joe Schmo reader or getting a bad review from some hack critic. Being body-slammed by a childhood idol like Savage was something far more profoundly disturbing.

"Halcyon Studios thinks Gowdy's alive," said Hannahlee. "Somewhere in the fan underground."

"Might as well be the Weather Underground," said Savage. "I haven't seen or heard from the old bastard in decades."

"So you don't have any idea where he might be?" said Dunne. "Any place he might have mentioned years ago?"

Savage ignored Dunne's questions and took Hannahlee's hand. "I haven't seen you in almost as long," he said. "How wonderful that you should walk back into my life like this today."

Hannahlee winced. "Feeling's mutual." She said it through clenched teeth.

"Let's meet later for a drink." Savage kissed her hand and released it like a dove. "Just the two of us."

"You're here as a guest?" said Hannahlee.

Savage nodded proudly. "I'll be performing my one-man show onstage tomorrow."

Hannahlee reached into her purse and pulled out a white business card, which she handed to Savage. "Please call me if you hear anything about Gowdy, Scott."

"Likewise." Savage produced a card from his vest pocket and handed it over with a flourish. "Let me know how your search turns out."

"Thanks for your interest." Dunne's voice was tinged with sarcasm.

Savage caught his gaze and held it. "Leif Willow would never take drugs. Falling Leif was a disgrace to the character."

"He was undercover," said Dunne. "Tracking his girlfriend's murderer."

Savage's glare intensified. "Leif is a role model. I wonder how many kids who read your book ended up thinking 'it's okay to take drugs if Leif does it.'"

"Are you serious?" Dunne couldn't believe he was arguing with the actor who'd played Leif about how he'd portrayed Leif in a novel.

"Did you know I pitched them my own Leif book? A whole series of them for kids." Savage folded his arms and sneered. "Instead, the publisher puts out trash like Falling Leif."

Dunne could see he'd never win, so he kept his mouth shut. He only regretted that his image of Scott Savage—and by extension, Leif Willow—had been forever tainted.

"Poison." Savage jabbed a finger at Dunne. "That's what you spread." He turned his gaze on Hannahlee. "Isn't that right, Lianna?"

Hannahlee's expression was unreadable. "Are you sure you can't think of a lead for us, Scott? Maybe someone who can point us in the right direction?"

Savage narrowed his eyes. "Now that you mention it."

"A lead?" said Hannahlee.

"Weeping Willows' biggest fan," said Savage. "He's here. If anyone can guide you through the fan underground, it's him."

"What's his name?" said Hannahlee.

"Windsor." Savage pointed down the corridor. "He was scheduled to appear in the Bradford Room at three. Maybe you can still catch him."

* * *

Everyone was on their feet. When Dunne and Hannahlee walked into the crowded room, everyone was up, clapping along with the song.

Dunne barely caught a glimpse of the singer between the swaying bodies of the crowd. All he really got was an impression of someone big in a puffy white shirt, playing an old-fashioned stringed instrument.

The voice, though, was enormous and distinct. It boomed through the room like thunder, operatically deep and resonant as cannon fire. The clarity was perfect; every word was exquisitely shaped, from the multiply trilled "R"s to the sibilant "S"s. The singer further decked the lyrics with swings of mood and nuance, infusing them with wild, reckless life.

As he sang a dirty song about Kitty Willow.

To the tune of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia."

"Kitty went down on Holly," he sang, "and the sisters began to squeal. Bella and Kenya joined the party, jumping right in to cop a feel."

As soon as Dunne realized what the song was about, he shot a glance at Hannahlee, wondering if he ought to spin her right around and out the door. Her face revealed no reaction.

When the singer strummed a final chord and held his instrument high, the audience erupted with cheers and applause.

"I love this guy," said a pudgy young man next to Dunne. "He is the god of filk."

"Filk?" said Dunne.

"The one and only slashfic filker!" As the young man headed for the stage, Dunne saw the singer's face on the back of his black t-shirt. Below the face, in Gothic letters, was a name.

Sweet Quincy Windsor.

CHAPTERSIX

“Would you come to my chambers and make love to me?" Sweet Quincy Windsor clasped Hannahlee's hand in both his own and gazed beseechingly into her eyes.

They were the first words he'd said to her. Dunne hadn't even had the chance to introduce them. He and Hannahlee had simply walked up to Quincy after the crowd had cleared...and Quincy had pushed right past Dunne to make a grab for Hannahlee's hand.

"Please, sweet lady, sweet goddess." Quincy's speaking voice was thin and nasally, utterly unlike his deep, rich singing voice. "Fulfill the lifelong dreams of this humble servant."

Hannahlee pulled her hand away. "No."

"Que sera!" Quincy jammed his thumbs in the pockets of the leather vest he wore over his puffy white shirt—black leather etched with red and gold flames. "I couldn't live with myself if I didn't at least ask Kitty Willow for a date when I had the chance!"

"No date," said Hannahlee. "You can, however, help with my mission." She pointed at Dunne. "My aide, Dunne Sullivan, will explain."

"Yes, of course." Quincy turned and clamped his big hands on Dunne's shoulders. "I already know the help you need."

Dunne frowned. "What's that?"

Quincy was at least six and a half feet tall. He had to bend down to whisper in Dunne's ear. "Writing help."

"You think so?" Dunne said it with sarcasm.

Quincy leaned back. "You need a partner on your next Willows book."

"And you can be that partner?" said Dunne.

"There is no bigger fan." Quincy drew himself up to his full height and puffed up his broad chest. "In more ways than one!"

Dunne nodded. "Then maybe you can tell me what a...'slashfic filker' is."

Quincy chuckled. "It's what I do." He swung up his stringed instrument and strummed a chord. "'Filk' singing is like folk singing, but it's about things fans can appreciate. Weeping Willows fans like songs about their favorite Willows characters...songs that tell stories." Quincy sang the rest, returning to his operatic bass. "And sometimes the stories are filthy."

Quincy leered as he strummed another chord. "One type of filthy story is slash fiction—slashfic—in which unexpected combinations of characters get it on. Like Kitty slash Leif. Get it?" Quincy strummed a series of fast chords flamenco-style, ending by smacking the instrument's body with the palm of his hand. "And I am the first and best of the slashfic filkers."

"Wow." Dunne shook his head, but not because he was impressed. He'd really missed out a lot since his last convention over a decade ago. "So what can you tell us about the WeepingWillows fan underground?"

Quincy's eyes sprang wide open. "I can tell you everything...but it would mean the death of us both."

Dunne sighed. "What if we wanted to find someone in the underground?"

Quincy pulled his waist-length black ponytail forward and held it in front of his nose and mouth like a mask. "Funny you should ask! Someone in the underground recently inquired about finding you. Red-skinned fella, pointy horns, cloven hooves."

Suddenly, Hannahlee spoke up. "If you can truly help us," she said, "you'll be paid."

"Wha-?" Instantly, Quincy straightened and dropped his ponytail. "In Earth money?"

"I'm authorized to offer payment," said Hannahlee, "courtesy of Halcyon Studios."

For the first time since they'd met, Quincy was speechless.

So was Dunne. Other than travel expenses, he hadn't known there was money in play till she'd mentioned it.

"However," said Hannahlee. "It all depends."

"On what?" said Quincy. "My star sign? My blood type?"

"On my bullshit detector." Hannahlee raised an index finger and flicked it from side to side like the needle of a gauge. "As soon as it detects you're full of shit, you get nothing."

"Understanding, of course," said Quincy, "that I am always somewhat, if not totally, full of shit."

"The bullshit detector never fails," said Hannahlee.

Quincy cleared his throat. "You say you're looking for someone?"

"We've been told he's in the fan underground," said Dunne. "He doesn't want to be found."

"Who's 'he?'" said Quincy.

"Cyrus Gowdy," said Hannahlee. "Creator of Weeping Willows."

Quincy's face lit up with wild excitement. He let loose a girlish shriek so loud and piercing that it hurt Dunne's ears.

And at first overpowered another, horrified cry that was coming from the hall outside the Bradford Room.

* * *

"Scott Savage is dead!" said the heavyset girl in the Leif Willow t-shirt. Tears poured from her eyes, dragging mascara down her face. "He's dead."

Quincy, who'd charged into the hall after the scream, clutched the girl's shoulders. "Are you sure? Where did it happen?"

"In the men's room." The girl pointed toward the men's bathroom down the hall, where a crowd had gathered. "Leon just found him!"

Arriving paramedics caught Dunne's eye as they hurried down a flight of stairs. By the time Dunne looked for Hannahlee again, she was gone.

Guessing she'd headed for the crime scene, Dunne rushed past Quincy into the crowd. People cried out as he pushed his way through...and then, someone stopped him. A hairless giant who was bigger than Quincy—big as a barn—squared his shoulders and wouldn't let Dunne pass him. Whichever way Dunne moved, the giant moved, too.

Finally, Dunne stopped moving. "I'm with Halcyon Studios," he said. "I have to get in there."

"Me, too." The giant sneered over his shoulder.

Dunne swallowed hard. He wished he could move Obstacle Guy out of his way with physical force...but some things never changed, as much as he would've liked them to.

He still didn't have any guts.

Dunne scooted away from the giant through the crowd, then angled toward the middle when the giant could no longer reach him.

The people in the front row were highly annoyed when Dunne tried to squeeze between them, but they gave way. Dunne found himself looking down at the backs of paramedics huddled over a bloody body on the gray carpeted floor.

Dunne recognized the clothes on the body before he got a look at the face: pale blue madras shirt, white chinos, huarache sandals.

When the paramedics stopped working and leaned back, shaking their heads, he saw that the screaming girl had been right. It was Scott Savage.

Leif Willow was dead.

And that wasn't all. Savage's throat was torn open from one side to the other, leaving a gaping, gruesome gash. It didn't look to Dunne like the kind of wound you could get by accident in the bathroom.

Who did this?" Dunne looked up at the sound of Hannahlee's voice. She was standing on the other side of the crowd. "Who killed him?"

"Who knows?" One of the paramedics hiked a thumb toward the men's room. "But they did leave a note."

Without another word, Hannahlee shot into the men's room. Dunne charged after her, ignoring the voices in the crowd that shouted at him not to contaminate the crime scene.

Inside, Dunne saw Hannahlee standing at the sinks, staring up at the mirror. As he joined her, he saw that someone had scrawled a message in blood on the glass.

ALL THE "WILLOWS" & THEIR FATHER WILL DIE BEFORE 30.

* * *

"Two weeks," said Quincy. "That's all we've got."

"Huh?" Dunne couldn't stop shaking. He and Hannahlee had spent the last hour in the Bradford Room, being questioned by an in-your-face police detective. Apparently, just snooping around the crime scene had been enough to land them on the suspect list. "Why two weeks?"

"Two weeks from today," said Quincy, "marks the anniversary of the debut of Weeping Willows on TV. The thirtieth anniversary."

"Congratulations." Hannahlee hunched over in her chair. "You know more about the show than I do."

"Egad!" Quincy gasped and clutched his feathered cap against his chest. "I shall carry those precious words with me to the grave, Madame."

Dunne took a deep breath and slowly released it. The shaking did not let up. "So the Willows are all in danger."

"Within the next two weeks," said Quincy.

"I'm a Willow," said Hannahlee. "Why didn't the killer get two birds with one stone?"

Dunne thought he could take a good guess. "You've kept a low profile for a long time. Maybe he didn't recognize you."

"Also, Scott was scheduled to be here," said Quincy. "Or maybe the killer's just saving you."

"Saving me?" said Hannahlee.

"For later." Quincy shrugged, then reached back to retie his long ponytail. "Maybe he has to stick to an order. Oldest to youngest or something."

Dunne got up from his chair and paced, hoping it would lessen the shaking. "What about the quotes?"

"What quotes?" said Quincy.

"Around 'Willows,'" said Dunne. "'All the "Willows" & their father.'"

"Because we're actors, maybe?" said Hannahlee. "We're not really the Willows?"

"Maybe." Dunne continued to pace the room. He wasn't sure what had him more rattled: being interrogated or getting up close and personal with a murdered corpse for the first time in his life. "So what about the 'father?' Isn't Stewart Bank dead?"

"Yeah." Quincy arched an eyebrow and cocked his head. "But maybe we're not looking for the guy who played the Willows' father on TV. The Willows have another father, right? Initials C.G.?"

"Of course." Dunne still thought Quincy was nuts, but he had to admit Quincy was right this time. "The man who created the series could be considered their father."

"Great." Hannahlee sighed and shook her head. "Not only am I marked for death, but so is the man we've been hired to find."

"So, wait," said Quincy. "Why exactly are you looking for Cyrus Gowdy?"

"If we don't get him to sign a release," said Dunne, "there won't be a movie version of Weeping Willows."

Quincy's eyes bugged out, and his mouth fell open. "Howza whoza what now? Who said anything about a big screen Willows movie?"

"Halcyon Studios," said Dunne. "But apparently, Gowdy doesn't want to be found. So I wouldn't get my hopes up, if I were you."

"Holy shit shit shit." Quincy clapped his hands. "So saving Gowdy from the killer really is important. This'll get you some major traction with the fans."

Dunne stared at him. "You mean saving Gowdy's life wouldn't be enough by itself?"

"All I'm saying is, the fans can really get behind something like this." Quincy nodded. "You got lucky. Fans can sometimes be a little protective, if you catch my drift."

"Your job," said Hannahlee.

"Ex-squeeze me?" Quincy cupped a hand around his right ear. "I baking powder?"

"Fan liaison," said Hannahlee. "That can be your job. Get the fans to be a little less protective."

"Say what?" Quincy's thick fingers kneaded his feathered red cap as if he were wringing water from a sponge. "You mean you want me to go with you?"

"Yes," said Hannahlee.

"You want me to go on an adventure with you?" said Quincy. "KittyWillowneedsme?"

Hannahlee raised an index finger. "Remember the bullshit detector."

Quincy nodded and beamed like a child promising Santa to be good. "No bullshit," he said, scrunching his eyes shut and turning his face to the ceiling. "Unless that's how you refer to ecstatic prayers of pure joy and gratitude."

"So tell me," said Hannahlee. "Where to?"

Quincy's eyes popped open, and he looked down at her. "Where to what?"

"Where do we go next?" said Hannahlee. "To find Cyrus Gowdy?"

Quincy rubbed his chin. "I have heard a rumor," he said. "Ultra quadruple top secret, though."

"What's the rumor?" said Dunne.

"That Gowdy's secretly involved with the Weeping Willows movie," said Quincy. "That he might even be visiting the set."

"The set of the big screen movie?" said Dunne. "That's impossible."

Quincy smirked and twirled his hat roguishly. "Sorry, old chap," he said in a British accent. "Did I say 'big screen?'"

CHAPTERSEVEN

BARCELONA, SPAIN - AUGUST 1884

I wish that I were a full-grown cathedral. Then, I would be tall enough to see over Gaudí's shoulder. I could glimpse the future in his hands—my future.

For I have been wondering what he plans to do with me, my father. What exactly I will become when I am finally grown. Whether it will be a good fit for my spirit.

I have so very many questions. I love him and I trust him, but I long to know the answers.

And there they are, on those big white sheets of paper. Gaudí holds them out in front of him for his audience to see—Bocabella and the other dignitaries, come for a look at the first designs. The first pictures of my tomorrow.

Their reactions make me want to see through their eyes even more. Whatever is on those sheets, it must not be ordinary.

Whether or not that's a good thing, I cannot tell...until an old man in black robes and black hat finally speaks. "This is a cathedral for our Lord?"

Gaudí scowls. "Who else?"

The old man sniffs. "It has a flavor of the infernal, does it not?"