Day 9 (21 page)

 

CHAPTER 45

 

Warpath Journal

Dateline: New Justice, New Mexico

I can't figure this guy out.

We're halfway out the door of the ranch house when Brother Quincy slips his bonds. Turns out whoever tied the rope around his wrists didn't do such a great job.

But something isn't right. For one thing, Quincy's eyes are rolled up in the sockets, so all I see under fluttering lids are the whites.

Then there's the follow-up. Does Quincy lash out, grab a weapon, make a run for it?

No way. What he does is stuff his fat fingers in the pocket of his vest and yank out a black magic marker. Rope still dangling from his wrist, he flicks off the cap...then dives at me, holding up the marker like it's a knife.

I duck out of the way, and Quincy keeps going. Next thing I know, he's writing on the wall with the marker.

Weed, who's two steps ahead of us, whips around like he's going after Quincy...but I stop him. "No!" I jump around Quincy and grab Weed's hand. "I wanna see this!"

Weed glares at me like maybe he'll hurt us both. Then, his gaze flicks down to my midsection, where the plastic explosive's strapped, and he looks like he changes his mind. His eyes narrow, and he relaxes.

Letting go of Weed, I turn to see what Quincy's been writing. This is when I get my first surprise of the day.

"YOURE MY FRIEND." That's what he wrote on the wall.

"What the hell?" says Weed.

Quincy turns, eyes still rolled back in his head, and points a finger at me. Then, he goes back to his writing.

"I HELP YOU" is the next thing he writes. Then, "YOU HELP ME."

"Help you with what?" I say to him.

Quincy writes more, then steps aside so I can read it. Which when I do, it confuses me.

"'Kill Gilbert?'" I look at him like he's crazy. "Who's Gilbert?"

Eyes rolled up, Quincy turns back to the wall. He draws a line through "GILBERT." Above that, he writes in another name.

"QUINCY."

"You want us to kill
you
?" I ask him.

Quincy writes again. "NOT ME."

"Then who?" I'm getting impatient. Is he just playing us, stalling for time?

Again with the writing...this time in the palm of his hand. Then, he shoves it in my face.

I grab his wrist on the way, but I can tell he wasn't trying to hit me. Just wanted to make sure I couldn't miss the latest message.

"IM KNOX." That's what it says. "IM KNOX."

Whatever the hell that means.

"I don't get it." I let go of his hand, but it stays there in front of me. "You're
Quincy
, aren't you?"

He writes on the wall. "KNOX IN HERE." Then, he jabs his chest with the marker. He does it again and again.

Maybe I'm starting to understand. It's far-fetched, but maybe I get it. "Who am I talking to right now?"

Quincy keeps jabbing himself with the marker, leaving a nice black splotch in the middle of his pink Kitty Willow t-shirt.

"Tell me." I raise my voice a little to get his attention. "Who am I talking to?" He just keeps jabbing himself with the marker.

"Enough of this shit." Weed steps up and smacks the marker out of Quincy's hand. "We need to get going!"

I elbow him out of the way. "Who am I talking to
right now
?"

"Kno-o-o-xx." Quincy says it in a ghostly moan. "Knox Pi-i-itenge-e-r."

"Okay." I take a step closer. "And Quincy's in there, too, right?"

Quincy turns to the wall and raises his hand as if to write—then seems to realize his marker is gone. "Y-e-e-e-s-s," he says. "B-o-o-th of us."

"And let me guess. Quincy's been running the show."

"Y-e-e-s-s," says Quincy or Knox or whoever he is.

I think it over for a moment, and something occurs to me. "Didn't Knox die saving Quincy's life in some lake?"

Quincy slowly shakes his head. "O-o-o-ther w-a-a-ay."

I frown. "What other way?"

Quincy twitches. His mouth opens and closes a few times before any words come out.

"Quincy...d-i-i-ied," he says. "Thi-i-s body-y-y is
Kno-o-ox's
."

Surprised, I look over at Weed. I can tell he's as mystified as I am. Who knows what the real story is?

But I have to keep pushing with this guy, because I think I can use him as more than bait. "If Quincy died, how'd he end up in your body?"

"I felt gui-i-ilty," says Knox/Quincy/Whoever. "Quincy...was a g-e-e-nius. Should have li-i-ived. So-o-o I
bec-a-a-me
him. Thi-i-is time,
Kno-o-x
died.

"
Almost
," says Knox/Quincy. "Sma-a-all part of Knox survi-i-ved. And I want my
l-i-i-ife
back."

"Hmmm." I stand here, arms folded across my chest, and rub my chin like I have to do some thinking...but I don't. This is a perfect opportunity.

Even if my mixed-up pal here is more mixed-up than he seems, he's a godsend. If his runaway friends don't know Knox the defector is in the driver's seat, we can draw them out of hiding, easy as pie.

Then it's goodnight Poison Oaks. Goodnight Gowdy.

Mission accomplished.

"Maybe we can work something out." I unfold my arms and pat Knox on the shoulder. "Maybe I can help you after all."

"Help you, to-o-o," says Knox.

I smile as I lead him out the door after Weed. "How would you like to save the United States of America?"

 

CHAPTER 46

 

Barcelona, Spain - 1940

I awaken for the first time in years.

At least I think it's been years. I have been asleep for so long, I barely remember what a year is. Or an hour. Or how to think. I barely recognize the sounds that draw me from my deathlike slumber.

The sounds of hammers and chisels.

For a while, as I hear them, I wonder if I am truly awake. I wonder if they are part of a dream.

And I wonder if the last things I remember were part of a dream, too. Civil war in the streets. Bombshells exploding around and inside me. The mobs in my crypt and Gaudí's workshop. Gaudí dragged from his tomb.

No. Not a dream. The longer I think about them, the more sure I am.

And the hammers and chisels are not a dream, either. They ring like bells in the misty morning, loud and clear as the crow of a cock.

If only they would stop, perhaps I could resume my sleep of death...but they do not. Again and again, they chime and clang, driving me further from blissful oblivion.

They are so loud, I realize, because they are so close. No more than a block away, closer than any blacksmith or factory. Someone fixing the street, perhaps, or working on a house or shop in the neighborhood.

Correction. As my senses clear, I realize the chisels are closer than that. Much closer.

I can
feel
them. They are working on
me
.

I hear voices, too...rough shouts like those of the men who worked on me long ago. Snarls and laughter both.

And quieter voices among the rough.

Angry at being disturbed, I come fully awake. My senses snap to full attention, as if they had never been dormant...and I sort through the jumble of noise, light, and color that bombards me.

I see workmen all around, on scaffolds and the ground, chipping away at damaged parts of me. Hauling stone and bags of cement. Measuring, marking, and surveying. Repairing the frames of shattered windows and the faces of broken angels.

Sifting through them, I find the quiet voices—the men in suits and overcoats, rolls of white paper in their fists.

They stand in front of me and gaze up at my Nativity façade, speaking earnestly. Pointing and frowning and stroking their chins. Unrolling the paper plans and squinting at them in the sunlight. I know who they are—not by name, but I have spent most of my life among their kind.

I have not seen an architect here since before the war.

The one in the middle, in particular, catches my attention. His back is straight, his shoulders square, his eyes flashing like knives. When he speaks, the other two remain silent and listen with care. He is not the tallest, but he might be the most important.

"The new drawings are not perfect," he says. "See, here...and here...and this?" He jabs a finger at three spots on the plans in front of him. "We need to rework the models."

"No surprise there, Francesc," says the man with the black beard beside him. "It hasn't been easy reconstructing Gaudí's models from a handful of photos and sketches."

The man on the other side of Francesc is bald with a thick white beard. "Don't see why the rioters had to burn
every
scrap Gaudí left in his workshop."

"Be grateful there were scraps hidden elsewhere," says the man with the black beard. "Be grateful the war's over, and we can stop killing each other and start reconstructing."

"We've done an excellent job of it, so far," says Francesc. "But we must do better. Gaudí would settle for nothing less."

But Gaudí is dead.

As I listen, I wonder why they're doing it. Why bother to try to pick up where they left off?

Don't they realize they can never match Gaudí? The ones who tried after his death and before the war had all his plans and models...and
they
couldn't match him.

Even if anyone could, their efforts would be for nothing. Another war or riot will come along and tear me down again. I am too big a target. Too strong a symbol. Too strange.

Too grand.

It was the one mistake Gaudí made when he built me. He imagined I would stand forever.

He thought they were ready for me.

These new people, I wish they would leave. I wish I could tell them they are not wanted here.

But as always, I cannot get my point across. I reach out to them, focusing all my will on a single imperative, a screaming thought to make them leave...but they do not flinch. I strain to move, to shrug off a block of stone from the tower above them, hurl it down to crush them.

But I cannot even shrug off a speck of dust.

So I am trapped, as always, at the mercy of the roving spots of warmth. I cannot stop them from having their way with me. My suffering begins again, as the noise and commotion keep me ever from resuming my deathly slumber.

Some things in life never change. Why can't they be the
good
things for once?

This is what I am thinking when the photographer approaches Francesc.

"Good morning, Señor Quintana." The photographer is a young man with dark, ruffled hair and an undersized suit. "May we have a picture to go with our story on the rebuilding?"

Francesc Quintana sighs and smiles. "I am not one for self-aggrandizement...but this project needs all the support it can get."

Quintana's friends laugh. "Careful, cameraman," says the one with the white beard. "You're creating a monster!"

Directed by the photographer, Quintana stands at the base of one of my towers. He holds the roll of plans in one hand. He rests the other hand against my wall.

The photographer takes a few shots of Quintana looking at the camera. Then a few more of Quintana looking up at me...at which point, he runs out of film.

"Hold that pose just a moment, Señor," says the photographer. "Just till I change my film."

So Quintana is left touching me, gazing up at me, as the photographer fumbles with his film. And this is when it happens.

This is when Quintana surprises me.

He does something that no one else has done since Gaudí. Something I thought no one would ever do again.

"Hello there," he says. "We are going to be great friends, you and I."

That is what he does. He
talks
to me.

He keeps his voice low, directing his words only to me. "We'll do our best to live up to your master," he says. "Too bad he can't be here to help us."

I am stunned. Finally, after all this time, someone breaks the long silence. Treats me with compassion.

Even if I could speak, I do not think I would know what to say.

"You'll be okay." Quintana pats my wall. "You can trust us."

I could listen to him talk all day. Talk to
me
.

Unfortunately, the man with the black beard breaks the mood. "What's that you're saying over there, Francesc? Are you talking to the masonry again?"

Everyone laughs, but I don't mind. Because I see.

In spite of everything that has happened, perhaps a future is still possible for me. Though my maker is gone forever, perhaps there are others in this world who might yet be like a father to me.

Perhaps, even, this man.

CHAPTER 47

New Justice, New Mexico - Today

"'Day 8,'" said Gowdy. "Need I say more?"

He was answering a question from Hannahlee, who talked as she treated Leif's wounds. The question she'd asked Gowdy was this: "Why did you leave Hollywood?"

The next thing she said was, "Yes, you
do
need to say more, actually."

Gowdy, who stood on the other side of the bed, holding Leif down, let out a sigh. He looked at Dunne and sadly shook his head. "Prophets aren't always appreciated in their own lifetimes."

Dunne frowned. He was standing beside Hannahlee, handing her the implements she needed when she asked for them. "So what exactly happened with
Day 8
?" he said.

"Let's start at the beginning." Gowdy stared into space for a moment, fiddling with his ruby-red glasses...then snapped back to reality. "How does a TV producer like me follow a smash flop like
Superclown
, you ask? My
fifth
smash flop in a row, when I have
one
chance left to save my career?

"I copy what's
hot
, of course. And what was hot in the 80s?
Newsmagazines
.

"CBS had
60 Minutes
. ABC had
20/20
. So
I
came up with
Day 8
. Like an eighth day of the week to catch up on the news from the previous seven." Gowdy narrowed his eyes. "Only I decided I needed a
gimmick
."

"Sponge," said Hannahlee, reaching out a latex-gloved hand.

Without a word, Dunne placed a piece of alcohol-soaked sponge in her hand. Hannahlee ran it around the edges of the wound in Leif's shoulder, mopping up blood.

Though Leif had a couple shots of strong whiskey in him, he still groaned and squirmed when the sponge touched him. Gowdy had to work harder to hold him down as he kept going with the story. "My gimmick was to make the news a
drama
. Boost the
entertainment value
. Bring in
actors
. Play out scenes that weave together the week's
stories
. Help people better
understand
the news and
identify
with the subjects.

"In retrospect, this was not one of my better ideas."

"Needle and thread," said Hannahlee.

Dunne handed them to her. "
Day 8
got great ratings at first, didn't it?"

"The best ratings of my career," said Gowdy. "It was the top-rated show of 1983! But instead of
glory
, it led to
disaster
."

"I remember it was controversial," said Dunne.

"To say the least!" said Gowdy. "The critics declared war! So did the newsmen, the academics, the clergy, and every two-bit self-proclaimed arbiter of so-called taste in America!"

Dunne looked away from Leif's shoulder as Hannahlee sewed it up with the needle and thread. "Hard to believe they made such a big deal about mixing news and entertainment back then."

"I was ahead of my time." Gowdy shifted position as Leif writhed in his grip. "Nowadays, we've got
infotainment
all
over
the place. But in
those
days, they were ready to nail me to the
cross
for 'blurring the line between fantasy and reality.'"

"Scissors," said Hannahlee.

Dunne watched as she snipped the thread at the end of the suture. It looked to him like she'd done a pretty good job, especially considering the circumstances.

"Ratings were amazing, but advertisers pulled out," said Gowdy. "We were cancelled after thirteen weeks. Which was too bad, because the key episode never got made."

"Gauze," said Hannahlee.

"Key episode?" Dunne handed her the gauze from the first aid kit.

Gowdy's eyes widened, and he leaned across Leif. "The one that was going to explain what the series was really about. The one that would reveal the true
artistic vision
of what was secretly a meticulously designed
masterpiece
."

"Tape," said Hannahlee.

"'Day 8.'" Gowdy leaned further toward Dunne. "
Think
about it, son."

Dunne frowned and shook his head.

"
Think
," said Gowdy. "
Day
...
8
."

"
Back
...
off
." Hannahlee snapped forward, and Gowdy had to duck back to avoid a head-butt. "You're
contaminating
my sorry excuse for a
sterile field
...and you're not holding my
patient
still."

"But you're the one who brought it up in the first place," said Gowdy.

"Before I remembered what a
blowhard
you are," said Hannahlee.

"Okay, okay." Gowdy smiled and nodded obligingly...then winked at Dunne. "Think about it." He said it quickly and softly as a secret. "I'll tell you later."

Dunne felt let-down after Gowdy's build-up. He knew Hannahlee still had another wound to sew...but he couldn't resist one more question. "How about giving me a clue?"

Gowdy tightened his grip on Leif as Hannahlee moved to the wound in his side.

"Sponge," said Hannahlee.

"'Godseye.'" Gowdy nodded. "Yes, that's as good a clue as any."