Lottie, ever grinning, headed drunkenly down the stair hall.
“Do it! You know! Like last time…”
The drifting female voice again.
“Who the hell’s here?” Collier barged back into his room.
The bedroom remained empty.
He brought his hands to his face, rubbed his eyes.
But now,
Like a dog panting.
Collier’s hands slowly lowered.
By the baseboard, a small, ugly dog snuffled. Was it eating? Now came licking sounds…
Collier stared in disbelief.
It was lean, mud colored, a mongrel. It didn’t seem aware of Collier as it snuffled around the baseboard.
Collier, unmindful of how this might look, loped after Lottie and caught up with her just before she’d start downstairs. He grabbed her arm and looked right into her eyes.
“Lottie. Do you have a dog?”
She shook her head no.
“Do any guests have pets with them?”
Another shake.
He scratched his head. “There’s a dog in my room, Lottie. First I heard it, then I
Lottie’s grin disappeared. Very slowly, she shook her head no.
“Just…come and see so I know I’m not going nuts.” And then he guided her sheet-draped form back to his bedroom door, opened it, and took her in.
No dog was present.
“That’s…crazy,” Collier mumbled. “First I heard voices, then—I swear—I heard and saw a dog.”
Lottie tightened the sheets around her body, slipped back out of the room, and scurried away.
It was now that Collier’s drunkenness crept up on him.
When he went to bed, he left the light on.
Shapeless dreams haunted the murk of his sleep. Sounds:
Children laughing?
A dog barking?
And, later, the voices.
The woman: “Just do it!”
The man: “Good God, you are one dirty broad to want me to do somethin’ like
“Just…do it…”
CHAPTER SEVEN I
A rugged man in a leather hat by the name of Cutton rode them up the main street on a new two-horse wagon. The steeds looked strong and healthy, and the wagon had iron-spoked wheels and slat springs: more proof that Gast had a lot of money behind him. The air of the street cleared Poltrock’s head quickly. He felt purged.
“So how far’s the junction?”
“Not but two miles, just out of town,” Cutton said. He sounded like a Marylander, or a Delawarean.
“It’s a nice town,” Poltrock observed of the clean streets and well-constructed buildings. Women in bonnets and bustle dresses strolled past shops with tidy men in tailcoats. Orderly slaves off-loaded goods from wagons.
“It sure is. We got a fine whorehouse here, and, well, I saw you in Cusher’s Tavern last night so you know we got good liquor. The general store’s always full up, and folks come from all over to buy boots from our cobbler. We even got a doctor and an apothecary.”
Just then the horses pulled them past a sign: GAST—POP. 616.
“Yes,” Poltrock said. “This town’s got more to be said for it than Chattanooga. Strange I ain’t never heard of it.”
“Used to be called Branch Landing since we got statehood in ’96. Weren’t nothing but a little trading post then. Called it that ’cos three main roads branch out from here, one to Richmond, one to Lexington, and one to Manassas, the three biggest Southern rail junctions that have lines from Washington. But once Mr. Gast came to town, they just said to hell with it and named the town Gast. These folks worship the ground he walks on. He built everything here.”
“Plantation money’s what I heard,” Poltrock said over the next bump.
“Owns thousands of acres, here and other states, too.”
“What other states?”
“Don’t know.”
“This ain’t Virginia, you know, or the North. How’s one private man own all that land and manage the Indians?”
“Killed ’em. What did you think?”
Past the final buildings on the main street, they could see the Gast House.
Poltrock shuddered at a chill. His sickness had passed. He hadn’t known what to make of any of it when he’d been inside.
Cutton said nothing as he tended his reins.
“A fine house to look at, but I mean…there’s just somethin’ funny about it. I swear I was seein’ things, hearin’ things, even
Cutton remained silent.
Poltrock tried to push the memory out of his head. “Felt sick as a dog when I was in there.”
“You was likely hungover,” Cutton finally spoke up. “I saw you at the tavern last night, in your cups.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You meet his wife?”
“I did. Seems nice, sophisticated.”
Did Cutton smile to himself? “She’s somethin’, all right. How about his kids?”
“I saw a blonde girl with a dog for a minute.” And then Poltrock gulped at what he thought he’d seen next. “Like about fifteen, sixteen or thereabouts.”
“That’s Mary, and there’s another one—nine, I think—a brown-haired little girl named Cricket…” Cutton stalled his next words, which Poltrock found curious.
“Yeah?”
Cutton gnawed off the corner of a tobacco plug. “Well, see, Mr. Poltrock, I understand that you’re a man with some credentials. I heard you were the track engineer for the Pennsylvania Railroad.”
“That I was, but what’s it got to do with Mr. Gast’s children?”
Cutton spat over the side. “I’m just an inspector—all of a sudden a very well-paid inspector but still. You’re
