Jiff hit the back door fast.

III.

Collier woke at just past noon, a seam of sunlight from the curtains laying a bar across his eyes. What a slug, he thought. He felt sick from some inner confusion, then in bits and pieces everything resurfaced: the atrocious nightmare, Lottie, the hole in the wall...and the voices he thought he'd heard.

He frowned it all away and quickly showered, only now noticing a numb erection. What a night. The stair hall bloomed in the sun, flagging a distant headache that was no doubt the by-product of drinking too much. Just as he began to take the stairs down, he heard children laughing, and an excited voice like a little girl's exclaim: "Here, boy! Come get the ball! Here, boy!"

Like a kid calling a dog, he thought. He walked back up and looked but no one was there.

Mrs. Butler was dusting the banister down below. She looked up at him, as Collier was forced to look down, where his eyes targeted her cleavage. Today the stacked old woman wore a smart frilled blouse and blue skirt. Collier felt a covert thrill, now that he'd seen her naked in the peephole.

"Good morning, Mrs. Butler-er, I should say good afternoon."

Her withered face beamed. "Ya missed breakfast but I'd be happy to fix ya up somethin' for lunch."

"Oh, no thanks. I'm going to walk into town. I'll pick something up there later."

"And again, Mr. Collier, I'm so sorry about my silly drunken daughter bein' a thorn in your side last night-"

"Don't mention it. I was a little drunk myself, if you want to know the truth."

"So what'cha lookin' for in town? Anything in particular?"

She stepped aside as he descended; Collier's eyes groaned against her plush body. "Actually, the bookstore. Is that on the main street?"

"Yes, sir, right on the corner. Number One Street and Penelope. It's a fine little shop."

Something nagged at him-besides her blaring curves. "Oh, and I wanted to ask you something. Do you allow guests to bring pets to the inn?"

Her eyes seemed to dim. "Pets, well, no. But of course if you're thinkin' of bringing a pet on some future visit, I'm sure I could make-"

"No, no, that's not what I mean. It's just that-" Suddenly he felt foolish bringing it up. "I thought I saw a dog last night."

"A dog? In the inn? There aren't any here, I can a.s.sure you. And we don't own any pets personally."

What a mistake. I was seeing things because I was drunk and stressed out from her psycho daughter. "I'm sorry, I guess my head wasn't on straight last night. Let me just say that the beer at Cusher's was so good, I drank a few too many."

She tried to laugh. "Well, we want ya to have a good time, Mr. Collier." She paused and pinched her chin. "There is a stray dog 'cos these parts that some folks see. What kind'a dog was it you thought ya saw?"

"I don't even know. A mutt, I guess, about the size of a bulldog. Kind of a muddy brown."

Did she throw off a moment of fl.u.s.ter? "Well, if some stray got in here, we'll have it out of here a mite fast. Lottie leaves the back door open sometimes. Honestly that silly girl runs me ragged, but you have a nice time in town, Mr. Collier."

"Thanks. See you later."

Collier went out the big front doors. Did her reaction strike him as odd, or was it just more overflow? There's no dog. I'm the one who's overreacting. He let the winding road out front take him down the hill, into warm sunlight.

After a hundred yards, he felt better; something more positive began to supplant last night's foolishness. He'd brought one of his boilerplate permission forms because he'd already decided that Cusher's Civil War Lager would be the final entry in his book. He'd found what he'd been looking for, and the brightest sideline was the brewer herself. She's so cool, he thought in a daze. "Dominique..." The name rolled off his tongue. He'd already a.s.sured himself that his professional motives were intact. I'd give the beer a five-star rating even if the brewer were ugly. Still, he couldn't wait to see Dominique...

Downtown, the lunch crowd was out, filling the picture-postcard streets with smiles and shining eyes. Money first, he reminded himself. He didn't have much cash on him, and right there on the corner stood a bank. FECORY SAVINGS AND TRUST. Odd name, he thought, but who cared? There was an ATM.

Several people stood in line before him. Collier waited idly, looking down the rest of Penelope Street. When he turned, he noticed a mounted bronze plaque bolted to the front of the building.

THIS BUILDING WAS CONSTRUCTED ON THE ORIGINAL SITE OF THE FIRST BANK OF GAST, AND NAMED FOR THE TOWN'S PAYMASTER, WINDOM FECORY. IN 1865, UNION SOLDIERS CONFISCATED THE BANK OF MILLIONS IN GOLD THAT HAD BEEN HIDDEN BENEATH THE FLOOR, THEN BURNED THE BUILDING TO THE GROUND TO RETRIEVE ITS NAILS FROM THE ASHES.

Interesting, Collier thought, but now the only thing on his mind was Dominique. I'll have lunch there today, and give her the release form. "And I'd really like to talk to you some more, too, Mr. Collier," he remembered her saying. Collier was so distracted by the thought of her, he didn't even take note of the tube-topped/cutoff-jeaned Paris Hilton look-alike who was now bent over the ATM tapping in her PIN. Collier's resurgent l.u.s.t, in other words, was thwarted by thoughts of someone else.

"Oh, hey there, Mr. Collier-"

Collier looked up, surprised to see Jiff standing right before him in line. "Hi, Jiff. Didn't even see you there. Guess I'm preoccupied or something."

"Hard not to be on a beautiful day like we got." Jiff stood lackadaisically in his work boots, scuffed jeans, and clinging T-shirt. "Out for a stroll?"

"Yeah, but I saw the bank here and thought I'd grab some cash first."

"I just stopped by to deposit a check real quick, and then it's back to work." He'd p.r.o.nounced "deposit" as "deposert." "And thanks again for last night. I had me a lot of fun."

"Me, too. We'll do it again before I head back to L.A."

Jiff grinned ruefully, arms crossed. "Ma told me 'bout your little problem last night with Lottie. She can be a right pain in the a.s.s, she can."

You're telling me? "It was no big deal. She's a good kid."

"Yeah, but it's too bad she's the way she is. Don't fit in proper with everyone else, not bein' able to talk and all, and a'course that goofy grin."

"Hopefully she'll come out of her sh.e.l.l someday."

Jiff waved a hand. "Naw, that'd just get her into more trouble. She's best just doin' her work 'cos the house'n stayin' put."

The poor girl's doomed in that house of b.u.mpkins...But by now, Collier noticed the lithe blonde at the ATM, and several other men in line were eyeballing her, too. But when Collier looked to Jiff...

The man didn't seem to be aware of her.

Just like last night at the bar, Collier remembered. Then, very quickly, he noticed the top of the check in his hand.

JOSEPHAWITZ-GEORGE SUTE, the name at the top read. The local author, he thought. Collier hoped to be running into him today. He noticed that the check was made out for thirty dollars. Side work, Collier recalled. Jiff had already mentioned that he was also a local handyman.

The blonde left; then Jiff stepped up and deposited his check. "Guess you'll be stoppin' by Cusher's for lunch, huh?"

"As a matter of fact I am. I'm going to write up the lager in my book and I need Dominique to sign a release form."

Jiff grinned over his shoulder and winked. "It's a mighty fine beer, but you know, Mr. Collier, my mom makes her own spiced ale on occasion. I'm sure she's still got plenty in the fruit cellar, and I'm double-sure she'd love for you ta try some."

He's trying to fix me up with his sixty-five-year-old mother again. Collier squirmed for a response. "Oh, really? That's interesting. I enjoy homemade ales." But, sixty-five years old or not, he still remembered that body of hers, in the peephole-Man...-then the odd notion that Mrs. Butler herself had drilled that hole..."You're welcome to join me for lunch," he added, if only to blot out the image of the plush, large-nippled b.r.e.a.s.t.s all glimmering in lather.

"Aw, thanks much, Mr. Collier, but I still got some fix-it jobs around town 'fore I head back to the house." He flashed a final grin. "But you have a fine day."

"You, too, Jiff."

Jiff strode off, whistling like a cliche. Collier took money out of the machine and continued into town.

A quick look into Cusher's showed him a full house and full bar. s.h.i.t. I've got to get a seat at the bar, otherwise I won't get to talk to her...The lunch crowd looked heavy everywhere, so he decided to kill some time roving in and out of some knickknack shops, tourist crannies, and the Gast Civil War Museum. On the corner, then, he noticed the bookstore. Might as well go in now and see if I can run down J.G. Sute...

A bell jingled when he pushed through the door. It was a small, tidy shop, with more tourist b.u.t.tons, shirts, and related trinkets than books. Several browsers milled about but none of them could be Sute. Jiff said he was close to sixty...Collier shouldered into a cove and found it full of Civil War tomes, mostly pricey picture books. Wouldn't mind picking up a few books on Gast, though, he told himself. One shelf was filled end to end with the same t.i.tle: From Branch Landing to Gast: A Local History. The author was J.G. Sute, but, No way! Collier rebelled. The downsized hardcover was fifty dollars. Another book, more like a trade pamphlet, showed the t.i.tle, The East Tennessee and Georgia Railroad Company, also by Sute. The same t.i.tle filled the next shelf: Harwood Gast: A Biography of Gast's Most Sinister Figure. It was very thin, but, That's more like it, he thought of the five-dollar price tag. It was not a quality printing, and the photo-plate section looked xeroxed, but as Collier flipped through he found some curious tintypes of the town in the 1850s and through to the end of the war. One plate, of Gast himself, Collier found chilling in the way the subject's eyes seemed to burn through the photo's fuzzy surroundings. The well-dressed, mutton-chopped plantation baron looked exactly like the huge portrait in the atrium. Another plate showed a st.u.r.dy wooden building with the text below: THE FIRST BANK OF GAST. I was just there, Collier thought. An opposite daguerreotype was devoted to MR. WINDOM FECORY: HARWOOD GAST'S CONTROVERSIAL BANKING OFFICER. What could be controversial about him? Collier wondered with a smirk, but the more he appraised the picture-a wiry, thin-faced man with a peculiar nose-the creepier he found the image. One surprisingly clear plate showed Mrs. Penelope Gast standing elegantly beside one of the house's entrance pillars; she looked demure and beautiful in an elaborate bustle dress and corsetlike top. The cleavage in the lowcut top couldn't have been more apparent. What a rack! Collier admitted.

The little book hooked him. I'm buying this, he knew, but as an author himself he flipped instinctively to the copyright page, to see who the publisher was. Not a good sign, but I'm still buying it, he resolved. The publisher was listed as J.G. Sute Publications.

"Let me guess what you're thinking," a crisp yet deep baritone Southern voice surmised. Sun from the front window reduced a wide figure to shadow. "You're thinking that it must not be any good since it's self-published."

"I-"

"But I can a.s.sure you, sir, that the author has no resort since all respectable publishing houses found the subject matter too controversial."

Collier, caught off guard, stepped aside and found himself facing a short, obese man in a tweed sports jacket with patches on the elbows. Balding, stout-faced, but with eyes that seemed serious and credible...and a white-gray mustache and Vand.y.k.e that reminded Collier of Colonel Sanders. It was the same man on the book's back cover. "Oh, you must be J.G. Sute. I've actually been looking for you. I'm Justin-"

"Justin Collier," the deep voice replied. "When a celebrity comes to town, I'm the first to know. Very pleased to meet you." He offered a soft but large hand. "I have seen your beer show several times but I'll have to admit, I'm more of a wine and scotch man myself. And you say...you've been looking for me?"

"Yes, yes," Collier returned and quickly got the Internet printout from his wallet. "It's actually this piece you wrote that got me here."

Sute looked at it and seemed pleased. "I do a lot of freelancing for local papers and the tourist Web sites. Oh, you mean my reference to Cusher's?"

"Right. And I'd just like to thank you because their lager turned out to be just what I needed to finish my current book."

Now the wide, squat man seemed to grow a few inches from the compliment. "I'm flattered my little piece could be of service. So...if you don't mind my asking, who's the publisher for your book?"

"Random House," Collier said.

Mr. Sute's extra inches dropped back down very quickly. "Well, regrettably, I've never been published by so lofty a house but"-he pointed to the fifty-dollar edition-"that one there is my pride and joy. Published by Seymour and Sons, in Nashville. It's sold a thousand copies so far."

Collier got the gist. The poor sap's just a hack and I'm rubbing Random House in his face. He decided to bite the bullet, and he took a copy down. "I planned on buying that one, too. Would you sign it for me?"

Sute bl.u.s.tered. "I'd be honored."

"I've only been here a day but I've become enthralled by all the local color. Harwood Gast and his railroad, for instance."

"It's quite a story, and as I was saying previously, a little too harsh a story for the big publishers. I've had to publish several on my own for the same reason-"

"Too harsh?"

"-and I don't think I'm being conceited to say that I am the only true expert on the local color and history of this town. All my works are based on original letters, photos, and estate archives. This one, for instance"-his finger gestured another slim paperback, ent.i.tled Letters of Evidence: The Epistemological Record of Gast, Tennessee-"and it's only five dollars."

Collier took down a copy. "I'll be digging into all of these soon, thanks. But I was also wondering, since you write for tourist and dining sites, are there any other brew pubs or regional taverns in the area? What I'm looking for are more places that might specialize in regional beers based on old recipes."

Sute seemed downtrodden that he could offer no more expertise. "Not really, I'm afraid. The South is more known for whiskey and mashes. There are a few taverns in Chattanooga that brew their own beer but I think it's more faddish than authentic."

Well, I guess I knew it was too good to be true. But at least Cusher's had been a stunning success...And I suppose I owe part of its discovery to him.

"I wish I could be more help."

"You've been quite a bit of help already, Mr. Sute. If it hadn't been for your piece, I might never have found out where Cusher's is located." Collier supposed buying several of the man's books-especially the fifty-dollar job-was grat.i.tude enough. "Let me take these to the cashier, and then you can sign them."

Sute gushed behind Collier, and eventually signed the tomes with a confident expression. Maybe they'd be interesting, maybe not. But then something ticked in Collier's ear.

"You said this one book was too harsh for a New York publisher?"

"That and a number of others. Not even the local college presses would touch them, even though these are the only books ever written on this aspect of town history. And it's an important history, too-there are dozens of books on the railroads of Chattanooga during the war, yet the most unusual railroad of the same period was the one that Harwood Gast built. My book details, among other things, Gast's actual use of the railroad, which was...atypical."

The comment seemed bizarre. "I presume that any railroad during a war is used chiefly to transport troops and supplies."

"Um-hmm, but not this railroad, Mr. Collier-and my sources are firsthand evidence. No supplies, and not one single soldier was ever transported on Gast's railroad." Sute nodded sternly, and indicated the books under Collier's arm. "The railroad's actual use is touched upon in those books, however. I hope you find them interesting."

What is it with people in the South? Collier wondered, aggravated. They deliberately evade the point. The best storytelling ploy, keep the listener in suspense. "Come on, Mr. Sute. What was the railroad used to transport?"

"Captives," the obese man said.

"Oh, you mean they used it to take Union prisoners to detention camps? Andersonville and all that?"

"Not...Andersonville. That was on the other side of Georgia, and, yes, that's where most of the captured Union troops were sent. But I'm afraid Gast's railroad had an exclusive utility: to transport captive civilians. Women, children, old men. The innocent. It's unfortunate that the complete story was never published."

"Yes," Collier added, "because it was too harsh. You told me. But you've got my curiosity going. So...Gast transported captured Northern civilians on the railway-do I have that right?"

Sute nodded.

"And I guess they were transported to a separate detention camp..."

"In a sense, you could say that. It's a harrowing story, Mr. Collier, and probably not one you'd like to hear in detail on a beautiful day such as this. You're a celebrity, after all, and it's wonderful to have you in our humble town. I'd hate for such a story to spoil your stay."

Collier smiled. "It's some 'ghost train' or something, then, right?"

A curt "No."

This guy is ticking me off now, Collier thought.

Sute shed some of the grim cast, and raised a finger. "But if you like ghost stories, I'll admit, a few of those are touched on, too. Some nifty little stories about the house."

The house, Collier stalled. The Gast House. "I knew it all along! So the inn's a haunted house. I knew Mrs. Butler was bluffing..."

J.G. Sute's broad face turned up in a grin. "Well, I'm on my way to lunch now, Mr. Collier, but if you stop by tomorrow I'll tell you some of the tales."

Collier wanted to bang the books over his head. "Come on, Mr. Sute. Tell me one story about the house. Right now."

Sute drew on a pause-of course, for effect. "Well, without sounding too uncouth, I can tell you that many, many guests of the Gast House-dating back quite a spell-have reported a curious...influence. A, shall we say, libidinous one."

Collier squinted at the thick mustachioed face. "Libidinous-you mean, s.e.xual?"

The schoolmarmish cashier frowned over her gla.s.ses. "Please, J.G.! Don't start getting into all that now. We want Mr. Collier to come back, not stay away forever!"

Mr. Sute ignored the crotchety woman. "I'll only say that the house seems to have a s.e.xual effect on certain people who happen to stay there. One of whom was my grandfather."