Day 9 Read online

  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. "Kitty Willow needs me?"

  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?'"

  CHAPTER 7

  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?"

  "It is anything but infernal," says Gaudí. "Every inch of it is a tribute to the Holy Family. Every inch."

  Another man in black, younger and fatter, squints and coughs alongside the first. "It reminds me of the Inquisition, somehow," he says slowly. "The jagged towers, the gruesome walls. A fort
ress of torture growling under bleak skies."

  "As if it were alive, yes," says a third man, this one in purple robes. "Alive and turned inside-out."

  "There, at least in part, you are right, Bishop." Gaudí ruffles the sheets in his hands. "For this is drawn from the Book of Life itself...source of all my designs. It shall live and breathe as all Nature does, in tribute to Creation's perfection."

  "You're saying it will come to life?" said the Bishop. "I am not certain I would care to conduct Mass in the belly of a beast."

  I cringe at his words...at all their words. I feel as if they are beating me down, insulting me, defeating me. Defeating Gaudí, too.

  What has he done, I wonder. What has he drawn on those sheets of paper, anyway?

  "A beast?" says Gaudí. "Hardly. More like a mountain. A mountain of souls, all pointing into Heaven."

  "These towers are like horns." The old man in black pokes the sheets with his finger. "And this. Is it a gate or a maw?"

  "This is like no cathedral I've ever seen," says the Bishop.

  "That is precisely the point." Angrily, Gaudí crushes the sheets together in one hand. "This cathedral will be unique to Catalonia! It will affirm the glory of our people and our blessed bond with the Lord God!" He waves the crumpled designs in my direction. "Think of it not as a building, but a message...a message to God and the children of God around the world."

  "A nightmare can also be a message," says the Bishop. "So can a lie."

  "Are you certain of the language you are speaking?" says the old man in black.

  "Absolutely." Gaudí says it fiercely and without hesitation. "Let no man challenge my faith and devotion!"

  I am proud of him. Though I have yet to see his design, I am proud of him for defending it. For resisting those who belittle his vision and stand in his way.

  Our way.

  If only I could help him somehow. Wouldn't they come around if suddenly I spoke in his defense? Told them of the grace and greatness I know he will bestow upon us?

  Or perhaps I would rather move than speak. One of my building blocks, hurled across the works, could silence all three unbelievers at once.

  "Señor Gaudí." Bocabella has been standing back...but now, he is done watching and listening. "Perhaps we should pray on this. Consider what has been said here today."

  Gaudí straightens. His eyes flash with rage. "I never stop praying. This." He waves the crumpled sheets. "This is the answer to my prayers."

  The Bishop turns his back on Gaudí and speaks to the rest. "Our recommendation stands."

  "What?" says Gaudí. "What recommendation?"

  "The diocese does not dictate what I do." Bocabella sounds angry. "The Association of Saint Joseph is driving this work, and we are not beholden to the Church."

  "You would not have asked us here," says the Bishop, "if you could do without our recommendation."

  "What recommendation?" Gaudí storms around and plants himself in front of the Bishop.

  "That a new director of works be retained," says the Bishop.

  I can't believe what I've heard. To tell the truth, it never occurred to me until now that it was possible to separate us. To take an architect from his masterpiece.

  A father from his child.

  I start to panic. What will happen to me if he leaves? Can anyone else come close to realizing my potential? Expressing my spirit?

  Or am I doomed to a stunted existence? Silent and common and dreamless...or stillborn. Is there a chance, if Gaudí leaves, that I will never be built at all?

  More than ever, I wish I could do something to save us. I dare to offer a prayer I've never prayed to a God I've never known, casting for a miracle I don't expect to see.

  And I get one. We get one.

  A man strolls over to the group. An old man with white hair and a bushy white beard. He wears a dark gray suit and necktie, like the businessmen who hurry past on the street every day.

  As I watch him approach, I wonder who he is. I wonder if he is God.

  "What have we here?" His voice is friendly...but firm and strong. "An impromptu mass to consecrate our new cathedral?"

  Gaudí's face is red. He starts to say something which will surely be angry.

  Bocabella cuts him off. "Don Eusebi Güell. May I impose on your good will?"

  Güell elbows him in the side. "Just remember, I already made my offering on Sunday."

  Bocabella waves at the papers in Gaudí's fist. "Show him," he says.

  Gaudí opens the sheets and holds them up for Güell to see. "The Sagrada Família," he says.

  "What do you think?" says Bocabella.

  Güell gives away nothing as he reviews the designs. He looks at each sheet for a long time, leaning close, sometimes tracing a finger over the drawings. When he gives the sign, Gaudí switches pages, removing the top sheet to reveal a new illustration.

  Finally, he leans back. He takes a deep breath and releases it.

  "Well?" says Bocabella. "As one of our foremost citizens, a leader in business and a faithful disciple of Our Lord Jesus Christ, what do you say? Shall we hire a new director of works?"

  "These designs." Güell taps the sheets in Gaudí's hands. "They are quite unorthodox."

  "Exactly," says the Bishop.

  "There has been nothing like them before," says Güell. "Now what does that remind me of?" He rocks on his heels and rubs his bearded chin.

  "Perdition?" says the Bishop. "The Great Beast?"

  "No." Güell thinks a moment more, then snaps his fingers. "God's Creation itself. That's what this reminds me of."

  Silently, I cheer his words. I see now that Don Eusebi Güell is on our side.

  Maybe there's hope after all.

  "Have another look." Güell pulls the Bishop by the sleeve, and the other clergymen move in close around them. "Can't you see what he's doing? He is fashioning new forms from the old order, just as Our Lord fashioned Creation from the void. It is something new and unexpected, just as Creation was when it first appeared. It will bring new life to the faith, inspire the faithful, attract new believers."

  "Are you suggesting the Church as it now stands is not good enough?" says the old man in black.

  "I would never say that." Güell grins behind his beard. "I am simply wondering if it might not be appropriate for the first wonder of the new century to be a tribute to God."

  "Interesting," says the young, fat man in black. "The Church symbolically stakes its claim on the twentieth century."

  "Don't forget Catalonia," says Güell. "Would you rather another nation lay claim to such a symbol of sovereign power and individuality?"

  The old man in black sighs. "Perhaps you have a point."

  "Of course I do." Güell throws an arm around Gaudí's shoulders. "I know salesmanship, gentlemen...and are we not all in sales in one form or another? This man's genius will make us rich in earthly and heavenly gain."

  "Don Eusebi is your best customer." The Bishop glares at Gaudí. "How much of a discount will you give him in exchange for pushing this through?"

  "Does this mean you will change your recommendation?" says Gaudí.

  The Bishop waves off-handedly. "Go ahead. Build your monstrosity...if you can. May we all live to see it."

  "Why do you say that?" says Gaudí.

  The Bishop smiles before he leads the others away. "There is a reason Our Lord God Almighty only made one Creation."

  Then, Gaudí and Güell are alone.

  "Thank you for your help, my friend," says Gaudí.

  Güell snorts. "This does not need my help." He grabs the top sheet from the stack of designs and holds it before him. "This is incredible. This is magic."

  Suddenly, for the first time today, the sun peeks from behind a cloud, casting down its rays. The sheet in Güell's hands flares with sunlight, the paper bleaching bright white.

  The ink showing through from the other side.

  That is when I get a glimpse of my future. It is just a little glimpse, seen in rev
erse on paper rippling in the wind...but it is enough for now.

  Feelings rush through me. A feeling of joy that Gaudí sees me as something grand and unique. A feeling of anticipation for the future...impatience, that I may become what he imagines as soon as possible. Relief, that we avoided missing this future forever.

  And a feeling of love for the man who has had such visions. A man who is my father, inasmuch as a building of stone and mortar can have a father.

  I wish that I could tell him. I wish that I could touch him.

  I wonder if that is part of his design, too.

  CHAPTER 8

  Flight 1926, Somewhere Over New Mexico - Today

  "You weren't having sex with any of your brothers?" Quincy, in the window seat, leaned past Dunne to talk to Hannahlee. "What about your sisters? Your parents?"

  "Not that it's any of your business," said Hannahlee, "but no."

  Dunne grunted and shifted in his seat. Quincy's weight was crushing his rib cage. "Get off me."

  Quincy was oblivious. "So tell me, Lianna. Who was sleeping together?"

  Hannahlee ignored him and looked the other way. Dunne hoped she'd keep it up; maybe then, Quincy would sit back and stop crushing him.

  Instead, Quincy leaned further, pressing harder against him. "At least give me something to work with, here. Like, who was the biggest perv? Or the biggest lush?"

  Still, Hannahlee remained silent.

  Dunne wondered how much longer Quincy would keep it up. He hadn't stopped talking since getting into Dunne's car for the ride to the airport. If anything, he'd gained momentum during the first hour of the flight to Austin, Texas.

  Dunne glanced over at Hannahlee, who was still staring across the aisle. She wasn't as annoyed with Quincy as Dunne was, or she would've gotten rid of him long ago...but maybe her bullshit detector would spike soon, and she'd cut the fanboy loose.

  Dunne wished she'd never recruited Quincy in the first place. It was true that a fan in the know could help the mission, but surely they could've found a fan who was less bizarre and obnoxious. Someone who'd been vetted by the studio.