Yeah. Like a whistle in a train yard.

He rarely dreamed at all, but when he did it was typically of things he could see: people, places. Not sounds and smells.

When he turned out of bed, he caught himself musing over, first, Lottie's body, then Mrs. Butler's.

d.a.m.n it!

A narrow night table stood by the desk, marbletopped. On it the clock told him it was 6:30 P.M. I invited Jiff to Cusher's, didn't I? At seven.

He roused, then showered in the small but homey bathroom.

Why smell p.i.s.s in a dream?

More puzzlement, a chaser for the entire day. But a brief relief came when he thought again of the sounds. Metal striking metal. Hammers! Sledgehammers driving spikes-of course! This could only signify the sound of men laying railroad track, which made grateful sense since Mrs. Butler had mentioned something about Harwood Gast building a railroad in the late 1850s. Collier remembered the old paycheck in the case she'd shown him-a railroad check.

The East Tennessee and Georgia Railroad, he remembered. The whistle in the dream, too, could only have been a train whistle.

One mystery solved, however useless. Next, in the sudden daydream, he pictured himself in the shower...with Lottie...

If all this horniness is from the fresh air and great outdoors, then I'm MOVING here once Evelyn gets her divorce, he joked to himself. But he couldn't laugh, for one thing still bothered him.

That smell...

One of Collier's earliest childhood memories, regrettably, involved the smell of urine. He'd been about ten when his father had taken him for a long drive. "Come on, kiddo. We're going to go visit Granddad at that special apartment he lives in." Collier was too young to grasp the entire concept of nursing homes, but he got the idea. The whole place smelled bad and was very quiet save for distant shouts. "Here's his room, son. Now, remember like I told you. Granddad hasn't been feeling well for a while, and he might not recognize us. But let's just act like everything's normal." Collier guessed Granddad wasn't in very good shape. When they entered the drab room, though-Collier gagged, and so did his father. The room reeked of urine.

Granddad's bed lay empty and stained yellow. Another man in the next bed, who looked like a gray skeleton, jerked his face right at them and toothlessly bellowed, "That f.u.c.ker don't do nothin' but jabber and p.i.s.s! Turned the d.a.m.n bed into a d.a.m.n p.i.s.s sponge-" A bony finger wagged at them. "-and these lazy f.u.c.ks here don't never change the mattress 'cept when one of us dies!" Collier broke out in tears from the shocking rant, but he already had tears in his eyes from the sheer potency of the stench. Strong, saturated, and old. His father ushered him out quickly and that's when they learned that Granddad had died that morning. Collier remembered riding home in strange, choking silence, eyes still stinging long after the tears had abated. Even their clothes reeked of the smell.

The same unmistakable smell of Collier's dream, only the dream had been worse.

Collier stepped out of the shower. Now why the h.e.l.l would my mind make me dream of the smell of p.i.s.s!

He dried off, then slipped on the robe hanging on the door. Gold embroidery on scarlet terry read BRANCH LANDING INN with crossed cannons beneath the letters C.S.A. She really takes this Civil War stuff seriously.

He stepped back in the bedroom, and stopped.

Sniffed.

That's not urine I smell...is it?

It was his mind now, he was sure. Like when you were in the woods and were certain you felt a tick on your leg but when you looked there was nothing there...

He sniffed again and found the only scent to be a cinnamonlike tinge from a bowl of potpourri.

Thank G.o.d...

Knuckles rapidly tapped at the door.

Who the...Collier looked at the clock and saw he still had plenty of time before he met Jiff.

"Hi, sorry if this is a bad time!" The smiling housewifey face beamed when he opened the door. It was the Wisconsin woman.

Huh? Collier thought. "Oh, of course, your autograph.

I hadn't forgotten." But he thought, Jesus, lady! Can't you see I just got out of the shower?

"We're going out to dinner now," she explained, "and we didn't want to miss you. Oh, but we'd love for you to come along."

"Oh, thanks, but I've already got plans..."

"Here, could you sign on this please? It would be a wonderful souvenir."

She handed him a napkin that had the inn's name on it. "Sure." He tried to sound enthused. A flashing glimpse revealed her more closely than before. Probably pretty hot ten years ago. Her plushness was leaning toward fat but she still retained some cuteness within. Short, with a dark coif, and...Stacked, he noted of the volume of flesh filling the bra. The otherwise boring face and eyes lit up with the elation of being so close to a "star."

"Come on in, let me get a pen. And sorry about the way I'm dressed, I just got out of the shower."

"You smell really good!" she enthused.

Collier frowned at the odd comment as he went to the desk, found a pen.

"Could you make it to Carol and Dan, please?"

"Sure."

"Oh, I can't wait to show my sister! She'll be jealous!"

Collier rolled his eyes and scribbled on the napkin. "Here you go, Carol," he said and turned around.

He gulped. She'd come all the way in and closed the door and was now divorced of her blouse. She sat smiling on the edge of the bed. "I'm game if you are..."

Collier just stood there.

The white bra cups blared. Her eyes were huge. "Come here," she whispered. "We don't have much time."

Collier hesitated, then stepped forward till he was standing right before her.

She rubbed his crotch, finagling her hand inside the robe. Collier hissed. Then, with one hand, she expertly reached around, was just about to unhook her bra, when Collier winced and said, "No, don't. I..." Then he stepped back.

Her shoulders slumped. "s.h.i.t. I'm sorry, I feel like an idiot." And then she blushed and put her blouse back on.

"It's just that"-his mind reeled. "I'm married," he said, as farcical as the notion was. There were dozens of reasons not to proceed with something like this, a giant liability chief among them. She could be crazy. But worst of all was that he'd actually been one hair's width away from going through with it. "It's not you," he mumbled. "You're very attractive-d.a.m.n! But..."

"I understand." Now she was clearly embarra.s.sed, keeping her eyes down. "Nothing wrong with being faithful. Guess that says a thing or two about me..."

"But here's your autograph," he said and handed the napkin to her. "I'm glad you like my show..."

"Thank you," she said and sheepishly took it. "'Bye," she began but Collier stopped her before she got to the door. It was the oddest sensation, but he pulled her forward and kissed her. She seemed surprised.

"If I weren't married, we'd be getting it on right now...Carol..."

Her embarra.s.sment dissolved; she smiled. One finger traced up his leg through the robe. "Maybe you'll change your mind later."

Collier said nothing but the look in his eyes said, Maybe you're right.

She left the room.

Collier stood there, staring at the closed door. "Unbelievable..."

As more minutes ticked by, he twinged at pangs of guilt and regret. Guilt that he'd actually considered having s.e.x with her, and regret that he hadn't. It would've been a s.h.i.tty thing to do, he told himself. It would've been exploitative. But then a voice like an alter ego yelled, What kind of a p.u.s.s.y are you? You'd have been doing her a favor by putting some spice in her drab, boring life. A REAL man doesn't say no to free s.e.x, you a.s.shole!

Collier blinked, frowning. No, I guess not. But it simply wasn't like him to do something like that. If anything, he was on the shy side.

He banished the odd episode from his mind, then started to get dressed.

For a split second he thought he smelled something foul-the stench of old urine-but then he blinked and it was gone.

CHAPTER FIVE.

I.

"You're more than welcome to join us," Collier was telling Mrs. Butler at the front desk while he helplessly stole glances at her bosom, hips, and plush pelvis.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Collier but I've got more folks checkin' in tonight. It's a wonderful little restaurant, though, and I doubt that you've got anything close to it in California." Her bosom jiggled a bit; she quickly rose at the sound of people entering the vestibule. "These must be my Philadelphians."

Collier stepped aside as another tourist couple stepped perkily to the desk. He found himself looking up at the oil portrait of Harwood Gast...

Stereotypical Southern plantation guy, he thought. The stern face had been painted with detail-the eyes seemed to look specifically at Collier with disdain. What's so evil about this dude? He was still piqued by Mrs. Butler's comments. Just an old racist slave-driving stick in the mud.

Several old-wood bookshelves flanked the large portrait, and between two of them Collier noticed a recess, about a yard wide. He figured it used to be an alcove where one might put a statue, but instead there was an old veneered table there, with an odd arrangement of small drawers and letter slots. A tag read: ORIGINAL MAPLE WRITING TABLE-QUEEN ANNE-STYLE-SAVERY AND SONS-1779. When Collier looked harder, he noted an elaborate webwork of minute carvings. Yet on the side of the alcove hung a small oil painting he hadn't noticed before. Strange...It almost seemed to be hung in that spot so as not to be noticed. MRS. PENELOPE GAST, a tiny plaque read. Gast's wife...An attractive woman with eyes that seemed wanton looked off the canvas, standing before a landscape of trees. A bonnet, a great billowy dress, frilly knickers; the plunging neckline offered a creamy bosom. So this was Gast's version of the American Dream? This woman, and this house... Yesterday's version of a corporate magnate. I guess they're all a.s.sholes when you get right down to it. He wondered if they'd had kids.

Mrs. Butler's tw.a.n.g reverberated as she jabbered of the house's historical wonders. The man asked, "Would it be possible to get one of the second-floor rooms facing the mountain? We'd love that view in the morning."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, sir," the old woman informed, "all those rooms are taken. But I've got a lovely room for ya on the west wing that opens right on the garden. And you can still see the mountain a bit..."

The oddity struck Collier at once. The room right next to his faced the mountain. He remembered Jiff telling him they didn't rent that one out. I wonder why...

Another display case showed more relics; one caught his eye immediately. HAND-CHISELED STONE MOLD FOR WOOLING SHEARS, and there was a flat piece of stone with a recess shaped like half a pair of big scissors. Beside it lay an actual pair of shears. THESE SHEARS WERE MADE AT THE GAST IRON FORGE LOCATED IN THE BACKYARD-1859.

That's some real work, he thought. He couldn't contemplate how hard things were back then. Even something as simple as a pair of shears took many steps to produce. Smelting ore, skimming slag, pouring molten iron into a mold without burning the living s.h.i.t out of yourself or becoming brain-damaged from poisonous fumes. More handcrafted items from the family forge lay in the case: nails, hinges, door latches. That stuff must've been hard as h.e.l.l to make.

He overheard the Philadelphia woman whisper: "Oh my G.o.d! Is that the Prince of Beer over there?"

s.h.i.t! Collier had been made again. He acted like he hadn't heard them and slipped out the vestibule doors.

The sun was turning orange as it lowered, a blaze on the horizon. Collier gazed across the well-landscaped front court, smelling mint, moss, and wildflowers. The quiet beauty almost stunned him.

Jiff bopped down the porch steps a moment later, wearing the same jeans and work boots but now he'd put on a black b.u.t.ton-down shirt. Gussied up, Collier thought, redneck-style.

"Ready when you are, Mr. Collier!"

"Okay, Jiff. But if you don't mind, could you show me that little furnace in the back first?"

"My pleasure, sir. Lotta interesting things 'round here."

"Yes, there are." Collier followed him around the side of the main house, where a trail skirted the additional wings. "I guess I've lived in L.A. too long, but coming to a place like this really opens your eyes. We take so much for granted these days. Even the displays in the lobby: handmade boots, tools, and even nails that someone hammered out on an anvil, carpet and clothing st.i.tched by hand instead of processed by machinery. It reminds me that this country was built on hard work."

"Very hard work, sir," Jiff agreed. "You wanna build a house back then, you had to dig the clay and bake the bricks, cut the clapboards from trees ya chopped down yourself, blow the gla.s.s for the windows, you name it. And while you're doin' all that hard work, ya gotta eat. So you till the land to grow your food, find a spring or river to water the seeds, and if you want some meat to go with it, you gotta raise the pig yourself, butcher it, and cut more wood to cook it. And while you're choppin' that wood you better find the right kind of bark to tan the hide so's you can make the boots on your feet. But a'course if you're gonna do that, ya better find some ca.s.siterite to melt down so's ya can make a tin bucket to do your tannin' in. That was life back then. Now we just go to the grocery store and The Home Depot."

Collier chuckled at the parallel. The walk gave him a closer look at the additional four wings of the house. "Why are these wings so differently styled than the main house? It almost-"

"It almost don't look right." Jiff got his point. "The wings are all made'a wood while the main house is fancy brick'n stone. It's 'cos the South was p.i.s.s-poor for a long time after the war."

"The War of Northern Aggression-"

"Yes, sir. Harwood Gast had a million in gold when he moved into town, and everyone figured he spent it all on his railroad. He finished the railroad in 1862, 'bout a year after the war started. Then he came home...and you know what he done?"

"What?"

"Killed hisself. Just after that last spike was drove at the very end of the East Tennessee and Georgia Railroad, way past the border in a place used to be called Maxon."

"Why did he kill himself?"

"Aw, who knows?" The younger man seemed to deflect the question. "But folks figured he bankrupted hisself layin' all that track, but you know what? Turns out he still had a million in gold in his accounts. Like he never spent a dime."

"Strange," Collier said, trying to keep the information sorted. "So it wasn't bankruptcy that urged him to commit suicide. I wonder what it was then?"

Jiff still didn't comment. "After the fightin' was finished, Lincoln's boys seized all Gast's gold, but they sold the house. Point I'm trying to make is that the new owners-some'a my ma's kin-could only afford cheaper building materials to do the add-ons."

It made sense. Collier knew that the South fared about as well as Germany after World War I; the people were kept dest.i.tute for a while-punishment for their attempted secession. But Jiff had still evaded the topic he was more interested in. That's...curious...

"We live in this wing here. Two'a the others are more guest rooms, and the fourth-you gotta see the fourth, Mr. Collier, since you're interested in this stuff. It's loaded full up with more things from the old days."

"I'd love to see all that."

"And don't forget the bath closet-that's the door just to the right of your room. That's one way rich folks back then showed how well-off they was-by havin' a bath closet and toilet on the second floor near the bedroom. Plain folks just had outhouses and washin' sheds outside."

I guess I even take THAT for granted, Collier reflected. A pot to p.i.s.s in.

They pa.s.sed the second wing-through a window Collier spotted the newest guests checking in, Lottie lugging their bags-then followed a path through the garden. A slight breeze shifted countless hundreds of colorful blossoms.

When they arrived at the small clearing, Collier found the old furnace larger than it had looked from his room. Flat rocks fixed by mortar formed the large conical structure, which sported several vents at various heights.

"This is incredible," Collier said.