“Inline?” Collier asked, miffed.
“My ma’s inline 235—her old Chevy pickup. She tolt me ya borrowed it. Bet there’s a million miles on that baby. Like to see them Japs do that with one’a their Toyoters.”
“It ran great, Jiff.”
“Anything I can help ya with?”
“No, thanks. Right now I’m on my way to Mr. Sute’s—”
Jiff looked at him weird.
“—to look at one of his book manuscripts,” Collier finished. He’d mentioned Sute on purpose.
“Oh, you mean one’a his books about Hardwood Gast.”
“Right. Don’t really know why but I’m becoming intrigued by the whole town legend. I’ve even had a couple of nightmares about it.”
Another weird look. “That so? Well, funny as it might seem, I’ve had a few myself and so’s my sister. It’s mainly just ’cos this house seems a lot creepier once ya hear all them stories.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Collier said. “But I’m still really fascinated. What do you know about Harwood Gast’s children?”
“Aw, his kids? Nothin’.” But the question clearly knocked Jiff off center. “I don’t know that much about it. I gotta get started pullin’ weeds out back…but have a great day,” he finished and rushed off.
Collier smiled at the reaction he’d come to expect by now.
A leisurely walk took him back through town, which seemed to brim with more tourists than ever. Much spun through his head during the trek—the dreams, the mysteries of the Gast legend, his outrageous sexual ponderings —but most of the thoughts invariably returned to Dominique.
She contradicted his most apparent motivation—lust, essentially—or could it be true that Sute’s cryptic impressions were more on the mark: that many folk who stayed at the inn experienced a rampant upsurge in libido?
“Come in, please,” the globose man greeted with a handshake. Sute wore, of all things, a crimson smoking jacket and white slacks. “Don’t mind the mess. I’m not known for my tidiness.”
“Not many writers are,” Collier said, instantly looking around. “Fascinating place.” The living room was dusty and a bit unkempt but full of fine antiques, wall tapestries, and polished stone busts.
“Upstairs is a bit nicer, and that’s where my manuscripts and sundries are.”
Collier followed him up, wondering how many male prostitutes had done the same. Ahead of him, almost face-level, Sute’s backside left little play on either side of the stairwell.
The upstairs was mostly master bedroom, plushly carpeted and walled with books. More stone busts on pedestals adorned the large room, along with sumptuous old oil paintings.
“Would you care for a drink?” he asked, opening a wide liquor cabinet.
“No, thanks. I’ve been doing a little too much of that lately, but feel free.”
Sute poured himself something in a tiny snifter. “Mind if I smoke?”
Collier laughed. “Of course not, it’s your place.” He quickly regretted his answer when Sute whipped out a big pipe and began packing it up. “On the phone, you inquired about Gast’s daughters—I guess I neglected to mention them when we had lunch.” After a few gaseous puffs he handed Collier an opened box full of paper. “Here’s one of my unpublished books, which details the children. But like most of this tale, it’s a very unpleasant one, so be forewarned. Page thirty-three.”
“Are there any pictures of them, photo plates?” Collier asked, flipping through. “Didn’t you mention you had some old-style photos—ferrotypes, or whatever they were called?”
Sute sat down in an oversize reading chair, toking the nauseatingly sweet pipe. “No photographs of the daughters are extant, I’m afraid. Just some daguerreotypes of Mrs. Gast.”
“Isn’t that strange? Gast goes to that considerable expense to photograph his wife but not his children?”
“Normally that
“Suspect in what way?”
Sute pursed his lips. “Gast suspected that neither girl was necessarily sired by his loins.”
Collier nodded. “The element of promiscuity. I almost forgot.”
Sute leaned back, puffing. “If I may, why an interest in Gast’s daughters?”
Collier half laughed. “If I told you, Mr. Sute, you’d think that I was a California loony.”
“Please. I’ve indulged you, haven’t I?”
The man was right.
“But I told you at lunch, so have
“Right, but, specifically? I’ll just go ahead and tell you. You can laugh me out of here, and I’d deserve it, but…”
The mass of flesh that was Sute’s face creased from a smile. “I’m listening.”
“There have been a few times when I swear I’ve heard children’s voices at the inn—two young girls.”
“And according to Mrs. Butler, there aren’t any children staying there,” Sute presumed.
“Exactly.”
“And if you heard the voices of the children, you must’ve heard the dog as well.”
Collier thought his face had just hardened to the density of the Caesar bust.
“The dog is heard more at the inn than the children.”
“Was it brownish, sort of a dark mud color?”
“No references to its color, coat, or breed. It was the girls’ pet. Its name was Nergal.”
“Peculiar name for a dog, but when you consider that the farthest extremes of the Gast lore are founded in demonology, you have to wonder. The name ‘Nergal’ is referent to a Mesopotamian
Collier had to ask the next question right away. “Were the girls named Mary and Cricket?”
“Yes.”
“But of course someone else could’ve told you their names,” Sute added.
“No one did.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“I swear.”
Sute pointed to the box of paper. “Look on page thirty-three.” Collier turned to it and saw the heading.
CHAPTER TWO
DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS: MARY AND CRICKET GAST
“Cricket, of course, was a nickname. The birth certificate cites Cressenda. She’s described as dark-haired and mildly retarded. She was fourteen when she died, while Mary was chubby—more squat-bodied—and blonde. Four years older than Cricket. They both died on the same day, incidentally. April 30, 1862. And, yes, they were murdered by Harwood Gast. Their bodies were discovered on May third by the town marshal.” Sute’s eyes thinned. “Where did you see the girls? In the hotel?”
“I never said that I
“I’ll be blunt, Mr. Collier, if you don’t mind. My impression is that you’re a very intuitive man…but your face is
