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Annie put the caboose down, took out her phone, opened up the map app, and looked up Lucknow. If it was in Vermont, then it could be relatively close, depending on what corner of that state it was in. She found it in seconds, saw that it was in the southwest. A hike, to be sure, but could a determined little boy, desperate to find a father he refused to believe was dead, get there on his bicycle?

“He could,” Annie said to herself. “I believe he could.”

She looked at the caboose resting on her table, at the remains of Charlie’s trains scattered across the floor.

“You were trying to tell me, weren’t you?” she said.

The train was silent.

There was no point in calling Standish. First of all, Annie was sure she viewed her as a suspect. And second, if Annie told her she believed she knew where Charlie was, and how she’d come to this conclusion, the officer would have her committed.

Annie was on her own here.

She ran down the stairs, grabbed her car keys, and was gone.

Part IV

Harry

Thirty-Three

Chief Harry Cook couldn’t find anyone who claimed to have seen Gavin Denham in the last five days.

He hadn’t been at his usual morning station, the bench out front of the Lucknow Diner, since the Friday before, and it was Wednesday. His old pickup truck remained parked a couple of blocks off Main Street, where Harry had found it the morning of the sidewalk sale. He had left under the windshield wiper what might have looked at first like a parking ticket, but was actually a note from Harry that read: “Gavin, when you see this, come find me. Best, Harry.”

Ordinarily, someone like Gavin going missing would not set off too many alarms. He was a down-on-his-luck guy, homeless, unless you counted his pickup truck as a residence, and was known to like the bottle more than he should. But this town had already seen two men go missing—one of whom had been found without much of his skeletal structure, the other still unaccounted for—so Gavin made three, and that had Harry concerned.

He hadn’t made a big deal about it yet. The department was yet to issue a news release asking for information as to Gavin’s whereabouts, although Harry had asked Mary to get one ready. He had not made a call Rachel Bosma, the reporter for theLucknow Leader, suggesting she do a story.

He’d put that note on the windshield Monday morning, and when he drove past it today, it was still there, untouched. He stoppedhis cruiser next to the truck, got out, walked around it, checked to see whether the vehicle was still locked, which it was. Harry decided it was time to get inside, see whether there might be anything that would offer a clue as to where Gavin might be. This wasn’t an emergency, like a kid trapped in a car on a hot day, so he didn’t want to break the window. On the Lucknow Police Rolodex was a locksmith by the name of Gertie they got in touch with whenever they needed her services, usually for nothing more serious than someone accidentally locking their keys inside their vehicle.

Gavin radioed into the station and asked them to get Gertie out to his location, and within twenty minutes she was there.

“This is Gavin Denham’s truck, isn’t it?” she asked.

Harry said it was.

“That sad bastard,” she said. “Came to me one day, looking for work, and I didn’t have anything for him. Truck been sitting here a few days, you say?”

Harry said yes.

“So what’s happening with that guy Hillman? You found him yet? We got another guy disappeared into thin air?”

“Could you open the truck, Gertie?” Harry asked. Gertie could be chatty.

She had the door open in under a minute. Harry thanked her and told her to bill the department. He waited until she was gone before hauling himself up behind the wheel to begin his search.

Some of what was in here Harry had been able to see through the window. A couple of blankets, a pillow. Behind the seats, a plastic grocery bag with a wadded-up tube of toothpaste and toothbrush, a comb, half a bottle of Jameson, and some Preparation H, which was about when Harry wished he’d slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. There were two worn and yellowed paperback novels that looked todate back to the seventies. A Donald Hamilton novel about his Matt Helm character calledThe Ambushers. Harry could remember reading some of those when he was in his teens. The other book was an 87th Precinct novel by Ed McBain calledFuzz.

Under the seat were some empty paper coffee cups, a Big Mac container with a few traces of lettuce and special sauce, a Subway bag. Harry leaned over and popped open the glove compartment. He found the vehicle registration and a long-since-expired insurance slip. No big surprise there. Some road maps for Vermont, New York, Massachusetts, and Connecticut, all of which Gavin had failed to fold back up correctly, making them twice as thick as they should have been. A flashlight and some loose batteries, a package of tissues.

Nothing that one might call a clue jumped out at Harry.

He got back out of the truck and closed the door. Without a key he couldn’t lock it, but he didn’t feel there was much in there to interest a thief, unless it was a crook with hemorrhoids who’d be delighted to find some remaining ointment in that tube.

He drove the few blocks back into the center of town and parked out front of the diner. Once inside, he sat himself on a stool and waited for Jenny to bring him a coffee. He never needed to ask. He had out his notebook, reviewing things he had jotted down over the last few days.

He’d checked Wendell Comstock’s alibi. He had, in fact, been to Brattleboro to help a friend seeking his opinion on a possible house purchase. Wendell had been nowhere near his home when Nadine had died in the bathtub from electrocution, courtesy of that toy train transformer. There was no evidence to suggest her death was anything other than suicide, although it bothered Harry that Wendell had not believed his wife to be seriously depressed. Harry had spoken to her doctor, whom she had seen within thelast four months when she’d felt a lump in her breast. Tests had shown that she had nothing to worry about. If she was feeling at all despondent, she had not made that known.