Day 9

Chapter 5

Chapter 5“Maybe Cyrus Gowdy is dead," said Scott Savage, a.k.a. Leif Willow. "Did you ever think of that?"

Dunne shrugged. The truth was, he was having a hard time thinking about anything other than Savage calling one of his novels "a poor excuse for toilet paper."

It was one thing hearing negative comments from a Joe Schmo reader or getting a bad review from some hack critic. Being body-slammed by a childhood idol like Savage was something far more profoundly disturbing.

"Halcyon Studios thinks Gowdy's alive," said Hannahlee. "Somewhere in the fan underground."

"Might as well be the Weather Underground," said Savage. "I haven't seen or heard from the old bastard in decades."

"So you don't have any idea where he might be?" said Dunne. "Any place he might have mentioned years ago?"

Savage ignored Dunne's questions and took Hannahlee's hand. "I haven't seen you in almost as long," he said. "How wonderful that you should walk back into my life like this today."

Hannahlee winced. "Feeling's mutual." She said it through clenched teeth.

"Let's meet later for a drink." Savage kissed her hand and released it like a dove. "Just the two of us."

"You're here as a guest?" said Hannahlee.

Savage nodded proudly. "I'll be performing my one-man show onstage tomorrow."

Hannahlee reached into her purse and pulled out a white business card, which she handed to Savage. "Please call me if you hear anything about Gowdy, Scott."

"Likewise." Savage produced a card from his vest pocket and handed it over with a flourish. "Let me know how your search turns out."

"Thanks for your interest." Dunne's voice was tinged with sarcasm.

Savage caught his gaze and held it. "Leif Willow would never take drugs. Falling Leif was a disgrace to the character."

"He was undercover," said Dunne. "Tracking his girlfriend's murderer."

Savage's glare intensified. "Leif is a role model. I wonder how many kids who read your book ended up thinking 'it's okay to take drugs if Leif does it.'"

"Are you serious?" Dunne couldn't believe he was arguing with the actor who'd played Leif about how he'd portrayed Leif in a novel.

"Did you know I pitched them my own Leif book? A whole series of them for kids." Savage folded his arms and sneered. "Instead, the publisher puts out trash like Falling Leif."

Dunne could see he'd never win, so he kept his mouth shut. He only regretted that his image of Scott Savage—and by extension, Leif Willow—had been forever tainted.

"Poison." Savage jabbed a finger at Dunne. "That's what you spread." He turned his gaze on Hannahlee. "Isn't that right, Lianna?"

Hannahlee's expression was unreadable. "Are you sure you can't think of a lead for us, Scott? Maybe someone who can point us in the right direction?"

Savage narrowed his eyes. "Now that you mention it."

"A lead?" said Hannahlee.

"Weeping Willows' biggest fan," said Savage. "He's here. If anyone can guide you through the fan underground, it's him."

"What's his name?" said Hannahlee.

"Windsor." Savage pointed down the corridor. "He was scheduled to appear in the Bradford Room at three. Maybe you can still catch him."

Everyone was on their feet. When Dunne and Hannahlee walked into the crowded room, everyone was up, clapping along with the song.

Dunne barely caught a glimpse of the singer between the swaying bodies of the crowd. All he really got was an impression of someone big in a puffy white shirt, playing an old-fashioned stringed instrument.

The voice, though, was enormous and distinct. It boomed through the room like thunder, operatically deep and resonant as cannon fire. The clarity was perfect; every word was exquisitely shaped, from the multiply trilled "R"s to the sibilant "S"s. The singer further decked the lyrics with swings of mood and nuance, infusing them with wild, reckless life.

As he sang a dirty song about Kitty Willow.

To the tune of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia."

"Kitty went down on Holly," he sang, "and the sisters began to squeal. Bella and Kenya joined the party, jumping right in to cop a feel."

As soon as Dunne realized what the song was about, he shot a glance at Hannahlee, wondering if he ought to spin her right around and out the door. Her face revealed no reaction.

When the singer strummed a final chord and held his instrument high, the audience erupted with cheers and applause.

"I love this guy," said a pudgy young man next to Dunne. "He is the god of filk."

"Filk?" said Dunne.

"The one and only slashfic filker!" As the young man headed for the stage, Dunne saw the singer's face on the back of his black t-shirt. Below the face, in Gothic letters, was a name.

Sweet Quincy Windsor.