Day 9

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  As soon as they crossed the threshold, the door started to close. Dunne heard a shout behind them and turned to see Weed charge the opening...but he didn't make it in time. Before Weed could force his fur-coated girth through the gap, the door closed the rest of the way. Dunne caught a last glimpse of Weed's fat fingers futilely scrabbling at the dwindling gap, grasping for purchase.

  And then the door shut with an echoing boom.

  ***

  Warpath Journal

  Dateline: New Justice, New Mexico

  The bloody corpses on the floor of the Team Room are not the bloody corpses from my vision.

  Instead, they are a mix of hero and villain. Agent Mohican lies dead alongside a pair of thuggish gunmen. Gary Escuchar's body lies motionless in the arms of a dead Rainbow Bride. Kenya Willow—Poison Oak, I should say—is sprawled dead in a corner, facing the corpses of the seven Brides and gunmen she took with her.

  Standing above it all, wiping his bloody hands on his gray fur coat, is one of my greatest enemies.

  Soon to be an ally.

  "I already killed you, didn't I?" Jeremiah Weed gives me a puzzled look as two of his guards lead me into the room.

  As I let them lead me into the room.

  "Oh, well." Weed bends down, takes a rifle from the corpse of one of his brides, and points it at me. "I never could turn down a gift horse."

  That's when I start laughing. I really let loose.

  "What's so funny, shithead?" By the third time Weed says it, his voice is a howl of rage.

  "You're about to kill your new best friend." I take a step forward, and the guards follow. "How stupid is that?"

  Weed scowls at the crack but doesn't shoot. "Best friend? Some War Willow wannabe? How do you figure that one?"

  I just got into town, but I can make a pretty good guess at what happened here. My pals' Hummer parked out in front of the house is worth a couple million words. So is the sight of Weed's men beating on the Team Room's secret door with crowbars.

  "We want the same people." I gesture at the secret door. "I can help you get them."

  "Sure you can." Weed sneers behind the gun sight. "Good thing you showed up when you did."

  "They betrayed me." I let the venom drip. It's no trouble at all after the long walk out of Salt Basin and the long drive across Texas and New Mexico. "I want blood."

  "But they are your blood, aren't they?" says Weed. "The bitch claims she's a Willow."

  "They all claim it," I tell him. "And they're all imposters. Traitors." The venom turns to fire. Every muscle in my body clenches for what comes next. "They must die."

  Suddenly, I spring across the room. In a heartbeat, I am upon him, snatching away the rifle...clamping it across his throat and wrenching his arm behind his back.

  "Zastee!" I wail my war cry. "Kill!"

  Weed's guards surge forward with pistols drawn but stop short of us, guessing I'll kill their boss if they come closer.

  Guessing correctly.

  Weed acts like the tables haven't turned. "I don't need you to do my killing." He snorts and snickers in my grip.

  "Do you know where they went?" I squeeze the rifle against his throat. "Where the secret tunnel ends up?"

  Weed shakes his head.

  "Well, I do." I laugh in his ear. "Maybe the real question isn't whether you need me, but the other way around. Why the hell do I need you?"

  "Because I've got the bait, smart guy." Weed nods at one of the guards, who leaves the room and heads down the hall.

  When the guard returns, I recognize his captive right away, even though there's a burlap sack over his head.

  He's six and a half feet tall, with chest and shoulders as broad as billboards. Wears a black leather vest with red flames over a pink Kitty Willow t-shirt. His bluejeans have holes in the knees from when I kicked the shit out of him back at the fan film movie studio.

  As the guard removes the burlap sack, I'm overjoyed. At first sight of that face, I want to run right over there and give him what's coming to him.

  In other words, the beating of the century, followed by death. The long, slow kind.

  "Brother Quincy!" I let go of Weed and flow smoothly out of his reach. "Fancy meeting you here!"

  Quincy's eyes pop wide. He can't talk because of the gag in his mouth, but the look on his fat face is still priceless.

  "See what I mean?" says Weed. "Bait."

  "Now I'm feeling the love." I spread my arms wide. "I really think we can make this relationship work."

  Weed wags an index finger and clucks. "Easy, big fella. I get all the love I need from my Rainbow Brides...and you are not Rainbow Bride material."

  "I just think we're a perfect fit." Grinning, I pretend not to notice one of Weed's men trying to sneak up behind me. "Plus which, I've got the perfect recipe for a trusting partnership."

  "Do tell." Weed's keeping me talking to give his man time to get in position. "What might this recipe entail?"

  "Just one secret ingredient, really." I let Weed's man get one step closer, and then I open my jacket wide and peel up my yellow smiley face t-shirt.

  When I show Weed what I've got under my shirt, his mouth drops open. When I turn and show his man who's been sneaking up behind me, he doesn't come an inch closer.

  The only one in the room who doesn't look surprised by the blocks of plastic explosive strapped around my waist is Brother Quincy, who knew they were there all along.

  "Weapons of mass destruction." I smile as I say it. "I dare you to think of a better guarantee of a beautiful friendship."

  CHAPTER 44

  Though the secret door had closed, Dunne and Hannahlee still hurried through the tunnel with wounded Leif between them. The further they got, the more of a head start they'd have if Weed broke down the door and came after them.

  By the glow of dim fluorescents in the ceiling, they hobbled between limestone walls, heading steadily downward. The tunnel looked the same as in the TV show—floors of fine, white sand, pale walls painted with red and black petroglyphs like those of ancient desert-dwelling Indians. Every few yards, modern cave paintings appeared among the ancient ones on the walls—scenes from the Annals of the Willows, portraying the family's crimefighting history. There were niches, too, carved out of the rock, filled with souvenirs from Willow "cases"—rifles, pistols, broken eyeglasses, a black candle, playing cards, a horseshoe.

  All together, it was a perfect recreation. It was almost enough to make Dunne feel like he was one of the Willows on the show, rushing toward another adventure.

  It seemed to have the opposite effect on Leif. Instead of becoming more Willow-like, he broke character for the first time.

  "Just like on TV." Wincing and gritting his teeth against the pain, Leif gaped at the passing cave paintings. "Just like on Weeping Willows."

  Dunne nodded. It was the first time he'd heard Leif talk about anything Willows-related as being rooted in a TV show instead of reality.

  "We always wondered if these tunnels were down here," said Leif. "We looked, but we could never find them."

  Around a bend, the tunnel forked—but there was no doubt about which way to go. The branch on the left was dark, and the one on the right was lit.

  The pattern repeated twice more further ahead. Both times, the tunnel forked in different directions, one dark and one lit.

  Eventually, though, Dunne wondered if they should have picked the dark branches.

  He, Leif, and Hannahlee turned a corner—and stopped. Instead of more tunnel or a chamber, they were facing a dead end. Another limestone wall.

  "I don't remember this from the show." Dunne reached out and ran his fingers over the wall. "I thought we were headed for the Burrow."

  Suddenly, a voice spoke from hidden speakers...Gowdy's voice. "For future reference, the password is 'Godseye.'"

  With that, the dead end slowly slid open.

  And Dunne's eyes slammed shut as blinding white light washed over him.

  After walking through
the dim tunnels for so long, it was like staring into the sun. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he managed to squeeze them open a crack...and all he could see was more of the same white blaze.

  That and the throbbing blood vessels in his retinas. And the dark spots that started dancing across his vision.

  For a moment, he thought the hourglass-shaped blob in the middle was one of those spots—a consequence of the sudden transition from darkness into light. Then, instead of dancing randomly, the blob moved closer with purpose and enlarged.

  The hourglass grew a skinny, oval head and stick-figure arms and legs. As it came still closer, the head and appendages thickened and became more defined. The figure went from looking like a spindly extraterrestrial, silhouetted in the light from its landing craft...

  To looking like a human being.

  And then, as Dunne squinted through watering eyes, the human being resolved itself further. Took one more step, coming close enough to eclipse enough of the blinding light that its features became visible.

  And recognizable.

  The figure was a man, a few inches taller than Dunne. His head was carpeted with thick, silver stubble. The brightness of the picket fence teeth in his massive grin was matched only by the eggshell whites of his wide eyes.

  He slid his hands from the pockets of his long white lab coat. With a forefinger, he adjusted his ruby red-framed glasses, pushing them back along the bridge of his nose.

  Then, he reached for Leif. "Let me help you with him."

  His voice was the same raspy baritone that had come from the burning TV in the Team Room. It was somehow familiar, though Dunne had never met him in person.

  "Thank you, Cyrus," said Hannahlee, stepping out from under Leif's arm and handing it over.

  When Dunne heard the name, there was no question in his mind, if there had ever been one. The figure in white was the man he'd been looking for all along. Since the beginning.

  His name was Cyrus Gowdy.

  The main ingredient in the vast chamber was light. There wasn't a dark corner or shadow in sight.

  That much was clear as Dunne helped Hannahlee and Gowdy haul bloody Leif across the room. As Dunne's eyes adjusted to the brightness, he was able to pick out details—and realized that everything around him was awash in light projected from every direction.

  Dunne saw floodlights mounted everywhere—on the ceiling, up and down the walls, along the perimeter of the floor. Everywhere Dunne turned, there were banks of them, burning with heavenly white radiance—packed so closely together that sections of the pale limestone walls looked like they were made of nothing but light.

  There was one inarguably solid object at the heart of it all, standing out in the sea of pulsing luminance. It loomed in the middle of the chamber like a giant totem pole, a towering, silver hub that reached all the way from floor to ceiling. The big bulb at the base was inlaid with monitor screens, scopes, and control panels. The rest of the way to the ceiling, the cylindrical center stalk bristled and bulged with antennae, cables, speakers, and what looked like camera lenses.

  "What the heck is that thing?" Leif gaped up at the tower as Dunne and Gowdy helped him around it. "Some kind of metal sculpture?"

  "Actually, it is a kind of art," said Gowdy. "Was, is more like it."

  "Why do you say that?" said Leif.

  Gowdy glanced up at the tower. "Things don't always come out the way you imagine them, do they?"

  "That's for sure," said Hannahlee.

  As the four of them continued across the chamber, Dunne was surprised at how empty it was...much emptier than the TV version had been. Weeping Willows' underground refuge—the Burrow—had been jammed with weapons, supplies, tools, fuel, and equipment. The TV Burrow had included endless stacks of crates, rows of beds and lockers, a martial arts ring, even a chapel and library.

  Not this one. Much of the space around the central tower was empty. Other than the tower, overflowing workbenches along the walls, and a modest living area in a far corner, Dunne saw little in the way of clutter or furnishings.

  "This way, please." Gowdy directed the group to the living area—a table, chairs, and iron-framed bed on a big square of beige carpeting.

  Following Gowdy's lead, they lowered Leif onto the bed and propped up the pillows behind him. From there, Gowdy hurried to the nearby bathroom area—a toilet, tub, and sink built into the limestone wall. Gowdy grabbed towels from a freestanding rack and soaked them in hot water, then handed them off to Hannahlee.

  "Clean up those wounds and let's see how bad they are." Gowdy's white lab coat flapped behind him as he ran to a workbench. He opened a series of drawers and slammed them shut, one after another, until he found what he was looking for: a magnifying glass the size of his fist.

  Back at the bed, Dunne held the wet towels while Hannahlee ripped open Leif's shirt and peeled it from the wounds. Leif wailed when the denim came away from the bloody holes in his right shoulder and side.

  The wailing got much worse when Hannahlee cleaned the wounds. Leif thrashed and screamed as she dabbed around the bullet holes with the wet towels; Dunne held him down as best he could, but it wasn't enough to keep him still.

  Gowdy returned with the magnifying glass. "Let me in there." Hannahlee stepped aside, and Gowdy bent over Leif's body, training the magnifying glass on one wound and then the other.

  After several moments of careful inspection, Gowdy stood up and faced Hannahlee. "I think we got lucky," he said. "I think the bullets went all the way through."

  "You think or you know?" said Hannahlee.

  "I hope," said Gowdy.

  Hannahlee sighed. "I don't suppose there's a surgical suite down here?"

  Gowdy shrugged. "Does a first aid kit count?"

  "I guess it'll have to," said Hannahlee. "Bring me whatever booze you have on hand, too. And a sewing kit, if you have one of those."

  Gowdy narrowed his eyes and stared at her. "What exactly have you got in mind here, Lianna? Did you pick up some skills on the set of a hospital drama?"

  "Nursing school," said Hannahlee. "I'm an R.N."

  Gowdy's grin, lost in the emergency, returned in all its brilliance. "Wonderful! So that's what you've been doing for the last twenty years!"

  "Only some of them," said Hannahlee. "And I'm not a doctor, but I think I can help him." Her fingertips brushed over Leif's sweaty forehead. "Which is more than you're doing, Cyrus, by making me wait for that kit."

  Still grinning, Gowdy gave her the magnifying glass. "Will do, Nurse Ratchet." Turning to go, he waved for Dunne to follow. "Give me a hand, will you?"

  Dunne fell in step beside him.

  "So you're Dunne Sullivan." Gowdy extended a hand as he kept hurrying forward. "The screenwriter, yes? Of the big-budget Willows movie?"

  Frowning suspiciously, Dunne shook Gowdy's hand. "How do you know about that?"

  "A little bird told me." Gowdy winked, then attacked the cabinets over a workbench. He opened and closed each one in a matter of seconds, judging the contents with a glance. "By the way, the answer is 'no.'"

  "'No' what?" said Dunne.

  "No, I won't sign your release form." In the fourth cabinet he tried, Gowdy found a metal case the size of a shoebox. The base was blue and the lid was white with a red cross in the middle. "Here we are!"

  Dunne's frown deepened. "You know about the release?"

  "Run this over to Lianna, will you?" Gowdy tossed him the kit and kept rummaging. "Better make it snappy!"

  "How did you know?" said Dunne. "About the release?"

  Gowdy turned. Grin widening, he reached out and playfully swiped a knuckle across Dunne's chin. "Don't worry," he said. "Your trip wasn't in vain."

  Dunne shook his head roughly but didn't manage to clear away the confusion he felt. "What are you talking about?"

  "You'll get what you came for." Gowdy nodded. "And then some."

  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.