Day 9

By Robert Jeschonek

Somewhere in the world, a genius builds a machine to bring mankind closer to God.

Somewhere in time, another genius builds a cathedral with a mind of its own.

Somewhere on the road, three searchers race a serial killer to find the man with the key to salvation.

It takes the sound and fury of Day 9 to bring them all together. If God took six days to make the world and rested on Day 7, humanity has spent Day 8 tearing it all apart. Everything changes on Day 9, when we get it right at any cost...or lose everything. On Day 9, a God’s-eye view of the world collides with the visions of a living, breathing cathedral in a war between the delusions of yesterday and the dreams of tomorrow. A war between beauty and mediocrity...love and hate...madness and sanity...life and death.

If the unlikely heroes in the heart of the storm can’t face down their own demons, the deepest secrets of maniacs and murderers could bring the hope of the future crashing down forever.

Don't miss this edgy, exciting, surprising, and thought-provoking thriller in the tradition of Tim Burton, the Coen Brothers, Thomas Pynchon, and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. It’s the latest novel from award-winning storyteller Robert T. Jeschonek, a master of unique and unexpected fiction that packs a punch.

Reviews

"Robert Jeschonek is the literary love child of Tim Burton and Neil Gaiman--his fiction is cutting edge, original, and pulsing with dark and fantastical life. His stories suck me in and refuse to let me go until the last page, even as his characters are busy stealing my heart." – Adrian Phoenix, critically acclaimed author of The Maker's Song series and Black Dust Mambo

"...Robert Jeschonek is a towering talent..." – Mike Resnick, Hugo and Nebula Award-winning author

"Jeschonek ́s stories are delightfully insane, a pleasure to read..." – Fábio Fernandes, Fantasy Book Critic

Contents

Full-length novel plus novel preview

About the Author

Robert T. Jeschonek is an award-winning writer whose fiction, comics, essays, articles, and podcasts have been published around the world. DC Comics, Simon & Schuster, and DAW have published his work. According to Hugo and Nebula Award winner Mike Resnick, Robert "is a towering talent." Robert was nominated for the British Fantasy Award for his story, "Fear of Rain." His young adult urban fantasy novel, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist, is now available from Clarion Books/Houghton Mifflin Harcourt and received a starred review from Booklist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Jeschonek
• Release date: Sep 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466079618

Book preview

CHAPTER

ONE

NEAR LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA - TODAY

Three...two...one.

The church exploded in a tremendous blast of fire and smoke. Rubble rocketed in all directions as an ear-splitting boom cascaded across the valley. Flaming debris crashed down on car hoods and bounded over the pavement. A church bell hurtled into the cab of a garbage truck, smashing through the windshield with a loud, discordant bong.

An enormous, blazing crucifix plunged on the roof of a car speeding away from the blast, sending it spinning in circles. Tires squealed as the car swept around and around, finally slamming into the pump in front of a gas station, which then exploded.

A plume of fire shot skyward from the pump, blowing the car end-over-end across the street. The gas station windows shattered inward, and every car on the block bounced from the force of the blast. Power lines snapped and whipped like cobras, spraying showers of sparks through the air.

Then, suddenly, someone yelled, Cut! And the whole movie crew erupted in wild applause at once. Everyone behind the cameras clapped and hooted and whistled at the spectacular display of carnage.

Dunne Sullivan clapped, too, though he felt as dazed as he was excited. The mayhem had left him in a state of shock; he wasn't part of the crew and wasn't used to spending time around high intensity action scenes during filming.

It was true Dunne made his living off movies and TV shows, but he did so by writing tie-in novels based on them. Till today, the closest he'd been to a movie set or location shoot was the TV screen in his apartment.

But according to Thad Glissando, producer extraordinaire for Halcyon Studios, he'd be spending a lot more time there from now on. Hey now, hero! Thad clapped Dunne on the back, jolting him forward. "Think we got enough bang for our buck here?"

Dunne nodded and grinned. "I want toys like that for my movie."

Thad laughed. Don't worry! He ran a tanned hand over his slicked-back blonde hair. "Weeping Willows The Movie will have twice the budget of this picture."

Dunne got a shiver of excitement just hearing the title. He was going from lowly tie-in writer to Hollywood screenwriter just like that. All thanks to a bestselling novel he'd written about the cult classic 70s cop show Weeping Willows, a kickass hit breaking big just as Thad was gearing up for a Willows movie.

So Dunne was about to write a major motion picture. Meeting on location with Thad would seal the deal, and then Dunne, at age 25, would finally get his shit together.

At least as much as he could ever get his shit together after what he'd done to his family.

Ready to start writing? Deep crescent dimples set off Thad's mile-wide smile like parentheses. Does this get the creative juices flowing? He spread his arms wide to take in the smoky set, hissing with the spray of fire hoses putting out flaming debris from the shoot. The afternoon sun flared on the sleeves of his tailored white suit, giving him a radiant, angelic glow.

Are you kidding? said Dunne. When do you want the first pages?

Thad threw an arm around Dunne's shoulders and gave him a squeeze. "Actually, you need to do some preproduction first. Thad nodded and raised his blonde eyebrows. Some research."

Research? Dunne frowned. What kind of research?

On location. Thad turned Dunne from the set and pulled him along as he started walking. Expenses paid, of course. And you'll have a partner.

Partner? Dunne kept frowning. Thad was guiding him in the direction of a white limousine parked alongside a trailer twenty yards away. A writing partner?

"More like a hunting partner, said Thad. And inspiration."

Suddenly, Thad jammed two fingers in his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle in the direction of the limo. Time for your close-up, Hannahlee!

The back door of the limo swung open, propelled by a slender arm. A woman's arm in a long, black sleeve.

As Dunne watched, the woman's arm withdrew. After a moment's pause, her foot slid out, wearing an ivory pump. It was followed by a shapely leg in pale white hose. A black skirt with white piped trim rippled just below the knee.

Thad elbowed Dunne in the ribs. Take a deep breath, kid. This is what they call a life-changing experience.

Thad's warning did no good. Dunne still wasn't ready for what he saw. For whom he saw.

When the first foot touched the pavement, the second one swung out beside it. Dunne saw more of the dress: gathered waist, wide white belt, white buttons. Understated, businesslike, crisp. As the woman braced herself against the seat, he saw white piping running from cuff to shoulder along her sleeve.

Squinting into the shadows of the limo, Dunne strained to glimpse her face. For a moment, all he could make out was a faint, gauzy shape, like a veil concealing her features. Like a ghost.

Then, suddenly, she emerged. She pushed up from the seat and stood straight, revealed all at once before him in bright daylight.

Which was exactly when Dunne gasped.

He could not believe his eyes. Not even a little. She couldn't be.

Thad laughed beside him. I was wrong, wasn't I? He shook Dunne's shoulders. "Life-changing experience is putting it mildly."

Dunne nodded and stared.

She was striking. The woman at the limo was in her late fifties or early sixties, at least. She was dressed conservatively, and the red color in her shoulder-length hair must have been dye.

But she was still striking. And not just because of who she was. Not just because she'd been the biggest star of the Weeping Willows TV show. Not just because Dunne had worshipped her from afar and written book after book starring her character.

She was most striking because of the way she carried herself. The way she stood there, tall and regal in the late afternoon southern California sun. Thirty years past her Weeping Willows glory days, twenty years since she'd dropped out of the public eye...and still somehow resplendent, impressive, luminous. Still the star of all she surveyed.

Dunne stumbled as Thad walked him to the limo. His heart pounded, and nervous chills flashed through his body. His mouth went dry, and his palms turned wet.

There she was. Right in front of him. The actress who'd played Kitty Willow. Kitty Willow.

Dunne Sullivan, said Thad. Meet Hannahlee Saylor.

Dunne frowned as Thad pushed him toward her. He recognized the woman, but not the name. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Saylor. He extended his hand. Or should I say Ms. Caprice?

The woman smiled and shook Dunne's hand. Lianna Caprice was a long time ago. Her voice was so familiar, deep and velvety, yet cracking with age on the lowest notes. I go by Hannahlee Saylor now.

Dunne shivered as he held her slender hand. Until now, she had never been quite real to him. An image on a TV screen, she might as well have been a goddess, transfigured in distant cloud tops and rainbows.

Dunne held on to her hand for an extra moment, aware of nothing but her face, her presence, her touch. Her blazing green eyes, locked with his.

Finally, Thad broke the spell. "You two will be spending a lot of time together. We need you to find the ultimate Weeping Willows authority."

Dunne let go of Hannahlee's hand. He suddenly felt self-conscious and broke eye contact with her, too. Who's that?

Cyrus Gowdy, said Thad. Maybe you've heard of him.

Of course he had. "The creator of Weeping Willows."

Bingo, said Thad.

Dunne combed his fingers through his thin, sandy hair. But no one knows where he is, right?

Thad shrugged. You see our problem.

He's been off the grid for what? Five years? said Dunne. Is he even alive?

He's out there somewhere. Hannahlee said it definitively.

There are more rumors than you can shake a stick at, said Thad. "But we think there's some truth to them. We think he's hiding somewhere in the Weeping Willows fan underground."

Dunne scowled. There's a fan underground?

Is there ever! Thad rolled his eyes. "Which is why we need you two. Kitty Willow herself and the writer whose books have kept Weeping Willows alive all these years. You'll have instant entrée with the fan community."

Dunne rubbed his chin. And you want us to find Gowdy why, exactly? He had a thought, and his hopes and dreams took a sudden nosedive. Do you want him to write the screenplay?

No, no. Thad chuckled and thumped Dunne on the back. "But he is the only one who can save the movie. We need him to sign a release."

What kind of release? said Dunne.

"In Gowdy's original contract, he signed over everything to Halcyon Studios...almost, said Thad. But he still has right of refusal on future Willows projects."

Like movies, said Hannahlee.

See where we're going with this? said Thad. No signed release from Gowdy...

"...no Weeping Willows The Movie. Got it. Dunne nodded and clapped his hands together. So when do we start?"

Show him the flyer, said Thad.

Hannahlee slid a folded sheet of pale blue paper out of her pocket and handed it to Dunne. It was an ad for the 25 th Annual Willowcon in L.A.

"The world's biggest convention for Weeping Willows fans, said Thad. Might be a logical place to start, eh?"

This is tomorrow, said Dunne.

Then that's when you start. Suddenly, Thad shot his hand in the air. So can I get a 'Hey now, hero?'

It was the most famous catch phrase from Weeping Willows. Dunne knew it well, but he hesitated. Meeting the piercing green gaze of Hannahlee, he felt exposed. As if she could see through to what he really was. As if she knew he was as far from being a hero as anyone could get.

Because the truth was, Dunne's wife and baby daughter had died because of him. Because when a murderous gunman had broken into their home, Dunne had been too scared to fight back. He'd been too much of a coward to fight for his family's lives.

The truth was, Dunne was the opposite of a hero. But he said it anyway, to placate Thad. To move forward with this chance to turn his life around.

This chance for him to change.

Hey there, hero. Dunne said it half-heartedly.

What're we fightin' for? said Thad.

Love and justice, said Dunne.

You're darn tootin'. Hannahlee frowned at Dunne as she said it.

CHAPTER

TWO

BARCELONA, SPAIN - NOVEMBER 1883

I am at a crossroads when he enters my life.

A year and a half ago, a bishop laid my first stone. In the time since then, I have grown; workers have dug and lined my foundations, sprawling over this space in the heart of the city.

It is a fitting spot, as I am meant to become that heart...beating with the rhythm of the faithful, given over to love of God and His creation. Everything about me is intended to express that love for as long as I shall stand.

Yet I do not love God. I know nothing about Him, and I know nothing at all of love.

At least until today.

Today, I see the newcomer for the first time. My patron, Señor Bocabella, walks him around the cavity of my foundation, describing his vision of me with grand sweeps of his hands.

The newcomer weaves a vision with his hands, too, but the pictures he draws in the air are much different than Bocabella's.

I overhear Bocabella call him Gaudí.

To craft a fitting tribute to Our Lord, we must use His language. Gaudí sweeps his arm overhead, taking in the bright blue sky and shimmering sun. The language of Nature.

Stern Bocabella grunts and nods. You are a true believer, Señor Gaudí, and your ideas are inspired...but I am not sure that is enough.

Gaudí drops his arm and shrugs. What else do you want from me? Spinelessness? Blind obedience? Perhaps your last architect would have lasted longer if he had had more of these.

Let me tell you what I think of Señor Villar: he is nothing like you.

I'll give you that. Gaudí rubs his bearded chin. "I am even more stubborn and less cooperative than he...at least when I am right."

Which is always. Bocabella says it with a sly half-smile.

Gaudí chuckles. "Perhaps we do understand each other."

As they walk onward, I wonder if Gaudí will get the job. I wonder if he will build me. I wonder if I want him to.

This is the crossroads I face: I need someone new to bring me to life. Someone who will not hold me back. Someone who will give voice to the greatness that gestates within me.

Is he the one? I wish I could tell—but for now, his true potential lies as hidden as my own.

What if I told you I had a dream? says Bocabella. A dream that I should hire you?

I would say that the only dreams I live by are my own. Gaudí smiles and parts from Bocabella, strolling to a section of the knee-high stone wall rising from my foundation. He crouches, black frock coat brushing the ground, and runs his hand along the row of granite blocks.

I gaze up at him as he touches me. His bright eyes blaze in the sunlight like twin blue flames, piercing the dusty afternoon air with unusual force.

He startles me with the strength of his stare. For the first time, I feel as if someone is looking directly at me—not at my foundation, but my true self, my spirit.

Mesmerized, I watch his every movement and expression. I cannot look away.

And then he does something no one else has ever done to me. Something extraordinary.

He tells me a secret. He whispers it so that I alone can hear.

I will make of us a cathedral like no other.

That is what he says. Us, as if somehow he intends to build himself, too.

His hand is warm on my granite. He smiles, and something quickens inside me. I know that I will never be the same.

Well, Señor? Bocabella's sharp voice breaks the moment. Will you humor me? Or shall I summon the next candidate? Have you turned your back on the Holy Family of Our Lord?

Gaudí pats my wall...and winks at me. I realize, as he pushes himself to his feet, that I do not want him to go.

Turning, he brushes the dust from his hands. Congratulations, he says. You're hired.

"I'm hired? Bocabella laughs. And what will you pay me, jefe?"

Grief and insubordination, says Gaudí. "Struggle and strife and pain. Endless controversy. And genius. All the ingredients we need to exceed our limits.

And if we are lucky, I will pay you one thing more, says Gaudí. A prayer for all Barcelona...all Catalonia...all mankind. A prayer so huge and lasting and wild that God Himself will not wish to look away from it.

Your ambitions match my own, says Bocabella. Very well. I will go to work for you.

And I will build your cathedral, says Gaudí. "I will build your Sagrada Família."

My spirit soars as he says my name for the first time. My mind rushes with excitement at the thought of us two working together in days to come...of him lavishing his attentions upon me. Teaching me to fulfill our mutual dreams.

I cannot imagine what he will make of me, but somehow, I know it will be grand. Somehow, though we have only just met, I trust him without reservation.

Somehow, I know that this was meant to be.

CHAPTER

THREE

WILLOWCON 25 - LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA - TODAY

The audience at the panel discussion was huge—hundreds of Weeping Willows fans packed into a hotel ballroom. Everyone watched as five speakers at a table at the front of the room argued about which Willows characters had had sex on the show.

It could only have happened at a Weeping Willows convention.

Foster kid orgies! said a chubby, middle-aged woman in a wild sarong at the end of the table. "Is that all you people can talk about?"

The big room erupted with a storm of babble and laughter. The four other panelists at the table fought to talk over each other. All three hundred or so audience members raised a commotion at once.

Except two. In the very last row of chairs at the back of the ballroom, Dunne and Hannahlee sat silently.

If the rest of the crowd had realized Hannahlee was among them, they would have gone even more berserk. They would have swarmed her, clutched her, carried her off like cartoon ants carrying off a picnic sandwich. But Hannahlee had changed so much, no one recognized her as Kitty Willow.

Oh come on! The woman who had started it all drowned out everyone else. Her sarong was blindingly bright yellow and pink. "Who doesn't think Leif was banging Kitty?"

"Now that, said a sequined man in a wheelchair at the far end of the panel, is what I call getting some pussy."

The crowd roared with groans and laughter...but the reaction in the back row was different. Hannahlee turned to Dunne and caught his eye. Though her expression was unreadable, it wasn't a smile of any kind.

Suddenly, a fresh ruckus drew Dunne's attention back to the panelists. Sequin Man and Sarong Woman were having it out with a guy in the front row of the audience.

"I say the Willows are even better role models as brother-sister lovers, said Sarong Woman. Their shared intimacies create a very functional family."

"Are you nuts? said the guy in the front row. There was no incest in Weeping Willows. It was a family show!"

You're right. Sequin Man stroked his long, purple wig. "It ain't incest if the brothers and sisters aren't blood relations!"

That was when Dunne decided he'd had enough. Turning to Hannahlee, he realized that she was way ahead of him.

Because she was already gone.

When Dunne walked out of the ballroom, Hannahlee was waiting for him. She sat on a padded bench against the wall of the corridor, eyes trained on the ballroom doorway.

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

FOUR

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