Poltrock fought off the repeated distractions. “I appreciate your offer, Mr. Gast,” he said in a distinct Southern accent. “But why me?”
“Because you built the great railroads in Ohio and the Pennsylvania Commonwealth. I need a man like you to run my construction operation.”
Poltrock felt dizzy. He kept looking to the splendid furnishings and draperies, the crystal vases filled with blooming flowers, but then thought the strangest thing: It’s all covering something up…The house, indeed, inside and out, looked beautiful but it felt…ugly. Corrupted. A sick person in fine clothes.
For a moment—just a fraction of a moment—again, he smelled urine. But when the moment passed, so did the haunting stench.
A black maid ushered in a silver tray with cups of minted tea. She said nothing, simply set the service on the desk, glanced once at Poltrock, and left.
The glance showed Poltrock eyes full of fear. He closed his own eyes again at a wave of nausea. He could not dispel the image that rose: two strong white hands clamped about the maid’s throat, squeezing until the dark face turned even darker, until veins swelled fat as earthworms and the bones in the neck could be heard cracking. When the hands let go, the dead woman’s mouth fell open to ooze abundant semen.
Then the image retracted to reveal whose hands they were: Poltrock’s.
God help me, he thought. Where did that unholy vision come from?
Poltrock had never thought anything so vile in his life. He was a God-fearing Christian. What had caused such a sight to come into his head?
Gast turned back around, with his yellow eyes. He must have some liver disorder. “Work for me,” he said and handed Poltrock a check.
It was a finely printed check on heather gray paper. It read RECEIVED OF: Mr. N. P. Poltrock, AGENT OF THE EAST TENNESSEE AND GEORGIA RAILROAD COMPANY, Fifty DOLLARS.
The unease of the house hampered Poltrock’s reaction. Movement caused him to look to the doorway. He could see into the foyer, where a dowdy teenage girl in a white dress sat on the stairs’ second step. She was petting a dog—a small, wrangly thing with drab brown fur—and scratching behind its ears. For a moment the girl’s eyes looked at Poltrock. She smiled coyly. Now the dog had its head under her dress.
Poltrock winced and looked away. He reminded himself of the check he’d just been given. Lord, that’s good money. “Just so I’m sure we understand each other, Mr. Gast, but you aim to lay a hundred miles of track per year with a hundred men?”
“I have a hundred slaves, plus fifty strong white foremen and rail engineers.”
“I see. So…like I was saying, sir, a hundred miles of track per year. From where to where?”
“From Camp Roan, just outside of town, to Maxon.”
“Maxon, Georgia, Mr. Gast?”
“That’s correct.”
“That’s halfway to Atlanta, sir,” Poltrock almost raised his voice. The notion was absurd. “That’s five hundred miles.”
“I’m aware of that.” Gast turned back to the window, with his tea. The sunlight through the trees seemed to create a dark fog about his head. “I, like many, Mr. Poltrock, believe that a war is coming. It will be a great war that will forge our Southern brotherhood into the strongest nation on earth. I have confidantes who believe such a rail line would be imperative for the South to survive such a war.”
Poltrock shook his head. He didn’t believe any of this war talk. The Congress would make things right for the South. Gast must not remember what the federal army did to Mexico not too long ago. And who were these confidantes? Probably just big money people, more plantation barons. Lots of money and lots of big ideas.
When he looked again, the girl with the dog was gone from the foyer, but he could swear he heard children giggling from deeper within the house. And—
There was that smell again: the stench of urine.
It must be in his mind, for Gast clearly didn’t detect it.
“The East Tennessee corridor is ideal,” Gast went on. “All the way to Maxon we won’t have to spend a penny excavating; we’ll scarcely have to fell a single tree.”
“The only thing I know of in Maxon, sir, is the old armory and barrel works.”
Gast turned again, impressed. “You’re a learned man, Mr. Poltrock. That’s quite correct.”
“But I also know the furnace there has been permanently shut down. They haven’t made a gun barrel in Maxon since 1814.”
The jaundiced eyes looked blurred. “Again, you’re correct. But that’s not my interest, nor is it in the interest of my confidantes.”
Confidantes again, Poltrock thought. Gast just ain’t right in the head and that’s all there is to it. It’s downright crazy to lay five hundred miles of track to a dead town.
“You just leave that to us,” Gast said, “while we leave the construction of the railroad to you.”
Poltrock severed his next objection when more movement caught the corner of his eye. A beautiful woman in white had just swept into the room.
“Mr. Poltrock. Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Penelope.”
Poltrock stood up at once.
The sight hijacked his gaze. All he saw first was the beaming face surrounded by tousles of hair the color of sunlight. A graceful white hand daintily held a fan with embroidered roses.
“Mrs. Gast,” Poltrock nearly stammered. “It is truly my honor to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, Mr. Poltrock.”
She extended her hand, which felt hot when Poltrock took it. An erection that made no sense suddenly ached in his trousers. The fragrance of flowers seemed to emanate from her. Poltrock knew he dare not stare but one stolen glance revealed the rest of her: a figure of perfect contours fitted into a pleated bustle dress white as the clouds. By the tenets of the day, it was crude to look directly at another man’s wife—especially a wealthy man’s—and Poltrock found it close to impossible to keep his eyes from falling to the lacy neckline and considerable cleavage exposed.
“Your fine husband and I were just discussing—”
“Business,” Gast said abruptly.
“Oh, I know,” the lilting accent drifted from her lips. “Your important railroad, which will help confederate our Southern states into the most powerful nation in the world.”
“You can be sure, my dear,” Gast said. “My railroad will be more important to the South than the depot in Chattanooga.” But the look in Gast’s tinted eyes said that he did not appreciate the interruption.
Penelope Gast stroked her fan a few times, which blew a few strands of golden hair upward. “Will Mr. Poltrock be joining us for lunch?”
“Of course he will,” Gast answered before Poltrock could. “But we still have business to discuss, so—”
“Of course, dear,” the woman said. “Have a fine day, Mr. Poltrock.”
Poltrock gulped and nodded. “And you, too, ma’am.”
The stunning beauty of the woman rocked Poltrock. He hoped he’d recovered well when he sat back down and said, “You have a wife of great culture and beauty, Mr. Gast. You must be very proud of her.”
“I certainly am, Mr. Poltrock.”
Poltrock didn’t think his erection had been noticeable. Good God, I hope not. He closed his eyes again for a moment…
At once, his nostrils flared and his stomach clenched: the stench of stale urine seemed thick as fog. And then came the words:
“She’s a whore of the first water. She smells of piss and reeks of weakness and gluttony. She’s fucked dozens of men behind my back, sometimes even slaves. One day, and you can mark my words, I’ll see her raped to the brink of death and then I will personally halve her detestable pussy with an ax.”