Day 9

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Small, bloody bodies in my vision. The bodies of children.

  A woman's body, sprawled in a crimson pool. Unmoving.

  Flies buzzing.

  Bodies everywhere, all ages, all sizes. Some clinging to each other, some cut down alone. I step over them, shoes slipping in the blood.

  So many faces, eyes gaping in death. I know all of them. Every last one of them.

  Looking up, I see another lifeless face, frozen forever. Hanging above it all.

  I know that face, too. Jesus Christ.

  Heart thundering, I open my eyes. Swipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.

  Am I? Am I totally sure?

  Evil cloaks itself in many guises...but the old man in the wheelchair had seemed awfully harmless. No whiff of deception.

  That doesn't mean the deception wasn't there. But still. What if. For the sake of argument.

  What if I'm the one under the influence of evil?

  I get to my feet and stagger out of the kitchen.

  It's possible, and I know it.

  Once, my sisters turned evil. The case of "Hell Hath Four Furies." They were all under hypnosis.

  In the living room, there are photos on the walls—photos of Hiss and the family. One of Hiss and me, fishing. Photos can be faked.

  But what if these aren't fakes?

  I drop onto the couch, still chewing my nails...and it's then I remember.

  War Willow doesn't chew his nails.

  The room spins. Against my own will, I do the mental math.

  I've killed three people who were perfect doubles of my brothers and sisters. However, I might not be in control of my own actions.

  Therefore, the people I killed might not have been who I thought they were.

  And what about the visions? So many dead—men, women, and children. How could I remember them so clearly...unless I was the one who killed them?

  Clamping my eyes shut, I hold my head in my hands. I take great, shuddering breaths, fighting to pull myself together.

  Because I already know. I know what comes next.

  War Willow is a man of peace at heart. In his way, he is as much of a soulful seeker as Free or Zen. He can be gentler than Kitty or Kenya.

  But on the warpath, he is nearly unstoppable. Only one man can stop him.

  War Willow himself.

  I draw the revolver from the holster on my belt and cock the hammer. Sweat runs down my face as I stare at the cold, black metal of the barrel.

  If indeed I am under outside control, killing my own family, thinking they're evil imposters...this is what I have to do. I must kill one more Willow to save all the rest.

  An Apache prayer drifts through my mind as I raise the gun. An Amish hymn.

  This is the hero's way. A hero would sooner destroy himself than let himself be used as a tool of evil. It's that simple.

  I raise the gun to my mouth and close my eyes. Use my Ninja training to stop my hands from shaking.

  I slide the barrel between my lips.

  One last time, I think of my brothers and sisters: Free, Kitty, Leif, Bella, Buzz, Kenya, Hiss, Holly, and Zen. Father Law, too, and Gary Escuchar. Even Jeremiah Weed, Ballantyne Foster, and Scandinavian Steve.

  Then, my finger wraps around the trigger.

  It takes a moment to say a prayer and get myself ready. To summon the courage.

  I tilt the barrel up so it is pointing at the roof of my mouth. And I start the countdown. Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Suddenly, my eyes snap open. My finger uncurls from the trigger.

  Two words are flashing like Vegas neon in my mind.

  TOTALLY SURE.

  Those two words are the reason I'm still alive. For just as I can't be totally sure that I'm not under evil control, I also can't be totally sure that I am.

  Either way, doesn't it make more sense not to kill myself? Because now that I'm aware of the possibility that I've been compromised, maybe I can fight off any dark influence and rescue my family.

  And myself.

  There's another reason I didn't pull the trigger, too. If Amish Amos were here, he'd explain, just as he did when he taught me years ago among the Plain Folk of Ohio.

  "Suicide is the abominable sin," Amos would say. "It severs your soul from Our Lord for all eternity. It condemns you to the fires of Hell forever.

  "For it is not just murder, which is hated by God. It is murder of self, which is avoidable, which is refusal of the gift of life from God...which is the refusal, the shunning, of God Himself."

  So I can't take it lightly. Not while I can't be totally sure, not while there's still as much of a chance that my mind is free as that it's enslaved.

  I'll give myself more time. Continue with my mission and be vigilant. Aware of the possibilities.

  And one more thing.

  I do it while I slosh gasoline from a plastic can all over the inside of the house. While I leave a trail of fuel, leading outside and across the porch and down the steps. While I light the trail with a dropped match.

  While I walk away as the house burns behind me, devouring the Hiss Willow imposter and his wheelchair and his laptop computer and every trace of evidence that I was ever there.

  The one more thing I do is this: I pray.

  Using the words Amish Amos taught me, I pray to God for strength and courage. Clear-headedness and righteousness. Good fortune.

  And forgiveness. For what I've done, whether I remember it or not.

  And for what I'm going to do. Three Willows down, six plus Gowdy to go.

  CHAPTER 19

  "Just imagine." Quincy reached for his mug of beer. "War Willow himself on a killing spree. Murdering his own brothers and sisters in cold blood."

  "That wasn't War," said Hannahlee. "That wasn't Sabre Torrent."

  Quincy downed the last swig of his beer and crashed the mug down on the bar. "You should know. He's your brother." Quincy belched. "When did you say was the last time you talked to him, by the way?"

  "I don't remember." Hannahlee sighed. "But that's irrelevant. Sabre's voice is distinctive, even written or filtered through a computer. I'd recognize him anywhere. Not to mention he'd never hurt a fly."

  Quincy drew a dark brown Dr. Grabow pipe from a pocket of his black-and-red leather vest and slid the stem between his teeth. Then, he drew a monocle from his other vest pocket and plugged it into his right eye. "A fly, you say?" His voice took on an English accent. "But would he ever hurt a man?"

  Dunne, on the other side of Hannahlee, sighed and shook his head. There the three of them sat, drowning their sorrows in an Asheville bar, hours after losing another Willow to the killer...and Quincy kept clowning as usual. Dunne wondered if he thought he was helping by lightening the mood, or if he was just manic and didn't give a shit at all.

  "This Sabre." Quincy shifted the pipe to the other side of his mouth. Then, he moved the monocle to his other eye. "Might it be more accurate, madam, to say that you've never seen him hurt a man...or a fly?"

  Hannahlee sipped her chardonnay and didn't answer.

  "What about a flying man?" said Quincy. "A mannish fly? A Spanish fly per-..."

  Just then, Dunne interrupted. "So who is it, then? Someone who thinks he's War Willow?"

  "Something like that. Some lunatic." Hannahlee sipped her wine. "Now, has anyone come up with an idea on finding Cyrus?"

  Quincy cleared his throat loudly. "Regarding this Cyrus fellow." His accent was still over-the-top British. "His tally whacker’s deucedly well crumpeted, eh wot? 'Is apples and pears got bangers all over their mash, sure as Bob's yer uncle!"

  Dunne finished his beer and slid the mug to the inside rail of the bar for a refill. "We've got nothing. We really are back to square one."

  "And Cyrus knows we're looking for him," said Hannahlee. "That could make it more difficult."

  "Zis Gowdy." Quincy switched to a French accent. "He ees a hard man to find, oui?"

  "Halcyon Studios couldn'
t find him," said Hannahlee. "That's why they hired us. They thought he'd deal with us."

  "Eet appears zey could 'ave been frong, oui?"

  Dunne accepted his fresh beer from the bartender with a nod. "We just need to try harder." He had a sip. "What about your ghosts, Quincy? What do they say?"

  "Nozing," said Quincy. "Zey are shy. Zey do not pairform on demand. An' I do not know if zey are ghosts or what zey are, monsieur. Martians, pairhaps?"

  "Sure," said Dunne. "Why not?"

  "My curiosity, she ees piqued." Quincy squinted through his monocle at Dunne. "Zee forces zat speak through you, Monsieur Dunne, makeeng you sound like ze braying ass—what are zey?"

  Dunne had been about to sip his beer. Instead, he smiled and lowered it to the bar.

  He needed to step away for a moment. Quincy was making him crazy. "Okay, then." Dunne got up from his barstool and headed for the men's room. "Back in a jiffy."

  Dunne breathed a sigh of relief when the men's room door swung shut behind him. As much as he couldn't stand conflict, he had a powerful urge to punch Quincy in the face.

  He would never do it, of course, but he wished he could. Quincy might have been funny in small doses, but the constant overkill had gotten obnoxious. He was a man in dire need of an "off" switch. As it was, he never knew when to stop.

  Case in point. Just as Dunne was using the urinal, glad to get away for a minute or two, the men's room door crashed open. In stomped Quincy, singing a song about Hannahlee doing it with The Fonz.

  So much for Dunne's respite. The next thing he knew, Quincy was at the next urinal, crowding him. Poking him with his elbow. Glancing over at Dunne's urine stream.

  Dunne got self-conscious, and his stream fizzled. Quincy, meanwhile, blasted the porcelain with the force of a pressure hose stripping paint from a house.

  "Somebody need a prostate exam," said Quincy. "Not that I'm the boss of you."

  "Will do." Dunne wasn't finished, but he zipped up and headed for the sink. All his life, he'd handled conflict the same way—let it go and moved on without a fight. Hated himself later. Felt ashamed.

  "That reminds me." Quincy was still blasting the urinal with what seemed like a never-ending stream. "Have you heard the one about the proctologist and the gerbil fur coat?"

  Dunne never wanted to hear it, never even wanted to hear about it...but he dreaded the conflict that might happen if he told Quincy how he really felt. If he told him to shut the fuck up and let other people hear themselves think for a change.

  "How does it go?" said Dunne.

  "This proctologist brings home a fur coat for his wife." Quincy finally stopped pissing. "His wife wants to know what it cost, so she can brag about it—but she can't find the price in his checkbook or credit card statement."

  Dunne washed and dried his hands. He reached for the door handle, eager to escape.

  That was when Quincy fell silent. He just stopped talking in mid-joke.

  It was such a novel occurrence that Dunne hesitated at the door. He turned to see if something had happened.

  Before his heart could beat once more, Dunne was slammed up against the door. The wind was knocked out of him, the door pinned shut behind him.

  And Quincy's face loomed inches away, eyes rolled back in their sockets so only the whites were visible.

  Dunne gaped as Quincy's blank eyes stared down at him. He wondered briefly if this were some kind of shtick, a practical joke from the impractical joker.

  But when the moment dragged on, and Quincy wouldn't let go, Dunne started to worry. Fear seared its way to the top of his mind, plunging him into an irrational state.

  Compared to Dunne, Quincy was a giant—tall and broad-shouldered, with tree-trunk arms and hands like hams. Even if Dunne were the type to fight back, he wouldn't stand a chance against Quincy.

  Better to try to talk his way out of it. "Quincy? What're you doing?"

  Quincy's only answer was to cock his head to one side. The whites of his eyes kept staring at Dunne, as if they were actually seeing something.

  "Are you all right?" Dunne shifted his weight, trying to reach for the door handle...but he couldn't get it. "Is something wrong?"

  Quincy's voice was different when he spoke. It became a guttural rasp, barely more than a whisper. He used it to say just one single word, though he stretched it out so long it sounded like three.

  "Kno-o-o-o-o-x."

  Dunne was torn between puzzlement and sheer terror. He tossed his head, looking for something to inspire an escape plan.

  "Kno-o-ox," said Quincy.

  Dunne's mind raced as he spoke. Quincy could do more than hurt him if he didn't get away soon. "Tell me about Knox, Quincy. What is it? Or who?"

  Quincy cocked his head to the other side. Then, he leaned closer than ever, close enough that he could whisper in Dunne's ear.

  And he said two words. Just two more words.

  "No-o-ot...De-e-e-ad."

  Then, he leaned back. And raised one giant fist.

  Pulled it back. Aligned with Dunne's face.

  "Quincy, no!" Burning with adrenaline, Dunne tried to jolt himself free...but Quincy held tight to his fistful of Dunne's shirtfront. Kept him locked in the crosshairs.

  "Don't do it!" said Dunne. "Don't hurt me!"

  And then, Quincy's fist began to move.

  It slowly rotated, turning on its edge. Thumb toward the ceiling.

  And it opened. Revealed something clutched inside.

  A thick black magic marker.

  Quincy thumbed off the marker's cap. He changed his grip on Dunne, letting go of his shirt and grabbing him by the throat to keep his head still.

  Then, he plunged the marker at Dunne's face. Pressed the tip into the skin of his right cheek. Moved the tip through the flesh, drawing something in black ink. Something Dunne couldn't see.

  A pattern. Like a symbol...or a letter.

  Then, he drew another. And another. Writing automatically. Guided by spirits...or someone or something called Knox.

  Someone or something "not dead."

  When Quincy had finished writing, he collapsed to the men's room floor. He almost took Dunne down with him.

  Luckily, the body on the floor didn't block the door completely. Dunne was still able to pull the door open just wide enough that he could squeeze out of the bathroom.

  Hannahlee was waiting for him on the other side. "Are you all right?"

  Gasping, Dunne slumped against the wall.

  "What happened in there?" said Hannahlee.

  Dunne was having trouble catching his breath. "He went into one of those...trances of his. I thought he was going to...kick my ass."

  "But he didn't." Hannahlee was staring intently, giving Dunne the once-over with her fiery emerald gaze.

  Dunne nodded. "Instead, he..." Dunne pointed at the writing on his face.

  Hannahlee stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy now. Slow, deep breaths."

  Dunne did as she said, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. After a moment, his breathing returned to near normal.

  Hannahlee's eyes flicked to the men's room door. "He just let you go when he was done?"

  "He passed out on the floor," said Dunne.

  "Is he hurt?"

  Dunne felt indignant. "I was the only one who got knocked around in there. I never laid a finger on poor Quincy."

  Hannahlee took his chin in her hand and turned his head slowly from side to side. "Quincy mentioned this word before. When you asked about his ghosts."

  Dunne frowned. "What word?"

  Hannahlee guided him by the elbow to a mirror on the wall between the bathrooms. Finally, Dunne saw what Quincy had written on his face with the marker.

  He read it aloud: "'Martian.'" The "T" was in the middle—crosspiece over his eyebrows, trunk down the length of his nose. "Quincy said his ghosts could be Martians, for all he knows."

  Hannahlee shrugged. "Or it could mean something else altogether."

  Just th
en, Dunne heard noises from inside the men's room. "Sounds like he's coming around."

  Hannahlee listened and nodded. "We can ask him what he meant by writing 'Martian' on your face."

  "You ask him," said Dunne. "I've had enough of being terrorized for one night." He hiked a thumb toward the bar. "I'm calling a cab."

  As more noises filtered from the bathroom, Hannahlee gave the door a wary glare. "I think I'll join you."

  Dunne headed for the bar, and Hannahlee kept pace beside him. "So who's Knox?" he said.

  Hannahlee looked like she might not tell him...but she did. "Quincy's late brother."

  Dunne looked back and nodded. "Knox is dead?"

  "Yes," said Hannahlee. "Why do you ask?"

  "I think I talked to him," said Dunne. "And he said he's not dead after all."

  CHAPTER 20

  Barcelona, Spain - June 5, 1899

  Gaudí stands before me, barking orders. At first, I think he is barking them at me, and I feel annoyed.

  Then, I realize he is ordering a work crew operating a winch, hauling an angel to the heights of a scaffold. It is one of the statues that will decorate my Nativity façade, retelling the story of the birth and life of Jesus Christ.

  From my few glimpses of the plans, and what I've overheard from Gaudí and the workers, it will be magnificent. Inspirational. Organic. A monument like none other in the world, in all of history.

  To tell the truth, I would expect nothing less.

  Through the years, Gaudí and I have gone a long way toward expressing my inner greatness. He has raised me up from a hole in the ground, coaxing my enormity from earthbound roots like a mighty tree.

  Standing before me now with jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled up, he is dwarfed by my presence. My high stone walls loom over him; the spikes of my towers cast long shadows upon him.

  All this, and I am nowhere near finished. In fact, I am barely begun—just a section, just a corner of the whole. How much grander will I be when I am done?