Day 9 (16 page)

 

CHAPTER 35

New Justice, New Mexico - Today

The town was right about where it should have been...the right number of miles in the right direction from Antelope. Dunne had taken the Hummer off-road to find it—going the distance marked on the drawing they'd found in Gaudíland—then drove a perimeter through the desert at the same distance.

And there it was. What looked like a good-sized town, spread out in a semicircle on the slope at the base of a desert mountain. An oasis of buildings and green in the blazing sunlight.

"New Justice," said Dunne. "It has to be."

Quincy was leaning forward between the seats, gaping at the sight. "Looks like it's in pretty good shape. Looks like it's open for business."

Hannahlee rested a hand on Dunne's arm. "Nice and easy, now. Give them a good look at us."

"A good
shot
at us is more like it," said Quincy. "Don't you think they know there's a Willow killer headed this way by now?"

"Maybe not," said Hannahlee. "This is the middle of nowhere, after all."

Dunne slowed the Hummer to thirty-five miles an hour, then twenty-five. As the town drew closer, he picked out more details: a ranch at one end, a farm at the other; neighborhoods of houses laid out between them; a square green park at dead center, studded with trees; and in the streets around it, rows of bigger buildings—blocky offices and storefronts of brick and adobe and cement. Two towers flanked the park—City Hall's cylindrical bell tower at one end, the white steeple of Everyfaith Temple at the other. Above it all, further up the slope of the mountain, fanned the bleached stones and monuments of a cemetery.

It was all so familiar, Dunne tingled with déjà vu as he approached it. He had seen it so many times before...written about it so many times, too.

"It's perfect," he said. "Just like the first shot from the opening of
Weeping Willows
."

"
Not
perfect," said Quincy. "Where's the 70s-style
logo
sliding in over top of it all?"

"Amazing." Hannahlee shook her head. "I wonder how long it's been here?"

"And what's it for?" said Dunne. "Why haven't we heard about it till now?"

"I still say it's all about Godseye," said Quincy. "Gowdy's secret project."

"You and your Godseye," said Dunne.

Quincy grabbed his shoulder. "Gowdy told Enrique he was working on a big film project. So check this out. Gowdy builds a life-size, fully-functional New Justice as the set for his movie. Not Halcyon Studios' reimagined, reinvented
remake
, but a movie that captures his
vision
of the show he created!"

"He couldn't make a movie like that," said Dunne. "Halcyon owns
Willows
."

"Which is why he needs to make the movie
out here
,
in secret
." Quincy shook Dunne's shoulder. "It's a true underground film! The only way he can reclaim his beloved creation!"

Dunne sighed. "I don't think so, Quincy."

"I wonder."

Dunne was surprised to hear Hannahlee say it. "What do you mean?"

"I wonder if Halcyon wanted more than Gowdy's signature on a release," said Hannahlee. "Maybe they had another reason for sending us to find him."

"Exactly!" said Quincy. "And what about killer
War
? Maybe
he's
Halcyon's flunky, too! Maybe that's why he didn't kill
us
...because we're working for the same people!"

Dunne shook his head. "War's a nut job."

"Which makes him the perfect agent to flush out Gowdy!" Quincy's voice rose as he got more excited. "Otherwise, isn't it a fimpossible coincidence that he shows up just as we're flooking for Gowdy?"

"Whatever." Dunne said it disdainfully...but the fact was, Quincy's loopy theories had finally gotten under his skin.

Maybe there was a kernel of truth to them after all.

"It's a fig
conspiracy
," said Quincy. "Halcyon doesn't want Gowdy compromising their intellectual property!"

"We need to be careful," said Hannahlee. "Just in case."

"Driving up unannounced to a town that's off the map in the middle of the desert with a crazed killer on our tail." Dunne swerved the Hummer around a pile of cactus remains—the matchstick skeleton of an enormous saguaro. "Doesn't sound like 'careful' to me."

 

The streets of New Justice ended at the edge of town.

It was the first piece of movie-set logic Dunne saw in the place. There were lovely, paved streets everywhere...but none of them extended beyond the town limits.

At Hannahlee's suggestion, he headed for the widest one—Main Street, which cut through the middle of town up to the park. One minute, the Hummer was bumping along over the sand...and then it crossed the threshold and rolled smoothly onto level pavement.

That was when the déjà vu really took over. The streetscape was lined with familiar buildings, decorated just the same as their TV counterparts. The cars parked along the curb were 1970s specials straight out of
Willows
—a Camaro, a Dart, a Torino. Everything, down to the parking meters and streetlamps, was out of the 70s by way of TV reruns.

Dunne felt like he had driven through a space/time warp, straight into the world of
Weeping Willows
circa 1976.

Dunne also felt like he was cruising through a ghost town. He didn't see a soul on the street or in any of the windows. "Is everybody hiding and sizing us up," he said, "or is it just we're the only ones here?"

"It's quiet." Quincy said it overdramatically. "
Too
quiet."

"Park and let's find out," said Hannahlee. "There's the Oven Mitt." She pointed at an exact replica of the aluminum-skinned diner from the show, half a block away. "Quincy wanted to stop there, anyway."

Quincy rubbed his hands together. "Chicken fried steak and vidalia onion pie, here I come!"

Dunne parked in front of the diner, taking two spaces, and everyone got out of the Hummer. That was when the illusion really took hold.

It was one thing to see the town from a distance...another to drive through it...and something else entirely to walk the street. To see New Justice from the camera's-eye point of view.

He had never been here before, but he felt as if he had. It was all known to him, deeply imprinted: the same backdrops from scenes he'd watched hundreds of times; the same colors and shadows and textures and names. It stirred feelings and memories and sensations from years gone by—inexplicable associations of moments from his own life and the unreal images on a TV screen.

Now come full circle, brought to life
within
his life.

He had never been here, but he knew every step by heart. From here, without a map, he could find anything in town. He could never get lost.

It was knowledge that couldn't be put to use anywhere else in the world...except, maybe, in the pages of a
Weeping Willows
tie-in novel. It was the stuff of reflected, refracted reality, filtered and spun and recycled in dreams, misremembered as actual experience.

He had never been to the Oven Mitt in his life...but as he walked through the front door, he felt as if he'd been there a thousand times. A million.

The jingle of the little bell on the back of the door was as familiar as the voice of any friend he'd ever known.
More
familiar.

The inside of the diner, with its black-and-white checkerboard floor, white Formica tables and counter, and red pleather benches and stools, was better known to him than any of his childhood bedrooms. Than any of the foster homes in which he'd grown up.

He knew which stool Gary Escuchar the ranch hand always occupied, and he knew the table where Agent Mohican had proposed to Holly Willow. He knew the history and geography of this one diner as well as he'd known the history and geography of any place in his life.

And better than he'd known most people.

In a daze, Dunne wandered over the checkerboard floor. He stopped and touched Gary Escuchar's stool, second from the end. It didn't look right without Gary sitting on it.

The whole diner looked wrong without any customers or employees. It sounded wrong without the noise of conversation and sizzle of the grill and clatter of silverware on plates.

"Hey, Nina!" Quincy went straight to the kitchen door and stormed through it. "Hack me off a slice of vidalia pie, wouldja?"

Hannahlee checked the ladies' bathroom, then knocked on the door of the men's room and checked it, too. "No one here."

Quincy slammed the kitchen door open on his way out. "Nobody back here, either. And no vidalia pie."

"They must be waiting to see if we're friendly." Hannahlee looked up and scanned the ceiling from corner to corner. "Watching us on hidden cameras."

"Hey everybody!" Quincy grinned and waved at the ceiling. "We come in peace, man! We dig your drift! And
this
is the original
Kitty Willow
!" He gestured at Hannahlee. "Take us to your Gowdy."

Nothing happened. If anyone was listening, they didn't respond to his performance.

"Well, someone's been here recently." Dunne swiped the edge of his hand across the counter, then held it up to show the lack of dust. "Otherwise, out here in the desert, this place would be dirty as hell."

Hannahlee headed for the door. "Let's move on."

Dunne and Quincy followed her outside, and they all looked around. Still, there was no one in sight.

"Look." Quincy pointed across the street. "Collette's Coverup! Sounds like a good hiding place to me!"

The three of them crossed Main Street and entered Collette's—Buzz Willow's favorite haunt, the town bookstore. Inside, like the Oven Mitt, it was just as Dunne remembered, reproduced exactly from the show.

There were books everywhere, overflowing from every shelf and counter and table and tub and basket. Even the brightly colored beanbag chairs on the floor were heaped with hardbacks and paperbacks.

Origami figures hung from the ceiling on fishing line—cranes and dragons and tigers and roses and more. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, just like in Collette's on TV. Zen Willow made a new one—so the story went—for every life his family saved.

"Hello?" said Hannahlee. "Anyone home?"

"Come out,
mon petite
Collette!" Quincy used his over-the-top French accent. "We weesh to deescuss le baguette!"

Near the rear of the store, Dunne thought he heard a voice. As he approached the bead-curtained doorway to the stock room in the back, it got louder.

"Hello?" Cautiously, Dunne parted the beads with his hand and leaned in for a look. He quickly spotted the source of the voice: an old transistor radio atop a stack of books, playing what sounded like a Mexican talk show.

"Nobody back here either," Dunne told the others after searching the stock room. "But there's a radio on. We just missed them."

"What da
fudge
is going on here?" said Quincy. "It's like something out of an old
fience fiction
movie."

Without a word, Hannahlee walked out of Collette's. Dunne and Quincy went after her.

"They might not come out until we leave," said Dunne.

"If worse comes to worst," said Quincy, "I'll kick out the
slashfic filk
jams!
That'll
bring 'em running!"

Dunne smirked. "Not for the reasons you think, though."

"Well, we've come too far to give up," said Quincy. "I'm not leaving till we get a face to face."

Hannahlee cocked her head and frowned, listening intently to something. "You're about to get your wish," she said.

"Meaning
fwhat
?" said Quincy.

Just then, Dunne understood. He heard the sound of a roaring engine, getting louder, getting closer. Coming from the direction of the park, Justice Commons.

"Oh," said Quincy. "I hear it now."

"Get ready," said Hannahlee.

Seconds later, a black Firebird Trans-Am tore down the street toward them, dead center on the middle line.

 

CHAPTER 36

Dunne glimpsed a man with bushy black hair and a bushy beard at the wheel of the Trans Am. He saw big black sunglasses and a gray fur coat.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a motorcycle flashed past the driver's side and cut in front of the Trans Am. The car swerved hard and braked, missing the motorcycle—and spinning out in a squealing, smoking circle. When the Trans Am stopped, it had spun 180 degrees and was left facing the direction from which it had come.

The white-helmeted motorcyclist spun out, too, and darted back toward the car. Before it could get there, the bushy-haired driver burst out of the Trans Am and swung a machine gun from under his fur coat.

Now that the driver was out of the car, Dunne recognized him instantly: he was the spitting image of Jeremiah Weed, black-hearted king of Scratchtown.

"Down! Get down!" Quincy threw himself into the doorway of the bookstore.

As the machine gun chattered, Dunne and Hannahlee ducked behind the closest cover they could find—a blue bus stop bench. It wasn't much protection, but at least they could see the action between the slats.

The motorcyclist zigzagged toward Weed, then bolted away at the last instant. He flew around the Trans Am, whipping into Weed's line of fire...snapping away again before he caught a round.

Fur coat flapping, Weed charged after the motorcyclist on foot, howling with rage as he fired a storm of shots from the machine gun. The rider evaded the flurry of bullets and swooped around a corner, out of sight.

Dunne held his breath as Weed ran past the bench where he was hiding...then stopped. And stood for a long moment in the street, looking from side to side, listening carefully with head cocked.

Dunne tried not to move a muscle. It wasn't easy with his hands shaking and his heart slamming like a wrecking ball in his chest.

And it didn't help. Weed turned and looked right at him, a nasty smile curling like a worm underneath his bushy beard.

As Dunne and Hannahlee scrambled to their feet, Weed stormed toward them. Before they could run, Weed lunged over the bench and grabbed one of them by the arm.

Hannahlee.

As scared as Dunne was, he stopped and turned. "Let her go!" His voice was more panicked than forceful.

"But I just
got
her!" Weed laughed and pinned Hannahlee against his broad chest. "I'm nowhere
near
done with her!"

"Enough of this," said Hannahlee. "We're not interested in playing this game. My name is Hannahlee Saylor, and I'm here to see Cyrus Gowdy."

"Then you've come to the wrong place, Saylor Girl." Weed planted a rough kiss on the top of her head. "I know
everyone
in town, and there is
no
Cyrus Gowdy here."

"You can drop the act," said Hannahlee. "We're not paying customers. You won't lose your job."

"
My
job?
My job
?" Weed guffawed. "I'm the
boss
of this entire
town
. You don't have to
tell
me I won't lose
that
."

"Please let her go," said Dunne.

Hannahlee craned her head back, fixing Weed in her blazing emerald stare. "We're here to help. I'm an old friend of Mr. Gowdy's."

"Which means nothing in
my
town," said Weed.

"Maybe you know me by another name," said Hannahlee. "Does the name 'Lianna Caprice' sound familiar?"

Weed leered at her. "I've just had a thought. How would you like to be one of my Rainbow Brides?"

"I was
Kitty Willow
on the show," said Hannahlee. "Just tell Cyrus I'm here, and I'm sure he'll see me."

"Time to go, sugar-bear." With his machine gun trained on Dunne, Weed hauled Hannahlee toward the black Trans Am. "Tonight's your honeymoon, happypants!"

Dunne watched helplessly. With the machine gun in play, he wasn't about to make any kind of move. If New Justice was a theme park, the gun's ammo wasn't real—but he couldn't be sure.

He knew everything about the place in terms of layout and background and cast...and yet, he knew nothing of its plan or purpose. Nothing of what lay behind the scenes.

Or in the guns.

Hannahlee, for her part, was as calm as ever as Weed pulled her toward the car. "Find Gowdy," she told Dunne. "Tell him to switch off the freak show."

Dunne nodded.

"'Freak show?'" said Weed. "Is that any way to talk about your new
old man
, lollipoop?"

At that moment, Dunne heard a roar like an animal. He turned just in time to see Quincy run out from behind the corner of a building, headed straight for Weed.

Dunne guessed Quincy had gone through the bookstore and circled around. As he charged, Weed whirled and raised the machine gun.

Dunne realized he was about to find out if the ammo was real or not.

 

Instead of firing shots, Weed raked the barrel of the machine gun across Quincy's face. Quincy stumbled, grabbing for his eyes...and his momentum was gone. He kept moving forward, but Weed easily sidestepped, hauling Hannahlee with him.

As Quincy grappled with thin air, trying to land a paw on his opponent, Weed plowed a booted foot into his groin. That was all it took to send Quincy howling to the pavement.

Cackling, Weed covered the last few steps to the Trans Am and shoved Hannahlee inside. "Remember one thing!" He slammed the passenger's-side door shut and trotted around to the driver's side. "I'm not the bad guy!
You
are!" It was Jeremiah Weed's tagline from the
Willows
TV show.

With that, the Weed lookalike dropped into the Trans Am, fired up the engine, and tore off down the street with the scream of tires.

So Hannahlee was gone. The one person the team absolutely could not do without had been abducted.

And, naturally, Dunne had just stood there and watched it happen.

"Little help over here?" Quincy's voice was strained, as if he hadn't quite beaten back the pain. He'd managed to prop himself up on one elbow, and that was as far as he'd gotten.

Just as Dunne was helping Quincy to his feet, the white-helmeted motorcyclist returned. He rode his cycle out of a side-street at a high rate of speed, then whipped three circles around Dunne and Quincy before sliding to a stop in front of them.

As soon as he lifted off his helmet, Dunne knew who he was supposed to be.

The rider had a boyish face with bright blue eyes and blond, shoulder-length hair. He wore his blond sideburns long, right down to his jaw, and he had beauty marks on both cheeks. At his throat, he wore a pukka shell choker, with a small, orange starfish dangling in the "V" of his denim shirt collar.

He wasn't an identical twin of Scott Savage, but Dunne recognized him immediately as a close copy of teen idol Leif Willow.

So did Quincy. "Willow alert! They took Kitty!" Quincy pointed up Main Street. "They went
fataway
!"

Leif frowned. "But they
already
have Kitty. They've had her for
three months
."

"Okay, wait a minute," said Dunne. "We're new in town. What's going on here?"

"You've just landed in the middle of a war," said Leif. "Good versus evil...and evil's winning."

"Is that why Weed said he's the boss of this town?" said Dunne.

Leif nodded. "He's
been
the boss for the past year. He and his Rainbow Brides are running the show, with help from Ballantyne Foster and Scandinavian Steve."

"Fincredible," said Quincy. "Now this is what I call a
role-playing game
."

"This isn't a game," said Leif. "Not even close."

"Maybe we can help," said Dunne. "Do you know where we can find a man named Cyrus Gowdy?"

Leif shook his head sadly. "I wish I did, man. This war is all his fault."

"For creating
Willows
?" said Dunne. "For building New Justice?"

"No," said Leif. "For dying."