Collier sat stunned, by the variety of her animated explanation.
She finished up with a nonchalant shrug. “So if a person who calls himself a Christian doesn’t believe the New Testament, that person is no Christian at all. Simple.”
Collier could’ve laughed at her diversity, or remained stunned by her conviction. Before he could comment, she asked, “So what brought this conversation on? It’s not exactly what I would expect America’s premier beer chronicler to be yakking about at lunch.”
Now Collier
did
laugh. “I guess some aspects of religion snuck their way into my curiosity about the town lore.”
Dominique rolled her eyes at the empty martini glass. “Oh, so
he’s
the one ordering umpteen Grey Goose martinis.”
Collier craned his neck up at her. Sunlight sparkled off the cross on her bosom like molten metal. “Do you…”
“What?”
“Do you believe any of it, the lore, I mean?”
Her little cat-grin dropped a notch. “Yes.”
For some reason, the tone of her response gave him a chill.
Is she jerking me around?
“You only ate a smidgen of your trout cake,” she noticed. “Do I have to go back to the kitchen and kick some ass?”
Collier chuckled. “No, they’re great. But I’m a sucker for a good story, and Mr. Sute got the best of me.”
“Mr. Sute…or Harwood Gast?”
“Well, both, I guess. But you know, last night you sounded kind of into it yourself.”
She shrugged again, and tossed her hair. “I’m a sucker for a good story, too. Just, please, don’t ask me if I’ve ever seen anything at the Gast House. It’d put me in a compromising position.”
She’s as bad as Sute, or do I just have a
MANIPULATE ME
sign on my head?
“Anyway, I have to go now, so I just came over to say ’bye.”
Collier was wracked. “I thought you worked till seven,” he almost exclaimed.
“I just got a call from one of my distributors. I have to drive up to Knoxville and pick up a hops order. I won’t be back for several hours, and I’m sure you can’t hang around till then.”
Shit!
Collier was pissed. He’d been so busy listening to Sute’s ghost stories, he’d missed his chance to talk to her. “Damn, well. I’ll come by tomorrow and give you the release form.”
“That would be great,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re the one who makes the lager.” Collier’s mind blanked, and before he knew what he was saying, he’d already said it: “Maybe we could go out to dinner sometime…”
What!
he thought.
What did I just say? I didn’t ask h—
“Sure. How about tonight?”
Collier froze. “Uh, yeah, perfect.”
“Pick me up here at eight. ’Bye!”
Dominique whisked out the front door.
Collier felt like a parachutist who just stepped out of the plane. His face felt like it was glowing.
I just asked her out…and she said yes!
He barely noticed when Sute’s bulk sat back down. Were the man’s eyes red?
Either he’s allergic to something,
Collier supposed,
or the guy’s been crying.
“You okay, Mr. Sute?”
The man looked absolutely disconsolate. “Oh, yes, I just…I’ve got several personal quagmires, that I’m not quite sure how to deal with.” He ordered
another
big martini.
Well, that’s one way of dealing with it,
Collier thought. Even during their discussion’s peak, Sute seemed haunted, even
pining
for something. Could it have something to do with Jiff?
Collier knew he shouldn’t but…“Oh, yeah, that’s another thing I was wondering about. The land. Yesterday when Jiff was showing me my room, I asked him about all that land around the town. It looks like perfectly good farmland to me. But Jiff says it hasn’t been cultivated in years.”
Sute swallowed hard, nodding. But the tactic had worked; both times the name Jiff had been mentioned, Sute reacted in his eyes—the same pained cast. It was everything he could do just to respond to the subject.
“The land hasn’t been cultivated, actually, since Harwood Gast’s death in 1862. It was great land, mind you, outstanding soil. There were rich, rich harvests of cotton, corn, and soybeans for as far as one could see.” Sute’s voice darkened. “If farmers grew crops there now…no one would eat them.”
“Because the land is cursed?” Collier posed. “As I recall…
Jiff
said something along those lines.”
Was Sute’s hand shaking?
“Of course, Jiff didn’t say that he personally
believed
the land was cursed,” Collier went on for effect. “Just that that’s part of the legend.”
“It is, very much so.” Sute finally composed himself. “People believe the land is tainted for what happened on
it when Gast owned it. As the story goes, he executed a vast number of slaves on that land.”
“Really? So this is fact?”
“Exaggerated fact, more than likely. Based on my own research, perhaps thirty or forty slaves were executed, not the hundreds that the legend claims. But still, men were killed there.”
“Lynchings, in other words?”
“Yes, but not by hanging, which is the standard denotation. These men were slaves, of course, there was never any trial beforehand. Bear in mind, this was the era of Dred Scott—slaves, by law, were regarded as property, not citizens entitled to the rights granted by the Bill of Rights. Therefore, slaves accused of crimes never got their day in court. They were executed summarily anytime white men suspected them of something criminal.”
“Legal murder.”
“Oh, yes.”
“These slaves—what were they accused of?”
“Some sexual crime, almost exclusively. If a white woman
willingly
had sexual congress with a slave—the slave was guilty of rape. If a slave put his hands on a white woman, or even looked at her salaciously…same thing. A number of these accusations were made by none other than Penelope Gast herself. There were even some accounts of slaves rebuffing her advances, which infuriated her to the point that she’d swear the man either raped her or molested her. Instant execution. And of course we know that she had many, many willing liaisons with slaves, a few of which no doubt resulted in very unwanted pregnancies. The entire ordeal was ghastly. I doubt that any of the slaves killed were guilty of forcible rape—ever.”
Collier’s eyes narrowed. “If they weren’t hanged, how were these men executed?”
“They were dragged to death by horses, or sometimes butchered in place. And then they were beheaded while all of the other slaves were forced to watch. Harwood Gast very much believed in the principles of deterrence. The severed heads were mounted on stakes and simply left there, so to be visible, and some remained erected for years.”
Collier’s brow jumped. “Well, now I can see why superstitious people would believe the land was cursed.”
Sute’s martini was being drained in quick increments. “No, the beheadings weren’t the highlight. After the unfortunate slave was decapitated, his body was crushed by sledgehammers, minced by axes, and then hoed into the soil. How’s
that
for a ‘haunted field’ story?”
Collier’s stomach turned sour.
Jesus. Gast was pureass psycho. He could make Genghis Khan look like Mickey Mouse.
“Now I know why the locals call Gast the most evil man the town’s ever seen.”
“Essentially, everything Harwood Gast ever did was in some way motivated by evil.”
“Just building the railroad itself,” Collier added. “Solely to transport captured northern civilians to concentration camps—that kind of takes the cake, too.”
Sute popped a brow at what Collier had said.
Almost as if to reserve an additional comment.
Collier noticed that, too. That and the man’s distress—from some “personal quagmire”—made Collier think:
I’d love to know what’s REALLY going on in this guy’s noggin…
“They say evil is relative,” Sute picked up when his next drink was done, “but I really don’t know.”
“Gast was insane.”
“I hope so. As for his wife, I’m not sure that she was really
insane—
just a sociopathic sex maniac is probably more like it.”
Collier laughed.
Over the course of their talk, Sute’s face looked as if it
had aged ten years. Bags under his eyes dropped, while his lids were getting redder.
“Mr. Sute, are you
sure
you’re all right?”
He gulped, and repatted the handkerchief to his forehead. “I suppose I’m really not, Mr. Collier. I’m not feeling well. It’s been wonderful having lunch with you, but I’m afraid I must excuse myself.”
“Go home and get some rest,” Collier advised.
And don’t drink a SHITLOAD of martinis next time.
“I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.”
“Thank you.” Sute rose, wobbly. He shook Collier’s hand. “And I hope my accounts of the town’s strange history entertained you.”
“Very much so.”
Quite suddenly, a sixtyish man probably even heavier than Sute wended around the table: balding, white beard, big jolly Santa Claus face. “J.G.!” the man greeted with a stout voice. “Going so soon? Stay and have a drink!”
“Oh, no, Hank, I’ve had too much already—”
The hugely grinning man turned to Collier.
“And Mr. Justin Collier! Word travels fast when a celebrity comes to town, and I’m always the first to get the news.” He pumped Collier’s hand like a car jack. “I’m Hank Snodden, and I must say it’s a pleasure to meet you! I
love
your show, by the way. I can’t
wait
for next season!”
Sorry, buddy, but you WILL wait for next season,
Collier thought. “Thanks for the kind words, Mr. Snodden.”
“Hank is the mayor of our humble little town,” Sute informed.
The ebullient man slapped Collier on the back. “And I’m also the county clerk, the town license inspector, and the recorder of deeds.” A hokey elbow to Collier’s ribs. “I also own the car lot on the corner. Come on in and I’ll give you a really good deal!”
Collier faked a chuckle. “I love your town, Mr. Snodden.”
The bubbly man turned back to Sute, then frowned. “J.G., you don’t look well.”
Sute reeled on his feet. “I’m a bit under the weather…”
“No, you’re drunk!” Snodden laughed. “Just like me! Go home and sleep it off—”
“Yes, I’m leaving now—”
“—but don’t forget chess club on Monday! I’ll be kicking your tail!”
Sute sidestepped away. “Thank you again, Mr. Collier. I hope we meet again.”
“’Bye…”
Sute finally made his exit, almost stumbling out the front door.
“He’s a character, all right, Mr. Collier,” the mayor piped. “I’ve known him thirty years and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that stewed. And speaking of stewed, please let me buy you a drink.”
This guy’s a little too high-amp for me,
Collier realized. Besides, those lagers had buzzed him up but good. “Thanks, sir, but I’ve got to be going myself.”
“Well, if there’s anything you need, you just call up the mayor’s office, tell them you’re a personal friend of mine, and I’ll get you fixed up in no time.”
“Thanks, sir.”
The big man’s eyes beamed. “And I guess J.G. was talking about his books.”
“Yes. I bought a few. But he mentioned that one of his books never—”
“—never got published because—well—he’s not a very good writer! So that’s what he was bending your ear about, Harwood Gast and his notorious railroad.”
“Yes, it’s pretty grim, but it’s also a fascinating story—”
Another elbow in the ribs. “And pure bullshit, Mr. Collier, but you know how these Southerners are. They love
to spin a tale. Horrible Harwood and Mrs. Tinkle, they called them.”
Collier squinted. “Mrs.
Twinkle?
”
“
Tinkle,
Mr. Collier, Mrs.
Tinkle
—that was her nickname, among other things.”
“Why’d they call her
that?
”
“Oh, there’s my wife, Mr. Collier—I better go before she starts yelling at me—” He slipped a business card in Collier’s hand. “But it’s been a pleasure meeting you!”
“You, too, sir, but—wait—why did they call her—”
Snodden rushed away, to a sneering wife in a dress that looked like a pup tent with flowers on it.
Mrs. Tinkle?
Collier paid the check, frowning. Here was something Sute had skirted in his indelicate description of Penelope Gast. It didn’t take Collier long to assume between the lines. Sex maniac, indeed.
Water sports,
he guessed.
She was probably one of these kinky weirdos who likes guys to piss on her.
It wasn’t all bonnets and mint juleps on the porch. Every age had its veneers.
He shook his head as he left the restaurant.
A piss freak
…But his guts sank when he reminded himself that he thought he’d smelled urine in his room.
The gorgeous day helped him get Sute’s dreadful story out of his head. However—
Maybe I’ll walk around town a bit, walk off this buzz.
He knew he needed to be 100 percent sober when the time came for his dinner date with Dominique.
Wait a minute!
he remembered now.
She won’t want to eat at her own restaurant. I’ll have to take her someplace
…Now a new kind of dread sank in his guts.
I can’t take the woman of my dreams out in that lime on wheels!
He looked around for a car rental but wasn’t surprised that a small town like this wouldn’t need one. Suddenly the problem felt like a crisis.
I should’ve asked Sute. He probably would’ve loaned me his Caddy.
It would be his prize at the chess club: to
brag about how the TV star had asked to borrow his car. But Sute was gone, and too mysteriously distressed to call now. Then Collier thought:
Jiff! I’ll bet he’s got a car! I’m sure he’d loan it to me in a heartbeat…
Collier was about to head back to the inn but stopped in the street. Two blocks down, he was pretty sure he spotted Jiff walking into a store.
He followed the clean street down, ducking whenever it appeared he’d been recognized.
This celebrity crap is getting on my nerves. I should’ve grown a beard…
When he got closer to the store, he realized it
wasn’t
a store. It was that place he’d seen last night.