The Black Train

cupped the other. The light long curls of her hair seemed to illuminate about her head. Did he detect the faintest freckles in her cleavage?

He never saw it coming. The next sheet showed Penelope Gast lying totally nude across a reclining settee like an odalisque in a Turkish harem. The detail was shocking, as well as his ability to make out a single freckle just above the clitoral hood. And the woman’s pubis had been completely shaved.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN I

Collier drove. He had to clear his head. He wasn’t sure where he was driving—the airport for all he knew.

For all he knew he was leaving Gast and its questionable horrors without even a good-bye. He could abandon his luggage, he could even abandon his laptop. Mrs. Butler already had his credit card number for the room bill.

I’m actually afraid, he realized.

Collier didn’t want to go back to the inn.

The Bug swept around the snakelike turns of the side roads out of town. Did it want to get out of here, too? Then Collier’s mind jagged:

What am I doing?

It’s ridiculous to leave my laptop and luggage just because of a ghost story. Could he possibly spend one more night in his room, knowing what had happened in it? And the rooms on either side? Sandwiched by murder…

Then a more rational reality touched him on the shoulder. I can’t just leave town without saying good-bye to Dominique…

She’d think he was an imbecile, or worse, just another drooling, insincere cock-hound who fled the scene when he realized he’d never get her in bed.

Even if he never saw her again, he couldn’t have her think that.

I need something good to happen. He laughed and the wind mussed his hair. Hey, God, can something fucking GOOD happen to me today?

But why should God do anything for him?

His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten today and it was well into the afternoon. But when he considered the mutt’s last meal in the Gast House, he doubted he’d have any appetite for a long time…

A sign told him the interstate exit for the airport was only five miles distant. Christ, do I even know what I’m doing? He pulled into a last-chance rest stop with a gas station and Qwik-Stop. At least try to eat something, he forced himself.

He thought of the most racist cliches inside; the clerk wore a turban and could’ve passed for a suicide bomber. “One dollar six cents!” he was yelling at an unkempt woman with smudges on her face. She had four quarters on the counter and was trying to buy a hot dog in a foil bag. “But it says a dollar each!” she cried. A dirty toddler stood at her side. “I just want to split a hot dog with my kid!”

Collier watched as he poured himself a coffee from the back of the store.

“Tax!” the clerk sniped in his radical accent. “Now get out! You cannot pay so you must leave or I call police! You homeless go somewhere else! Why you come to my store? In my country you be sterilized and put on work farm!”

“Fucker!” she wailed. She grabbed a handful of ketchup and relish packs and ran out with her kid.

Collier’s hand went unconsciously to his pocket, for change. But then his cell phone rang. Shit! I told Evelyn I’d call her! For most of the time he’d been in Gast, he’d left the phone in his room, but now he saw a dozen missed messages stacked up. Several were from his soon-to-be ex-wife but he also noticed even more from Shay Prentor, his producer. And that’s who was calling now.

“Hi, Shay—”

“Justy,” came the distant voice. “Been calling for two days, my friend. Does the Prince of Beer not want to talk to his good friend and producer or does he not know how to charge his cell?”

“Sorry—” Why’s he calling? “I’m out of town right now.”

“Yeah, your lawyer told me, said you were in some bumfuck place in Arkansas, or West Virginia—”

“Tennessee.”

“Justy, Justy, it’s pretty much the same thing. Moonshine and incest, cruelty to animals…”

“It’s not quite that bad. A town called Gast…”

“Oh, yeah, you can bet I’ve heard of that. Jesus Christ, Justy, what are you doing there?”

Collier knew something was wrong; Prentor only called him “Justy” when he wanted something. “I’m finishing a book—you know, for my other career, which I need desperately now since you’re dumping my show. Why are you calling? You need me to clean out my desk, like, right now? ”

“Oh, Justy, Justy, you’re a regular bebopper with that wit. I just wanted to tell you the bad news—”

“What could be worse news than ‘you’re fired’? You laid that line on me a week ago.”

“No, no, the bad news is Savannah Sammy’s Sassy Smokehouse just dropped from number three to number four.”

Collier frowned. “Shay. How is that bad news for me?”

“Not for you, for him! That cocky cracker!” Prentor unreeled fuzzy laughter. “The good news for you is that we just tabbed the ratings for your last six shows, and you’re now number three.”

Collier almost dropped the phone in the coffeepot. “I thought I was eleven—”

“Not now, my friend. Your show has officially caught on. I’m not jiving you, Justy. You’re actually only a few points off of number two. Emeril ain’t happy, I can tell you that.”

Collier couldn’t think straight. “So I’m getting renewed?”

“How’s this for an answer, Justy? Fuck yes. Three-hundred-thousand-dollar re-sign bonus and an extra half point in your kick, and that’s from the VP. I’m looking at the piece of paper that guarantees it. It’s this thing called a contract, which we really need you to sign right now. So when am I going to have your smiling face on the other side of my desk, and a pen in your hand? Fly back now. What, you have to be in Tennessee to write a book about beer? My daddy always told me there wasn’t anything in Tennessee but steers and—”

Collier stood in shock, the phone printing against his ear. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Shay. But…what about the guy you hired to replace me, the San Francisco Seafood Psycho? I heard you signed him up for twenty-six episodes right off the bat.”

Prentor gusted another laugh. “We canceled the asshole’s contract on character breech. You get the twenty-six episodes.”

“Character breech?”

“It’s hilarious, man! Turns out the guy really is a psycho. Last week some critic from Gourmet came to his restaurant and complained about the crab Wellington, said the crabmeat was that fake surimi stuff. So the Psycho’s so offended he comes after the guy with a meat cleaver! No lie, Justy! It was in the paper! Almost got him, too. Took three cops to haul the Psycho out of there and book him for assault with intent…” Prentor kept bubbling laughter. “Forget about that loser, Justy. You’re the big news at the network now.”

Collier’s hands were shaking as it finally sunk in: I’m getting renewed! I’ve still got a show!

“And, Justy, are you ready for some really good news?”

“I can’t imagine anything better than what you just told me—”

“According to our latest viewer survey, the reason your ratings just tripled is because housewives are starting to watch the show with their husbands—”

Collier frowned. “Shay, housewives walk out of the room when my show comes on. They couldn’t care less