Day 9 (3 page)

 

CHAPTER 6

 

"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
Weeping
Willows
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. "
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 fortress 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 reverse 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.