The Black Train Part 37

"Weird," Dominique whispered when they moved away.

"Doesn't seem herself tonight. Usually she's bouncing off the walls..."

Dominique stopped again, tugged on Collier's hand.

She was looking at the old writing table.

Remembering what she saw there during the reception, Collier a.s.sumed. A man uneasily similar to Windom Fecory. The added coincidence gave Collier a s.h.i.+ver.

He'd found the old checks in the same desk.

All signed by Fecory on the day Gast hanged himself in 1862.

Next her eyes crawled up the cubby's wall, to the tiny portrait of Penelope.

"There she is," Dominique mumbled.

The old oil painting seemed crisper than Collier remembered, eerily more detailed than it should be. More bothersome was that the details of the woman's soft yet seductive face were identical to the old daguerreotypes he'd already been shown.

Lightning flashed in the high windows, and more thunder rippled.

"This is ridiculous," Dominique griped.

"What?"

"Now I'm getting spooked."

Collier pulled on her. "Come on, let's go..."

As they wound up the curved stairs, Collier took a glance over his shoulder.

Lottie was now standing at the writing table, as if in a trance.

She seemed to be staring at Penelope's portrait.

Eyes dull. Mouth open.

When more thunder cracked, Dominique chuckled. "Now all we need is for the lights to go out."

"Don't even say that!"

She touched her cross. "Don't worry, my cross will protect us from the bogeyman..."

When Collier looked again, Lottie was gone.

Bogeyman, he thought. Or Bogeywoman...

III.

Sute sat in his upstairs room, in tears. He sat before the bow window, letting each crackle of lightning turn his face stark. He felt tinged in ruin...

He'd called Jiff earlier, pleading for another illicit rendezvous tomorrow but had had to leave a message. When Sute returned from dinner, this reply awaited on his machine: "J.G., I'se sure ya recognize my voice. Sorry to have to tell ya this but...I just cain't do it no more. What I mean's I ain't gonna do no more business with ya. It's too much fer me, ya know? I make easier money other places. Sorry, but that's it."

That's it, Sute had been repeating in his mind for hours now.

"That's it for my life..."

His town house shook with the next eruption of thunder.

He sobbed to himself. "This is what...all love comes to."

The room's darkness made him feel even more worthless. Everything was for nothing. The lightning turned his tears into a sad liquid glimmer.

Sute knew he was not a strong man. He wondered how long he'd last, sitting here like this, before he killed himself.

IV.

"You dirty dog! Dirty, dirty dog!" A pair of wee voices impossibly disappeared around the corner. Just voices, with no children to go with them.

Giggles faded to nothingness, along with a single feisty yap, like the bark of a dog.

Mercy. It's bad tonight.

Mrs. Butler walked slowly along the main stair hall, then went down to make a last-minute check of the kitchen. She'd always known it was the house, and she was sure her son and daughter knew, too. The acknowledgment always pa.s.sed across their eyes with nary a word. The only thing she'd ever said about it to Lottie and Jiff was: "It's just the past kind'a seepin' through. Don't happen much, just ever now'n then. Just you two always remember...what ya cain't see cain't hurt ya..."

The inn was full up; tourist season here ran nine or ten months sometimes. It was a good life. And folks rarely stayed long enough to ever notice anything funny. A couple now and then, sure-some people got it worse than others (and Mrs. Butler could never imagine why) but generally things ran well.

Mr. Collier, of course, had it bad. She could tell by his eyes. He'd heard the dog, and the girls. Perhaps she should've been more convincing when answering his queries about the building's past. If I weren't so all-fired hot for the man, maybe I'd be a better host! She often believed that something in the house made her so pent up for men, even at her age.

The kitchen was fine, everything prepped for the morning's light breakfast. The overhead lights wavered through the next peal of thunder. Danged storm! They rarely lost power here, but when they did, her guests were none too happy. Please stay on, dang ya!

She didn't want to have to suffer though complaints tomorrow and-her worst concern: This ain't the night to lose the lights in THIS house...

She left the kitchen and went back to the family wing. Lottie'd already gone to bed. Poor girl was all out'a sorts today. Mrs. Butler knew it was just the house going through one of its cycles. When she peeked into Lottie's room, she saw her daughter tossing fitfully, bedsheets twisted into a snake that coursed her naked body. More bad dreams, Mrs. Butler realized. Lottie, though asleep, was pawing desperately at her s.e.x.

When she peeked into Jiff's room, she wasn't surprised to find the bed empty. Honestly, what IS that boy into? She'd heard some things, but like many mothers, she ignored the rumors. He's a grown man! she kept telling herself. Drinking way too much, though, but...he always did when the house was like this.

Mrs. Butler felt a hundred when she trudged into her own room. She stripped and slipped into a sheer nightgown. Jesus Lord, I am SO tired...She sat on the bed, was about to switch off the lamp, but faltered. She didn't want to be in the dark...

Last night she'd had the most awful dream, and it was one she'd had before. She'd dreamed that she was a lissome black woman being raped one by one by a line of strong white men with big grins but eyes that looked dead. When they each had a turn, they took another turn.

Then another.

By the time they were finished, she lay ravaged, bleeding inside and out, organs ruptured. The hot room reeked so horribly of urine it could've been a sauna where p.i.s.s had been poured over the hot stones instead of water.

Mrs. Butler knew what room it was...

In the dream, she'd died, yet her last breath had escaped with her consciousness only to rise above the horror and watch the men drag her corpse out of the house to the fields where it was minced with hewers and hoed into the soil...

When Mrs. Butler finally turned off the light, a volley of thunder ripped the air so violently she shrieked.

She s.h.i.+vered beneath the covers, terrified, yet impossibly moist between the legs, nipples aching to be sucked. When more lightning flashed, she shrieked again because she thought sure she could see the shapes of figures on the wall, as though someone was outside the window, looking in.

It's just the house...It cain't hurt me...

And she was right. The house wouldn't hurt her. It was only going to use her for a while.

V.

Jiff walked home from the Spike when Buster closed. "s.h.i.+t, Jiff, you shouldn't have stayed so long-you're drunk as a skunk!"

"Yeah, shee-it, I know."

"Something b.u.mming you out?"

"Naw-"

"You're bulls.h.i.+tting me, Jiff, but-h.e.l.l-it's none of my business," the big bartender said. The rain pattering the roof sounded like marbles.

"Let me call you a cab. It's pouring."

"Naw, I'll walk-" Jiff pushed open the door and let himself be swamped by the rain. He walked in hitches, staggering.

Yes, he was drunk, all right.

Truth was, he hadn't left the bar because...he was too uneasy about going back to the inn.

The rain fell in sheets but he didn't care. He had plenty of cash for a cab but he elected not to call one because he really was in no hurry to get back.

The house was having one of its fits, and Jiff could guess what kind of dreams awaited him once he went to bed. If I'm drunk enough, I'll pa.s.s out'n might not remember 'em...

Desperate logic.

With every whiplash of lightning, Jiff froze and grabbed a streetlamp to keep his balance. Had anyone ever been hit by lightning in this town?

With my luck, I'll be the first.

Eventually the awnings along Number 1 Street gave him some cover, which only allowed him to focus more on his dim and seedy life. Jiff was tired of two-bit tricks in a gay bar, and buffing his mother's floors...but he also knew he didn't deserve much more. Why cain't I just make some decent money like other folks? Drunk as he was, though, he had the presence of mind to step in closer to the shops. J.G. Sute's town house was right across the street. He walked as quickly as his stumble would allow, head down. A side-glance upward showed him Sute's bedroom window-all dark-but after another flash- Jesus! Is that him sittin' there?

Jiff walked faster.

When he was far enough down the street, he thought, Yeah, some hustler I am. Sute was his most regular client, with the most dependable money, yet Jiff had pulled the plug on the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He just couldn't hack the gross-out kinks anymore.

The poor fat slob's probably up there cryin'.

Too bad.

Outside of a bathtub, he'd never been more drenched than when he finally stumbled up the hill and rushed into the vestibule.

He looked through the gla.s.s panels of the inner door and saw the portrait of Harwood Gast looking right at him.

Why ain't I got the b.a.l.l.s to just up'n move out'a this crazy place?

Behind him, the thunder sounded like it was crus.h.i.+ng the sky. Had he ever heard anything so loud?

Jiff remained in the vestibule for another half hour, before he actually found the courage to enter.

VI.

"What a nice room," Dominique commented when Collier took her in.

You'd be surprised, he wanted to say. But he found that her being here with him dulled some of the edges of his fear.

Something snapped; his head jerked around.

Dominique lit one of several candles that sat atop the armoire. "Just in case the-"

All the lights went out with a thunk, in time with the worst shot of lightning so far.

"It's a good thing you're smart," Collier said.

An orb of light floated around the wick. Dominique lit two more. "You got your wish," she joked.

The switch from lamplight to candlelight frayed a few of Collier's nerves. "My wish?"

"Haunted house, dark and stormy night, and now...no power."

"That's not exactly my wish." The atmosphere couldn't have been more potent now. The storm was rattling the French doors to the balcony.

Dominique walked around to the bed and quite by surprise, kissed him. "I'm so tired I can't believe it." Then she sat, and kicked off her shoes.

Is that her way of telling me she's too tired to make out? Collier, in all honesty, wasn't in the mood. "Well, of course you're tired." He tried to get his mind off the house. "You were in church at seven thirty, fed a hundred of Chattanooga's homeless, and worked the dinner rush."

"I'll fall asleep so fast..."

She unb.u.t.toned her blouse with no hesitation.

"Want me to turn around?" he offered.

"No. I told you I trust you. But I won't sleep nude like I usually do. Then you really would think I'm a tease."

"Oh, no, no, no, I wouldn't-"

She smiled in the candlelight, and shouldered out of the blouse to expose the perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s cupped in a sheer white-lace bra. Then she stood up and skimmed off her work slacks.

This is killing me...

When she turned in the candlelight he could see her nipples beneath the lace, and a tuft of pubic hair. The light chiseled her body's contours into a wonderwork of flawless feminine lines, razor-sharp shadows and flesh.