The Black Train

carnal craving. She had become his own ice-cream sundae. When his tongue laved her cleavage, her breasts vised his cheeks.

When his tongue slathered over the fudge-covered cross, he recoiled—

It burned like a tiny branding iron.

“—and, see? Those are some of the very first tracks, right there.”

Collier’s head surfaced from the dirty delusion like a bubble breaking sewer water. She’d been talking but he hadn’t heard any of it.

“What’s that?”

She pointed past the cannon, to the brick-paved street. Two parallel lines crossed the quaint lane, and the lines seemed sunken beneath the bricks.

“Oh, railroad tracks,” he finally recognized. “Gast’s railroad, I presume.”

“Right. See that plaque there?”

Another old brick wall sported the plaque: ORIGINAL SITE OF DEPOT NUMBER ONE, OF THE EAST TENNESSEE AND GEORGIA RAILROAD COMPANY—1857.

Collier looked at the strangely rustless rails. “So the original track still exists?”

“Oh, no. Most of it was taken up after the war—for reparations. But they left these here, and there are a few more sections around the town, even with the original ties. But this site, right here where we’re sitting, is where the madness of Harwood Gast officially began in 1857. It ended less than five years later in an area in Georgia called Maxon.”

“Maxon,” Collier uttered. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the place.”

“That’s because it doesn’t exist anymore. The Union army razed the entire area. There’s nothing there now except scrub.”

Collier thought back. “Mr. Sute told me that Gast actually built the railroad to take prisoners to some sort of concentration camp. Was that this Maxon place?”

“Yes,” Dominique grimly replied. “And the prisoners weren’t captured Union soldiers, they were—”

“Civilians. I remember him telling me that, too. Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, from a military standpoint, I mean.”

“Neither did Dachau and Auschwitz, until you consider the motivation behind it all. It wasn’t logistics or efficiency—it had to be evil.”

“So Harwood Gast was the Hitler of the Civil War?”

“Maybe worse, simply because Gast was never political. He was a private citizen,” she said. “He was never in office, and he never bid for office. He simply built his railroad and killed himself.”

Collier smiled darkly. “His service was done, the pact complete: building a railroad that had no military use during a war. Himmler answered to Hitler, but Gast answered to a higher—or I guess I should say—”

“A lower authority,” Dominique finished. “At least that’s if you believe the legend.”

“Which, by the way, you haven’t really said if you do or don’t,” Collier added, “but just a little while ago you told me you didn’t necessarily disbelieve the stories…which leads me to my next point…”

“You are one persistent beer writer,” she laughed. “All right. I’ll tell you what I saw that night.”

They walked the fringes of the main drag as the town turned over to nightlife. Carriage-style streetlamps drew floating lines of light down the street.

“Just, please,” she said halfheartedly, “don’t tell anyone this because it makes me look idiotic.”

“You have my word.”

Her shadow angled before him, a sexy cutout. “Several years ago a wedding party hired the restaurant to cater their reception. They rented the atrium at Mrs. Butler’s inn. It all went fine, but at one point just before we brought out the desserts, I looked in the far corner of the room. There are a lot of little nooks on the sidewalls where Mrs. Butler keeps all those bookshelves and display cases full of Civil War stuff. Between two of those bookshelves, there’s a little alcove that’s hard to notice—”

Collier remembered immediately. “Right. And there’s a desk there, with very elaborate carvings and little drawers and compartments.”

Dominique nodded. “And also a tiny portrait of Penelope Gast on the side, like someone hung it there to keep it hidden. Anyway, I’m counting heads for the desserts—some of the wedding party had already left, so I wanted to get the number right…and I see someone sitting there.”

“At the desk?”

“At the desk. It’s this guy hunched over the desk writing something. I hadn’t seen him before, so I figured he was a late arrival and maybe he sat down at the desk to fill out a wedding card or something. I go over there and ask him if he wants a homemade Napoleon for dessert.”

“Yeah?”

“He stops writing and looks up at me—and this guy is, like, really ugly. Real pale face, crabby hands, big hooded eyes—and something messed up about his nose—looked like it had gold foil on it or something—and there’s this bizarre-looking red hat sitting on the desk, too. He looks at me like he’s pissed off I interrupted him, and he says, ‘Napoleon? I met him in Egypt, and he was absolutely deplorable.’”

“Huh?” Collier emphasized.

Dominique’s bare white shoulders shrugged. “That’s what the guy said, so I’m thinking he’s drunk and making some strange joke. I ask him again if he wants dessert, and he kind of grimaces and says, ‘Can’t you see I’m busy? I have to pay more to Harding, out of the railroad account. Mr. Gast just put in an order for fifty more, to send to Maxon. They’re wearing them out down there.’”

“Wearing…” Collier began.

“That’s what he said, didn’t explain. But I didn’t care, the guy was a snot to me, so I left him there and went to help my people serve dessert. I ask my assistant manager if she saw when the guy had come in, and she says ‘Who?’ and I point to the alcove. ‘That weirdo sitting at that desk,’ I say. But—”

“When you looked again, he was gone,” Collier supposed.

“Right. Gone.”

Collier thought as much. “A creepy story, for sure. But…is that all?”

She playfully slapped him on the shoulder. “No! That’s just the beginning. See, I shouldn’t tell you the rest— you’ll just make fun of me.”

“Tell me the rest!”

They turned a darker corner, a side street of shops that had closed earlier, and just one candlelit bistro with people having cocktails at outside tables. Dominique’s bright white apparel and lambent skin made her ghostly now in the lower light.

“So the reception’s a big success, and the bride’s father pays the bill and tips hard. Most of the people are gone by midnight, but a few stayed past that for drinks. I let my people go home after they got everything loaded up, and I stay to serve the drinks and listen to these drunk people in tuxedos jabber. At one point I look out the window and I see someone walk by—two little girls in white dresses.”

Collier’s throat tightened. “Was…there a dog?”

She looked at him funny. “A dog? No. Just the two girls. But then something else catches my eye, on the stair hall. Another figure. Guess who?”

“The guy at the desk?”

“Yeah, and now he’s wearing that imbecilic red hat. I see him go down the hall. I’m positive I saw him. He even looked down at me and scowled. Could be wrong about the two girls in the window, but I’m sure I saw him. I figure he’s a guest staying at the inn, maybe the crotchety old guy with the nose was the kids’ father or grandfather or something. No big deal, right?”

“Okay.”

“By one, everybody leaves, so I’m just doing the lastminute cleanup, shouldn’t take me more than an hour. I want to get out ’cos I’m tired. Mrs. Butler shows up to see if I need a hand, so I ask her how many guests are staying at the inn that weekend, and she says none.”

“Oooooo,” Collier remarked.