Part 33 (2/2)
”Right.”
”And you say you found a lot of them?”
”Yeah-fifty, sixty, maybe. They were stashed in an old writing desk, probably overlooked all these decades.”
”I'm sure they were. I'll have to ask Mrs. Butler to let me examine them all, for the various names.”
”Gast's employees, you mean?”
”Exactly. To cross-reference them with the other sources in my archives.” He held one up. ”See here, this man here? N.P. Poltrock. He was Gast's chief of operations. And Beauregard Morris-the crew chief. These men probably killed themselves on May second or third. Gast himself was already dead by his own hand-on April thirtieth-but it may be that Morris and Poltrock forestalled their own suicides to finish up a few of Gast's final requests, and to have a last hoorah in town. They both died in one of the parlors.”
Collier tried to fix a chronology. ”Gast hanged himself on the last day of April-”
”After he murdered his wife, his maid, Taylor Cutton, and his children.”
The sickness continued to churn. ”Do you know how the first two guys killed themselves? Morris, and the other guy?”
”It's in the same account by the marshal.” Sute gestured the ma.n.u.script again. ”Morris cut his own throat, and I believe Poltrock shot himself in the head.”
The awareness thumped in Collier's blood like a slow heartbeat. He recalled his nightmare: he was a prost.i.tute named Harriet. The guy who raped me...Wasn't his name Morris? He remembered the dream all too vividly. Harriet never reclaimed the money he owed her. She'd seen his body in the parlor. With his throat cut.
I can't tell Sute that, I just can't!
”They look like paychecks...”
”The system was a little bit different back then-the workers were always paid in cash, often on the job site, but, yes, that's essentially what these are. Once it's endorsed it becomes a receipt for payment. I'm sure the company's treasurer kept these to maintain an accurate accounting. That's this man here-” Sute's stout finger tapped the bottom of a check. ”Windom Fecory.”
”The guy the local bank's named after.”
”Yes.” An expression of amus.e.m.e.nt touched Sute's face. ”If the current bank president had known more about the real Windom Fecory, I suspect he'd have chosen another name.”
”Why?”
”You'll recall the more abstract elements of our discussion-the supernatural element-”
Collier tried not to smirk. ”Gast selling his soul to the devil, you mean.”
”Not necessarily the devil, but possibly an adjunct to the same ent.i.ty. That would indeed be Fecory. He produced a seemingly limitless flux of cash without ever once depleting Gast's personal account. That's how the more far-fetched extremes of the story go, at least.”
”You just said you believe in ghosts. Do you believe that?”
”I can't say,” Sute replied, still eyeing the checks. ”But I must mention, if only in pa.s.sing, that the name Fecory bears a suspicious resemblance to what you might think of as a demonic acolyte or serf, if you will. The archdemon who guards Lucifer's netherworldly treasures is called Anarazel, and his acolyte is called Fecor.”
”Fecor, Fecory.” Collier got it. ”But I don't buy the demon stuff, it's too hokey.”
”I agree, but say that it's true. Windom Fecory was Gast's paymaster; it was his job to remunerate cash in exchange for services. The demon Fecor can be likened to Anarazel's paymaster, to remunerate Satan's treasure...to those worldly men who serve him.”
Collier tossed his head. ”Fine.”
”And I'll add that there is no accounting for Fecory after April thirtieth, not only the day that all these checks have been dated but also the day that the railroad was officially completed, and Harwood Gast came home for the last time.” Sute maintained a clear interest on the checks. ”Ah, and here's one for Taylor Cutton, the foreman.”
”Don't tell me he knocked himself off, too...”
Another smile sunk into Sute's face. ”You're not very attentive, Mr. Collier. I've already informed you that Taylor Cutton was murdered in the house-”
The memory sparked. ”The guy Gast drowned in the hip bath.”
”Yes. Also on April 30, 1862.”
Collier couldn't help but recall the gurgling sound from the bath closet last night, and the gnawing sound...I'll just have out with it. What the h.e.l.l? ”Look, Mr. Sute. Since I've stayed at the inn, I've had a-”
Sute interrupted, ”An accelerated s.e.xual awareness, yes. You've implied that. Certain people have experienced the same thing while staying there.”
Collier probably blushed. ”Yeah but I've also had several nightmares where I'm someone else. Two nights ago I dreamed I was a Confederate sentry. I was guarding prisoners who were being deloused in a converted barn. It occurred to me that these people-civilians-were being processed for something-”
Sute didn't seem surprised. ”Indeed they were. They were being processed for their extermination.”
The word struck a black chord. ”Extermination as in incineration?”
”Before I answer, tell me exactly why you ask.”
”The nightmare,” Collier implored. ”The detainees were all naked and malnourished, and their hair was all cut off. Then they were packed back in a prison wagon-a wagon that departed from a nearby train depot-and taken up a large hill. In the dream, I couldn't see what was at the top of the hill, but I saw smoke, a steady, endless plume of smoke. Like they had a big bonfire up there.”
”It wasn't a bonfire, it was the former Maxon Rifle Works, once the largest blast furnace in the South. It was closed down in the 1820s after superior facilities were built in North and South Carolina, but before that time, Maxon produced more rifle barrels than any other metal works south of the Mason-Dixon. It was a technological marvel during its heyday-the coal bed was fifty feet in diameter, and it possessed a high-efficiency bellows system that was operated by a water wheel.”
Collier's mind filled with confused murk. ”So the detainees were slaves, laborers forced to work at the furnace?”
”No,” Sute informed. ”It was Gast who refired the barrel works, but not for weapons production. He built an entire railroad to Maxon and refired the furnace solely to incinerate the innocent.”
Collier felt tinged with evil. In a sense, it explained everything he didn't know, all at once. If...
”Why would he do that?”
Sute sat back down, fingering the old checks. ”Either because he was insane, or because it was part of the deal. Riches in exchange for service. Mr. Collier, ritual atrocity and the sacrifice of the innocent are nothing new in the history of the occult. An oblation to the devil by the spilling of innocent blood is a powerful brew. Maxon was the Auschwitz of the Civil War...and almost n.o.body knows about it. The furnace's obscure location kept it in operation even for weeks after the war ended. How's that for evil, Mr. Collier? How's that for Satan protecting his flock?”
Collier wanted to leave. He'd heard enough. If it was all true, or all bulls.h.i.+t, he was done.
”Toward the end, the coal stores gave out,” Sute went on. ”Union troops were only a few days away, but there were still a hundred or so detainees awaiting incineration. So with no way to burn them, a slaughterfest ensued...”
Collier stared at him.
”It was a grim scene indeed that awaited the federal forces. They discovered locked prison wagons that had been set aflame with their charges still inside. But children had been pulled aside and beheaded, the heads left in neat piles for the troops to find. Dozens more were pitchforked to death, or simply hanged. Heaps of bodies were found rotting in the sun. It was a celebration of evil, Mr. Collier. Truly the devil's jubal.”
Collier finished the strong drink, craving a good beer now, but before he could bid a curt farewell, Sute asked: ”But back to your nightmare. Is that the only nightmare you had at the inn?”
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