Day 9

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  The next person out of the diner is the one I'm most anxious to see. The one who drove me to doubt my warpath and consider hara-kiri.

  She stops a few feet from the door and looks in my direction. I spot a glimmer of surprise on her face when she sees me—maybe the faintest spark of fear, though I can't be sure—and then all expression vanishes. She gazes blankly at me, her emerald eyes flashing like beacons.

  "Hello." The self-proclaimed Kitty says it calmly, as if she's not overly concerned about seeing me there. As if she doesn't know who I really am and what I've done to her fellow Poison Oaks.

  Of course, she wouldn't be concerned if she really was Kitty, would she? Or is this just an act?

  "Hey, sis!" I grin and wave. "Sorry I'm late!"

  "What's he talking about?" The big guy's glaring, trying to look more scary than scared...but he can't fool me. He might make a move before this is all over, but I already have a decisive psychological edge.

  Kitty, on the other hand, remains unreadable. She tips her head to one side, considering me, running the same mental math I've already done in my head. Weighing the options.

  Not that she has any right now. I've set the scene to run one way only. My script reads like this: we're all one big happy family...until I decide otherwise.

  Kitty understands. "Better late than never. What kept you?"

  "Traffic." I give her a wink. "And pretty girls."

  At that point, the big guy clamps a hand on Kitty's shoulder and tries to pull her aside. "Can we talk for a minute? Over here?"

  "Go ahead, you two." I chuckle and pull out one of my guns—the six-shooter. "I've got some cleanup to do."

  The big guy hesitates, then walks Kitty a few yards away. They talk quietly, so I can't quite make out what they're saying...and the whole time, he never takes his eyes off me.

  Neither does the one on the ground. He's still down there, ass in the red dirt, staring up at me like a baby watching a bear.

  I step forward forcefully and grab his upper arm. The gun in my other hand hangs loose—but it's there. "Let's get you back on your feet." I haul him up, then let go when he's standing on his own. "The dusting-off-your-ass part's up to you."

  I give Scaredy-Cat some space and raise the gun. Sight in on the big ponytailed guy, aiming right between his eyes as he watches me.

  Then, I lower the gun and flip open the cylinder. Pop out and pocket the six shells. Pull out a pipe cleaner and scrub out each chamber.

  While I'm cleaning the gun, I see the big guy perk up a little, thinking I'm disarmed. Thinking he has a chance, maybe.

  For his benefit, I pull the .45 automatic out of my shoulder holster and wave it around a little. Mr. Gung Ho looks more whipped than ever.

  And I go back to cleaning the six-shooter, laughing to myself. Wait till he sees what else I've got up my sleeve.

  Just wait.

  I let the big guy and Kitty conspire as long as they like. No need to rush them. I'm the one who set the deadline for killing all the Willows, after all; I can extend it as much as I like.

  Finally, Kitty raises her voice and chops her hand through the air. "End of discussion."

  As she starts to walk away from the big guy, though, he grabs her by the upper arm. "No, wait."

  "What choice do we have, Quincy?" says Kitty.

  "But he'll...you know." Quincy gapes at my revolver.

  "Easy, big fella." I've finished cleaning the gun, and I'm reloading cartridges in the cylinder. "I have no intention of killing anyone who's a friend of my sister's."

  "Well, that's comforting." Quincy tries to sound agreeable for my benefit, but he can't quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice completely.

  "Glad to hear it." As I smile at Quincy, I realize I like him the least. Everything about him strikes me as totally false, concealing an unfathomable inner turbulence. I wonder what evil he has done in the name of the Oaks, what secrets he has buried in his rotten black heart.

  I swear, before this is over, I will know. I will know everything.

  "So where are we headed?" Hands on hips, I walk toward their rent-a-car. "What's our destination, sis?"

  "Hannahlee, don't." Quincy tugs Kitty's arm once more. "Remember what he's done..."

  Kitty breaks away. "Like saving the Willow family again and again? Saving the town of Justice and all its citizens from criminal monsters? Saving the President of America himself and preventing the Ku Klux Coup?"

  Kitty marches over and gives me a big hug. "Sounds pretty good to me," she says. "Sounds like the best big brother in the world."

  I kiss the top of her head. For in instant, just an instant, I forget there's a chance—a big one—that she's not Kitty Willow at all. I have the reunion I've craved all along, the one I've dreamed of, the one I've killed for.

  And then it all rushes back to me. The Poison Oaks must be destroyed.

  I pull away from Kitty, but I keep a hand on her shoulder. "Where to? Where do we go from here?"

  Her green eyes flash upon me. "New Justice, New Mexico. What do you say to that, brother?"

  Grinning, I tousle her hair. "I call shotgun."

  CHAPTER 27

  Barcelona, Spain - July 27, 1909 - "The Tragic Week"

  People have been rampaging through the streets for days, but only now do I worry. Only now, as the fires leap to life across the nighttime skyline.

  One after another, they flare in the darkness. The fires are scattered, not spreading in a continuous wave...and yet, there is a definite pattern.

  I see it all too clearly. They are burning the churches.

  For the first time in my life, I experience true fear. Among churches, I am the standout, visionary and unique...unfinished, yet always controversial.

  How long will it be until they come for me?

  I do not even fully understand why this is happening. I've overheard snippets from people in the streets, but not enough to make sense of it all.

  The violence has something to do with a labor strike, and oppression, and human suffering. A distant war. Greed and corruption. The businessmen are to blame...or the government...or the Church. The priests and nuns, the fathers and sisters.

  Is that why they're burning us down? To get to the clergy? Or do they blame us for something? Do they hate us for what they imagine we've done?

  Don't they understand how little they mean to us?

  Flames roar and crackle above the howls of the mobs. Sparks swirl skyward, and the air is filled with ash. I am showered by the charred remains of the rooftops and timbers and crosses and pews of my brethren...though I've never thought of them as such until tonight. As my brethren.

  I've always thought of myself as something wholly new and different, having more in common with the man who built me than with any other building. I've always thought of myself as possessing greater powers and a grander destiny. Entitlement. Permanence.

  Tonight, I realize I'm as vulnerable as any of them. Men built me, and men can destroy me.

  Another fire ignites, closer than the rest. My destiny approaches like a rider on the horizon.

  And still, there is no sign of Gaudí. My creator has not come to defend me. I have not seen him since this all started, days ago.

  Perhaps I can still find hope in his words, though. His prophecy. Once, he said that I will "rise above all this." He told me I will soar.

  What better night for this prophecy to come true? What better time to attain my freedom and achieve my epic purpose?

  I gather my strength and prepare for the effort. I concentrate as best I can amid the shouts and crashes and gunfire.

  Everything has been leading up to this. My entire existence. I can feel it. I've always known I was meant for something grand...and what could be grander?

  I focus all my energies on lifting off. Every iota of will, I aim at breaking the bonds of the Earth, leaving behind the flames and madness. Escaping with my life.

  And then...as I push with all my might...I see myself climbing higher,
ever higher...shedding loose bits of stone and mortar along the way...towers gleaming in the shimmering moonlight...and the mobs stop burning churches and gaze upward in wonder at the spectacle...the first of my kind...

  Only none of this is real. It's wishful thinking, inspiring me to struggle...but only for so long.

  A distant explosion shatters the vision. I realize I'm not gliding through the twinkling night sky, fulfilling my prophesied purpose. In fact, I haven't left the ground.

  I haven't moved at all.

  I keep trying, redoubling my concentration and willpower. Straining to get away from Barcelona while I still can.

  In the daydreams of my idle hours, it seemed so easy, so natural. As if all I had to do was want to soar, and it would magically happen. How many times was I sure, after an especially vivid dream, that I had risen, at least a little?

  But the knack seems to have left me. Fires burn closer, and I try harder than ever...but nothing changes.

  I am trapped. I have always been trapped, but never knew it till now.

  There is nothing I can do but sit and wait for the end. And curse my creator.

  Where is Gaudí? Why has he left me alone when I need him the most?

  Have I failed him? I certainly haven't relieved his loneliness, which I once thought was the purpose of my life.

  Have I disappointed him? More than once, he has confided his fear of being left with nothing but me...as if that would be a terrible thing.

  Have I abandoned him? Over the years, I've pulled away, caring less about him as I've grown and developed. As I've evolved beyond needing him.

  Or is the real problem that I dared to think I didn't need him? That I reached the point where the strongest emotion I felt toward him was no longer love? That I came to think of myself as extraordinary, destined to roam the heavens...

  And came to think of my maker as something small, designed to serve me.

  If only he were here right now; if only he could hear me. I would beg for his forgiveness, tell him I've seen the error of my ways. I would swear to be humble and serve him forevermore...if only he would save me in this darkest hour.

  But he is not here.

  Instead of trying to soar, I focus my mind on calling out to him. Maybe, if I try hard enough, Gaudí will hear me after all and rush to aid me.

  If he can. If even he can stand against the angry mob and keep them from setting fire to me.

  Gaudí. Help me, Gaudí.

  He does not appear, but I think there's still a chance. If only I survive until then.

  Suddenly, a pack of men runs into the street from around a corner. One of them stops to look at me.

  He carries blazing torches in both hands.

  This is it. The end has come.

  He calls out, and some of his comrades come back to join him. All of them hold torches or bottles of gasoline.

  In times past, in my vanity, I came to think of people as roving spots of warmth, not much bigger than a bird or a cat. I thought that just as I was destined to soar, they were destined to gaze at me in wonder.

  I never realized until tonight that what they were destined to do was destroy me.

  CHAPTER 28

  Natchez, Mississippi - Today

  "There's always room for another Willow," said the killer who called himself War. "Welcome to the family, baby brother Dunne!"

  Dunne was so scared, he could hardly think. He nodded and smiled at War, who sat beside him in the back seat of the Hummer rent-a-car. "Thank you."

  "And welcome to you, too, Quincy Willow." War reached into the front seat and clapped Quincy's shoulder. "Father Law sure picked two righteous justice-lovers as the latest Willow foster kids."

  "Darn tootin'." Quincy's voice was tight as he drove. The back of his neck—what Dunne could see around the ponytail—was soaked with sweat.

  "Just one thing I don't understand," said War. "How come I didn't hear about these new foster brothers till now? I mean, we didn't even get a chance to put 'em through the Truthtalking Ceremony on Crucible Mountain."

  "They were supposed to be a surprise," said Hannahlee. "But then we had to field every able body because of the emergency." Dunne was amazed at how calm her voice was. She didn't seem to be rattled at all.

  Dunne, on the other hand, was scared enough to self-destruct. There he was, defenseless, trapped in the back seat with a heavily-armed maniac who'd already killed three of the original Weeping Willows.

  It was enough to give a coward like Dunne a major stroke...and a seizure...and a heart attack, all at once.

  "Too bad about the surprise," said War. "But I'm proud to have two fresh braves in my tribe." He smacked Dunne's upper leg and rocked it back and forth. "You're ready to make the ultimate sacrifice in the name of freedom, aren't you?"

  Dunne's blood froze at the murderer's touch. "Darn tootin'." He knew his voice was weak and unconvincing. He also knew the strength of his voice didn't matter; he wasn't fooling the killer for even a minute.

  Setting up Dunne and Quincy as new Willows had been Hannahlee's idea. She played it up as she stayed in character as Kitty Willow...but Dunne was sure War saw through all of it. That he had everything figured out.

  And the four of them were playing a game of cards in which they all knew each other's hands already.

  "So, Dunne." War grinned at Dunne in a friendly way, as if he'd never dream of hurting him. "Where are you from?"

  "Los Angeles," said Dunne. Hannahlee had told him and Quincy to stay as close to the truth as possible. The less they had to make up and remember, the better.

  "How did you end up in foster care?" said War. "What happened to your family?"

  Again, Dunne told the truth. "Shot to death by an intruder." It was exactly what had happened to his family—not his parents, but his wife and daughter.

  War frowned. "Really?"

  "Yes." As War gazed deep into his eyes, Dunne wondered how long it would be until he killed him. How long till War got tired of the game, pulled out a gun, and unloaded it into Dunne? Or would he even use a gun?

  "Then you've come to the right family, bro." War rubbed Dunne's shoulder. "The Willows are all about justice."

  Dunne's heart jackhammered. "Good." He wished he'd run away back at the flying saucer instead of getting in the car...even if War had shot him dead. Better to have gotten it over with instead of letting the killer play with him like this.

  "What about you, brother Quince?" War released Dunne's shoulder and laid his hand on the driver's seat headrest. "What's your hometown?"

  "Akron, Ohio," said Quincy. "What's yours?"

  War chuckled. "Justice, Arizona, as you well know." He drummed his fingers on the headrest. "Tell me, what happened to your family?"

  "They were devoured by a combined horde of locusts and Mongols." Quincy's voice was still tight as he told the joke. He didn't sound like his usual wacky self.

  Just then, Hannahlee spoke up. "Quincy deals with tragedy through laughter...which is just what we need right now, don't you think?"

  "Absolutely." War patted Quincy's head. "It's one of the pillars of inner peace. It doesn't get any groovier."

  "We all bring our unique qualities to the family," said Hannahlee. "That's why the Willows are winners."

  "Good for you, Kitty," said War. "That's what Mom used to say."

  "You mean the Mom who died when you were a baby?" said Quincy. "Whose sayings, therefore, you should not be able to remember?"

  Dunne couldn't believe what he'd just heard. His gaze shot from the passing darkness beyond the side window to Quincy's eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  Hannahlee jumped in fast. "I told him what Mom said, Quincy."

  Quincy's eyes in the mirror were bloodshot and bulging. "Are you sure about that, Sis?"

  Dunne didn't look over at War. He didn't want to do or say anything that would make matters worse. Anything that would set him off, if Quincy had not already done so.

  War's voice, when he spoke, was calm. "Con
gratulations, Quince."

  "For what?" said Quincy.

  "For testing me," said War. "Proving I'm not an imposter."

  "Is that what I did?" said Quincy.

  "We can't be too careful, with the Poison Oaks in play," said War. "Just remember, it works both ways. Now I have a question for you." He leaned forward toward Quincy. "What do you know about Knox Pittenger?"

  Quincy was silent for a long moment. Dunne thought he might stay that way.

  But he finally spoke. "Knox is my brother. My late brother. Why do you ask?"

  "He's been writing a great blog," said War. "All about your travels. I assumed he was with you—another foster brother, maybe."

  Hannahlee shot a look at Quincy. She had to be thinking he was the one who was blogging, in defiance of her orders. Dunne was thinking exactly the same thing.

  "No, he's not with us." Quincy glanced at Hannahlee, then returned his gaze to the road ahead. "He's dead."

  No one mentioned Knox's recent cryptic messages, channeled by Quincy. Dunne thought they were in rocky enough territory as it was.

  "You're sure?" said War. "About Knox being dead?"

  "Absolutely," said Quincy.

  "How come, bro?" said War. "Did you kill him?"

  Quincy didn't answer.

  "I gotta tell ya, I'm not wild about traveling with a killer." War tapped Hannahlee's shoulder. "Who vetted this guy, anyway? How'd he get through the screening?"

  "Quincy's not a killer," said Hannahlee.

  "Brother killing brother." War shook his head. "It's the oldest story in the book."

  "It's none of your business." Quincy's voice grew louder.

  "Mm-hm." War turned and smirked at Dunne. "Hey, hero." War pulled back his Army fatigue jacket, then lifted up his yellow smiley face t-shirt. "Tell brother Quince what I'm wearing back here."