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."
CHAPTER 4
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.
CHAPTER 5
"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.
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, "cou
rtesy 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.
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