Day 9 (11 page)

CHAPTER 23

Cyrus Gowdy was at least twenty years younger in the photo. It was in color, eight inches by ten, mounted in a simple frame of black plastic.

And it was a revelation.

Gowdy stood under the twenty-foot Martian with the Martianland sign in the parking lot...only the Martian was a statue of a man with a beard and a long, black coat.

And the sign did not say "Martianland."

"What the fuck is 'Gaudiland?'" said Quincy. He had to duck to keep from bumping his head on the rafters of the little house under the willow.

It was more like a big shed, actually, extending ten feet from the tree's trunk in all directions. Light filtered in through the rows of tiny windows on all sides...but the brightness didn't change the fact that the place was extremely cramped and cluttered.

Shelves ringed the tree trunk, four high, piled with big, yellowed rolls of paper and dusty paint cans and cardboard boxes. Plastic tubs formed a kind of workbench around the inside wall of the façade, heaped with old tools and parts and rags.

Scattered amid the junk were a few framed and unframed photos. The one with Gowdy by the "Gaudíland" sign had been hanging from the trunk, right at eye level, when Dunne had first come in the door.

"'Gaudiland.' 'Gaudiland.'" Giant Quincy scowled...then grinned. "Wait! I get it! It's a typo!"

"Typo?" said Dunne.

"'Gaudiland.' Sounds like 'Gowdyland.'" Quincy nodded excitedly. "It's Gowdy's park,
Gowdyland
...but they screwed up the sign in the photo!"

“Not ‘Gowdyland.'” Hannahlee had spread out one of the big rolls of paper and was staring at it. “Not a typo, either.”

Dunne, Quincy, and Starla crowded around her. As Dunne gazed over Hannahlee's shoulder, he thought the top sheet of paper looked like some kind of plan for the park.

“It's ‘Gaudíland.'” Hannahlee stressed the “i” when she said it. “As in Antonio Gaudí. The famous Spanish architect.”

“Really?” Starla leaned closer to the page.

“Well of course!” said Quincy. “I knew it all along. Wanted to see how long it'd take for the rest of you to figure it out.”

“When were these drawn?” Dunne, like Starla, had to lean closer to see the fine details, since the pencil on the plan had faded.

Hannahlee lifted the plans higher and squinted at the bottom of the sheet. “The date on them is 1980.”

“Wow.” The drawing was an elevated view, looking down from above, but Dunne still recognized some of the structures he'd seen in the park. “And Cyrus never mentioned this place?”

Hannahlee shook her head and rolled away the top sheet. The next page was a building plan for a single structure—the very “house” in which they stood, complete with willow tree.

In the information grid at the bottom of the sheet, Dunne saw the name of the building...and it wasn't remotely Martian. “'Casa Milá,'” he said. “That's what this place is supposed to be.”

“Something Gaudí designed?” said Hannahlee.

Dunne shrugged. “What's next?”

Hannahlee turned to the next sheet—a drawing of “Castle Mars,” complete with tower topped with abstract flowers. “'El Capricho,'” she read. “That's our castle.”

When Hannahlee rolled away the sheet for El Capricho to reveal the next, Dunne grinned and jabbed the paper with his finger. “I
knew
that wasn't the original paint job.”

The drawing on the page showed the “Great Wall of Mars” in all its original glory. Instead of coats of monochromatic paint, the rippling wall in the sketch was surfaced in jigsaws of fractured tile imprinted with fragments of a multitude of designs.

“'Park Güell Bench,'” Dunne read from the sheet. “So much for the Great Wall of Mars.”

Hannahlee flipped to the next sheet. “The Sphere-Beast and Dragon Lion are also from Park Güell." She turned another page. "And the Martian Invasion Rockets are the Palacio Güell Chimneys.”

"Lots more pages, too." Dunne fingered the stack of sheets. "Enough for every attraction in the park, I'll bet."

"Incredible." Starla hooked a finger through the loop of her sweater's zipper pull and tugged it down a fraction of an inch. "I never would have guessed."

"Did Cyrus build this place, then?" Hannahlee slowly turned another page. "If so, why? And why have I never heard of it before?"

"Who turned it into cheesy Martianland? That's what I want to know." Dunne admired the latest plan in Hannahlee's hands—a blocky structure covered in blue and white checkerboards. "The original buildings were awesome."

"I can't even argue with that." Quincy scooped a handful of photos out of a shoebox. "These pictures of the early park
kick ass
."

Dunne grabbed a few photos from the shoebox and flipped through them. Quincy was absolutely right.

Some of the photos showed the original structures in the park, pre-Martianland...and some were clearly of the full-size Spanish buildings on which they were modeled. Aside from the difference in scale, the models and originals looked identical—showpieces of ingenuity and craftsmanship, each in its own right.

One in particular leaped out at him—an immense, unearthly cathedral. Its towers looked like massive pods or fingers growing toward the sky. Its walls were a forest of statues surrounded by leaves and branches cut from stone. The whole thing looked raw and organic, not at all like a typical cathedral of squared-off corners and sharp spires and uncluttered walls.

Flipping over the photo, Dunne read the name on the back:

La Sagrada Familia
.

 

CHAPTER 24

Barcelona, Spain - November 1906

Though I have yet to understand my true purpose, I sense my destiny approaching like a rider on the horizon. It comes closer with each passing day as I continue to grow. As my magnificent bell towers slowly reach toward the sky.

Someday, there will be four of them, unique and enormous, tips brushing the very clouds that drift overhead. They will be unlike anything ever built by mankind, anything ever imagined.

Though only two have been started, and they are barely taller than forty meters, I can feel the full presence of all four of them already. I can feel their height and weight and shape like phantom limbs.

And I know they will be great. I know they will overshadow every man and woman in Barcelona—in all Catalonia.

Every one of them.

"That window's off!" Gaudí stands inside the base of one of my towers and shouts up at the men on the high scaffolding. "Do I have to come up and do it
myself
?"

"No, señor." One of the men looks down and waves. "We'll take care of it right away."

"While you're at it," says Gaudí, "clean up that seam!"

"This one, señor?" Another man runs his finger along a mortared joint between layers of stone block.

"The one I'm talking about is directly across, on the other side of the tower." Gaudí points. "But while you're at it, clean up
that
seam, too."

"You see that well from all the way down there?" says the man.

"One of the benefits of living a God-fearing life." There is no lightheartedness in Gaudí's voice as he says it...only bite.

Then, slipping his notebook back into the pocket of his black frock coat, he turns on his heel and marches out of the tower.

What style! I cannot help but admire him. He knows his own genius and his place in the world, and he claims them. He acts with conviction, exercising his authority to ensure the realization of his vision.

Others respect him. They fear him. But he doesn't let that stop him from getting things done. He doesn't let it get in his way.

He
uses
it. He is always in control.

Outside, Gaudí stops and gazes up at the rising heights of my tower. He strokes his white beard with one hand and lays the other against my stone wall.

His heat flickers upon me, not much stronger than the warmth of a pigeon or a cat. It is weaker than it once was, though his influence in the world continues to grow.

"You are coming along well, I think." He pats me as he says it. "The one thing in this world that has not failed me."

It has been a long time since he last spoke to me. I have become more self-sufficient...but my spirit brightens as I hear his words. I am glad for his company.

Even though his tone is sour.

"Yes, Sagrada Família," says Gaudí. "Unlike my
father
,
you
will never let me down."

I am pleased that he appreciates me...but I sense his praise is hollow. His words are heavy with sorrow and anger and exhaustion.

With darkness.

"And
you
will never be like
Rosa
, will you?" says Gaudí. "My
niece
, who is like a
daughter
to me?"

Again, his voice is laden with darkness. He presses both hands to my wall and leans his full weight against me.

As he bows his head, a single droplet falls to the ground. A tear from his eye.

"It feels like my world is ending." His voice is choked with emotion. "My father died last week. My Rosa is drinking herself into oblivion. I think she is determined to follow my father into
death
as soon as she can."

Gaudí draws and releases a shuddering breath. I have never seen him like this. I realize now how wrong I was about him being always in control.

For the first time in my existence, I feel sorry for him.

"My dream is coming true," says Gaudí. "You and I together...completely alone. All my family and friends gone. Nothing left but my work. But
you
."

He does not say it with love. I wonder at the disappointment in his voice, the palpable regret directed at me.

Where is the love he once so clearly expressed? The pride and hope that shone through when he referred to us as one self? When he told me he would "make of us a cathedral like no other?"

Then again, where is
my
strong feeling?

I've only just realized: I am not as moved by his condition as I should be. Pity is all I feel...and not much even of that. Something fundamental has changed between us.

Have we simply been apart too long? Have we both grown in different directions?

Or has only
one
of us grown?

"Is this the price, then?" Gaudí's voice quavers, and more tears fall. "For one
wonderful
dream to come true, must a
terrible
dream come true, also? If I am to build this magnificent tribute to Our Lord's Holy Family, must I lose every loved one of flesh and blood? Must I die
alone
, in a prison of
stone
of my own
making
?"

He slumps against the wall and begins to weep. There was a time when I would have ached to reach out and console him. A time when nothing mattered more.

Now, as I listen, my mind begins to wander. My focus drifts to a conversation among the men on the high scaffolding. They are projecting how long it will take for my four bell towers to be finished.

Next, I drift around to a dog peeing on one of my columns. From there, I follow a handful of young children running and hiding around my cloisters.

By the time my attention returns to Gaudí, he has pushed away from my wall. He has not quite regained his composure, but the tears have stopped.

He inhales deeply and exhales slowly, steadying himself. He straightens his coat and looks up at me.

"At least
you
will succeed," he says. "
Your
destiny, at least, is clear." He points a finger at me. "
I
might be miserable, but
you
will
rise above
all this.
You
will
soar
."

There is bitterness in his voice, but I overlook it. I take his words to heart. His prophecy.

It comes in the midst of his suffering, but I believe there is truth to it. I've been searching my soul for ages to divine my true purpose...and now I've found it.

For a while now, I've thought I was meant for more than drawing the faithful to worship or attracting companionship to relieve my creator's loneliness. I've suspected Gaudí has a grander plan in mind for me...that I contain too much greatness to be limited to a humble ambition. I've also come to believe that I myself might have to take a hand in shaping my own destiny.

Now, I understand. I am
not
meant to be limited to a mundane purpose. I
am
too unique to be constrained by the expectations of mortal men. I
will
have a role in controlling my destiny—an extraordinary, unprecedented role.

What I will do is this: I will rise up, scaling new heights, ascending the heavens as no other cathedral before me ever has. Not simply by growing, stone by stone, inch by inch.

Gaudí said it himself. I will soar.

Literally.

I will rise up out of the Earth and take to the air. I will explore the far corners of this world, learning and evolving as I go, imagining new destinies that expand my potential.

And when I am done with this world, I will rise even further, climbing to meet the stars and powers of the night.

As for the people, the roving spots of warmth not much bigger than a pigeon or a cat, they will do what they always do when it comes to me.

They will gaze at me in wonder.

 

CHAPTER 25

 

Barcelona, Mississippi - Today

"I wonder what happened to this place." Dunne tossed the photos back in the box and reached for another yellowed roll of paper from the shelf on the trunk of the willow tree. He unrolled it, revealing a new and different set of plans. "They were going to
expand
."

"You're kidding," said Starla.

"Nope." Dunne grinned as he gazed at the faded drawings. "They planned to add a whole new section, about the size of the original park. Ten more attractions, including rides."

"All this for a Spanish architect," said Starla.

"Must've been
some
architect," said Quincy.

Hannahlee raised the lid of one of the plastic storage tubs. "But what's the link to Cyrus? Where is he right now?"

Dunne set aside the roll of drawings and opened a plastic tub of his own. Squatting beside it, he fished through layers of financial material, stapled and wrapped in big rubber bands. Many of the pages bore Cyrus Gowdy's distinctive signature—the "R" shaped like a gun and the "O" like a peace symbol.

Before long, though, he found something much more interesting. Snatching it out of the tub, he read the text on the cover, then unfolded it to read further.

It was a pamphlet for Gaudíland.

"Gaudí was Gowdy's inspiration," said Dunne, paraphrasing for the others. "Gowdy idolized his 'unbridled originality.' He wanted to do for TV what Gaudí did for architecture."

"So he built this park in Gaudí's honor?" said Starla.

"He put it in Barcelona, Mississippi because Gaudí was based in Barcelona,
Spain
." Dunne flipped the pamphlet over and scanned its backside. "He wanted to introduce people to Gaudí's unique work."

"So now we know the connection to Gowdy," said Hannahlee.

"But when did he
dis
connect?" said Quincy. "When did the
Martians
take over with their little green wee-wees and beeping antennae? Or is that
beeping
wee-wees
...?"

"Nothing about that here." Dunne tossed aside the pamphlet and went back to fishing in the tub. All he found were copies of the same pamphlet and more financial documents.

Slapping the lid back on the tub, Dunne got to his feet and stretched. That was when he made the big find.

Looking up, he spotted another roll of paper tied atop one of the rafters. It had been hidden out of the line of sight while Dunne and the others had searched the shelves and boxes and tubs down below.

Quincy untied it and brought it down. Everyone gathered around as he carefully unrolled it.

This time, there were only a few sheets in the roll...three or four. The paper wasn't as yellow...and the drawings weren't as professionally done as the others had been.

They were more like hasty sketches than detailed plans or blueprints. Each showed a different version of what looked like a town or small city, laid out on a grid on a barren landscape.

"Holy fit!" Quincy pointed to a title scrawled across the lower right corner of the top sketch. "Does that say what I
think
it says?"

Hannahlee read it aloud. "New Justice, New Mexico."

"Oh, God." Quincy's hands shook, rattling the pages. "Oh, this is just
too
good. Can you say 'spontaneous orgasm?'"

"What's the big deal?" said Starla.

"Cyrus Gowdy created the TV show 'Weeping Willows' in the 70s," said Dunne. "'Willows' was set in the town of Justice, Arizona."

"Of which
this
is a
map
." Quincy's eyes bulged as he jabbed a finger at spots on the drawing. "Here's Posse Ranch...Justice Commons...Crucible Mountain. Not to mention Waystation Cemetery...Highburn...Scratchtown." Quincy's eyes were still huge when he looked up from the pages. "So why is it called
New
Justice? And why
New Mexico
instead of
Arizona
?"

The hair on the back of Dunne's neck stood up. "What if Gaudíland isn't Gowdy's only park?"

Hannahlee's fiery green eyes flashed upon him, then swung around to Quincy. "Is there a date on those plans?"

"Negatory." Quincy ruffled the pages in his grip. "But they don't look as old as the rest."

Dunne leaned in for a closer look. "What about a specific location? Latitude, longitude, landmarks, anything?"

Quincy studied the first sheet and shook his head. He did the same for the next two sheets in the roll...then stopped at the last one. "There's an arrow pointing to
Antelope
...and a distance."

"That narrows it down," said Dunne.

"
If
New Justice exists," said Hannahlee.

"Yeah." Dunne scratched his face. "You'd think we would've
heard
of it by now."

"We never heard of
Martianland
before today," said Quincy. "Or
Gaudíland
."

"Another failure, then?" said Hannahlee.

"Maybe Gowdy's a better TV producer than amusement park developer," said Quincy.

Dunne frowned. "But New Justice would be different, wouldn't it? There would've been a lot of interest from
Weeping Willows
fans, even in a failed park." He shook his head. "I don't think it was ever built."

"Or it's a
secret hideout
," Quincy said in a stage whisper. "There's some pretty remote country out thataway."

"What would Gowdy need to hide from?" said Dunne. "Other than the obvious."

"You mean other than the guy who thinks he's War Willow who wants to kill him?" said Quincy.

"Exactly," said Dunne. "Gowdy was hiding long before the killings started."

"Well, du-uhhh!" Quincy crossed his eyes and bobbled his head. "Have we forgotten a little something called '
Godseye
?'"

"The secret project." Dunne shrugged. "I have my doubts."

"That it's why he's in hiding?" said Quincy.

"That it
exists
," said Dunne. "Sounds more like a rumor whipped up by fans."

Quincy raised an index finger. "What about Enrique?" He smirked and lifted one eyebrow. "He said Gowdy needed info on digital post-production for a
big
film
project
of some kind."

"Maybe Enrique got it wrong," said Dunne. "Or maybe Gowdy told him what he wanted to hear."

"
You're
the one who has it wrong." Quincy shook his finger in Dunne's face. "
All
wrong."

Just then, Hannahlee stepped up and grabbed Quincy's wrist. "Anything's possible," she said.

Hannahlee had an instant calming effect on Quincy. All signs of anger evaporated from his face as he let her guide his arm away from Dunne.

"Bottom line," said Hannahlee. "Do we try to find New Justice?"

Dunne thought about it for a moment, then sighed. "We don't exactly have any other clues."

"Yippie-ki-yay!" Quincy grinned as he rolled up the drawings. "I can't wait to get there!"

Dunne nodded. "It'd be great if we finally found Gowdy."

"Gowdy who?" said Quincy. "I can't wait to get to the
Oven Mitt
for Nina's
chicken fried steak
and
vidalia onion pie
!"

 

Dunne was starting to feel like a screenwriter. He was starting to think he would get that movie deal after all.

Not that he acted any less pessimistic in front of the others. As they sat in the Martianland snack bar, he kept up a cynical pose. Quincy and Starla were giddy, but Dunne stayed as low-key as Hannahlee...maybe more so.

Meanwhile, he was daydreaming about being on the set of the big-screen
Willows
movie. Listening to the actors recite the dialogue he'd written. Making suggestions to the director.

No more writing hack tie-in novels for piddling paychecks. No more taking shit from know-nothing editors. No more fighting for every scrap of work and positive reinforcement.

Soon, he would be in hog heaven, living the dream of a lifetime. In spite of his doubts along the way, he had survived his brush with death—with the killer—and was about to be rewarded.

Because where else could Cyrus Gowdy possibly be, if not in New Justice?

"So all we have to do is get Gowdy to sign a release, and we're golden," said Quincy. "The
Weeping Willows
movie will start production. Our man Dunne will write it."

"No kidding." Starla smiled and nodded at Dunne.

"And I...I'll get...uh..." Quincy scowled and pointed a ketchupy French fry at Hannahlee. "Say, what
do
I get when this is over?"

"Money," said Hannahlee. "You're on Halcyon's payroll for this job, remember?"

"What about a
bonus
?" said Quincy. "
Dunne
gets to write a
movie
. What about
me
?"

Hannahlee sighed. "Tickets to the premiere?"

"I was thinking a
speaking role
," said Quincy. "And
co-producer
credit."

Hannahlee held up an index finger. The finger twitched, then shot all the way to one side.

"Aw, shit." Quincy rolled his eyes.

"What?" said Starla. "What is it?"

"Bullshit Detector." Quincy waved listlessly at Hannahlee's finger. "I
spiked
it again, as fusual."

Dunne almost smiled. It was easier to take Quincy's goofing around knowing that soon he wouldn't have to take any more of him at all. After New Justice, after they obtained and delivered Gowdy's signed release to the studio, there would be a parting of the ways. No more Quincy shenanigans, maybe ever.

Of course, that would mean Dunne might never learn the full story of Quincy's dead or not-so-dead brother, Knox. Dunne might never find out Hannahlee's story, either—where she'd disappeared to and what she'd been doing for the last twenty years. What the "biggest mistake" of her life had been.

Dunne had to admit, he'd regret not learning those secrets, especially Hannahlee's. The fan in him was dying to know Kitty Willow's true fate; the writer in him craved the details as fodder for future stories. Future screenplays, preferably.

Still, it would be good to be finished. No more running around the country, racing the clock. No more dead TV stars. No more exposing his cowardice in the face of mortal danger. Time to relax, catch up on his sleep, and savor his reward.

He was looking forward to it. As he stared into space, he imagined the good times that were coming his way in the days ahead. That was why he almost didn't see the magic marker that was coming his way at that very moment.

Dunne spotted it out of the corner of his eye, just as the tip lunged toward him. He leaped up and back so fast that he knocked his chair over—but at least the marker missed him. At least he wouldn't get a word scrawled across his face this time.

Instead, Quincy ended up writing on someone else. Eyes rolled up in his sockets, he lurched around and grabbed Starla's arm. As Starla yelped in surprise and tried to pull away, he scrawled words in black ink across her palm.

"What's he
doing
?" said Starla.

Hannahlee got up and walked around to stand beside her...but made no move to stop Quincy. "Automatic writing. He claims something's speaking through him."

Starla waved her free hand in front of Quincy's face, and he didn't react. "Like ghosts, you mean?"

"He doesn't know," said Hannahlee.

"It's how I got
this
." Dunne pointed to the fading word
Martian
that was printed across his face.

Quincy turned Starla's hand over and wrote on the back of it. Then, he let go and slumped in his chair with a shuddering groan. The uncapped marker dropped from his grip and rolled across the floor.

"What does it say?" said Dunne.

Starla turned over her hand and read the words on her palm. "'Help Knox.'" Next, she read the words on the back. "'Hes coming.'" She frowned and reread it. "Ghosts left out the apostrophe. 'He's coming.'"

"'He' who?" said Dunne. "Knox? He's the one who's coming?"

"Who's Knox?" said Starla.

"My...brother." Quincy was starting to come out of his trance. "He...died."

"And you told me he's
not dead
, when you gave me this." Dunne pointed to the word on his face. "Or maybe
Knox
told me
himself
."

"
What
?" Quincy made a grab for Starla's hand, but she yanked it away from him.

Dunne scratched his face. "So Knox is back from the dead, and he's coming?"

"Or someone else is," said Hannahlee.

"Or no one," said Dunne. "And this is just a prank."

"But he's been right before," said Hannahlee. "About the killer thinking he's War Willow. About Cyrus' connection to Martianland."

"'He's coming.'" Quincy scowled and rubbed his temples. "'He's coming.' What does it
mean
?"

"Cyrus Gowdy." Dunne snapped his fingers. "We're about to find him. He's coming up. Coming soon."

"No, man," said Quincy. "These messages are always revelations...or warnings. This isn't something good. I can
feel
it."

"Whatever." Dunne grabbed the roll of New Justice maps from the table and waved them at the door. "We should get going."

"But we need to figure this out," said Quincy.

"We can do it in the car," said Dunne. "It's a long drive to Jackson."

"Something isn't right." Quincy rested his chin in the pocket between his thumb and forefinger. For once, he looked worried. "I can't explain it."

Dunne didn't want to wait to get on the road. He wanted to finish the quest and get his Hollywood reward as soon as possible. "Come on, everybody." His hand found the doorknob, and he turned it.

"No, wait," said Quincy. "Don't do it."

"I'll meet you outside," said Dunne, and then he opened the door.