Page 9

No one could remember when, exactly, the shop had opened.

One day, there was nothing there. And then, one day there was.

People would say, it’s like when you need your shoes repaired, someone recommends Mike’s Shoe Repair, and you ask, where’s

that, and you find out it’s right there on the main drag; you’ve strolled past it a hundred times but never noticed it because

you never needed your shoes fixed till now.

This new shop was like that, except there wasn’t a soul who could remember how long it had been there. A week? A month? Surely

not longer than that.

Regardless of when it had opened, the town of Lucknow now had something it had not had before, at least not in anyone’s memory.

It had a toy train shop, somewhat anachronistic in a time when the electronic game systems—Nintendos and PlayStations and

Xboxes—were ubiquitous. What chance did something as classic as a toy train stand, only a couple years into the new millennium?

Time would tell.

The place certainly had a catchy, if too-cute, name: Choo-Choo’s Trains. It seemed designed to draw in the little ones, or

at least prompt them to drag their parents in with them.

On this particular Tuesday morning, before the shop had even opened—the sign in the window said our hours of fun are 9:30–5:00! —two boys on their way to school had stopped to admire the window display: a loop of track about five feet across with a New Haven diesel engine and three passenger cars going around and around, disappearing briefly on each loop into a tunnel built into a mountain prop. Even when the store was closed, the train was left to run twenty-four hours a day.

The boys, both eleven years old, stared at the train, one more transfixed than the other. “It’s kinda cool,” one said.

“It’s for little kids,” said the other dismissively. “Slot cars are better. You can race them. You can’t race trains.”

“My uncle’s got a big setup in his basement. He’s got a station and a water tower and signals and crossings and all kinds

of other shit.”

“When’d this place open anyway?”

The other boy shrugged. They agreed the place was worth checking out on their way home once school was over.

One person who had, so far, shown not the slightest interest in the new shop was sitting behind the wheel of a plain white

four-door sedan with a red light on the roof and the words lucknow police department printed on the side. It pulled into an angled parking spot out front of the Lucknow Diner. There were two other diners in

town, but, as they had come later, they lost rights to name themselves after the town in which they did business. Not unlike

the train shop, no one quite remembered when the Lucknow Diner first started serving up bacon and eggs and French toast and

the best coffee in this corner of the state, but they did know it had more or less been here forever.

The man behind the wheel of the police car killed the engine but took a moment before opening the door. Chief Harry Cook closed his eyes briefly, yawned, and put his head back on the headrest. Only nine in the morning and already he needed a nap. He’d been up since three, and hadn’t gotten to bed until nearly one in the morn ing, so the fact that he was even operating on two hours’ sleep was a minor miracle.

Harry allowed himself fifteen seconds to recharge. He knew if he took any longer he’d nod right off, and he didn’t have time

for that. But he would take time for a cup, or possibly two, of the Lucknow Diner’s coffee. He didn’t know what was in it—caffeine

with a touch of nitroglycerine was his best guess—and it was just as well, because if he did he might have to arrest the manager.

But Harry was confident it would give him strength to make it at least until noon.

Harry slowly eased his lean frame out of the car. He was a little underdressed when it came to small-town chiefs. A pair of

jeans, a white shirt with an open button-down collar, and a dark brown sport jacket with a small star pinned to the lapel.

Lucknow was small enough that everyone knew who he was. He didn’t need a uniform to be recognized, although he did insist

on it for the other members of the Lucknow Police Department. All six of them. When they called him on this double standard,

he told them that when one of them became chief, they could wear tap shoes and a miner’s hat, for all he cared.

Harry was headed for the diner entrance when he spotted a familiar face on a nearby sidewalk bench. A disheveled-looking man

in his fifties with long stringy hair that came down to his shoulders, a three-day growth of beard, a ball cap with a faded

Boston Red Sox logo, and a set of clothes that didn’t look as though they’d seen the inside of a washing machine in some time.

The man was staring vacantly at the traffic going by when Harry approached.

“How’s it going, there, Gavin?” the chief asked.

Gavin slowly turned his head. “Oh, hey, there, Harry.” He smiled awkwardly. “Gonna tell me to move on?”

Harry shook his head. “Just wondered how you were doing, is all. You spend the night on this bench?”

“Possibly.”

“You know you can go to the shelter.”

Gavin frowned. “I don’t like it there. Place is full of losers.”

Harry took a seat on the bench beside him. “But it gets cool at night. Gettin’ down in the fifties.” He waved a hand toward

the towering trees that lined the main street. “Leaves are changin’ already.”

“It’s pretty. Every fall it seems like a miracle, you know?”

“I do indeed.” Harry paused. “I heard from somebody that there’s a new inn opening up in Stowe and they’re hiring. Not really

your line of work, but it’d be something.”

“I don’t know. I like Lucknow. And my truck’s hanging together with twine and Scotch tape. Can’t be commuting all the way

to Stowe and back every day.”

“I think they’d put you up. They got living quarters for the staff. Won’t be long before there’s snow, and things’ll really

be hoppin’ up there. Get your name in now and you might secure a spot.” Harry scanned the street. “Not sure what might be

keeping you here, save for this fine view.”

Gavin nodded and said, “Well, that’s something to think about. But if things get going again at Bergen’s they’re gonna want

me back, and I’d hate to let them down.”

If anyone had been let down, it had been Gavin Denham, and Bergen’s, a furniture manufacturing company, had done it to him. This grand old year of 2001 had mostly been known for a recession and a stalled economy, but then along came September 11 and suddenly it was the year of the most audacious terrorist attack in history, which only made things worse at Bergen’s, where orders for its finely crafted dressers and armoires and chairs were down sharply. Gavin had worked for them nearly two decades, but that didn’t count for much when the bosses had to lay people off. Gavin started drinking, or, more accurately, had started drinking more , which prompted his wife to leave him and move to Portland to live with her sister. Gavin couldn’t keep up the rent on their

apartment and before long found himself on the street.

“Well, if I hear of anything a little closer to home, I’ll let you know,” Harry said.

Gavin smiled. “You know where to find me. Get all my mail sent to this bench.”

Harry stood, reached into his pocket, and brought out a five. “Get yourself some breakfast or something.”

Gavin shook his head forcefully. “Couldn’t do that, Harry. Not looking for charity. Things’ll turn around. You wait and see.”

He grinned as Harry slipped the bill back into his pocket. “Maybe you need another deputy or something?”

“These days I could probably do with an extra dozen.”

“I tell ya, there’s some weird shit going on, isn’t there?”

“You could say that.”

“For like a month now?”

“Give or take.”

“You know what I think?” Harry waited for Gavin to tell him. “I think it’s the terrorists.”

“Oh yeah.”

“They started with something big. Bringing down the Twin Towers, hitting the Pentagon. Freak us out, waiting for the next

big thing, but now they got their operatives spread out all over the country doing smaller missions to keep us on edge.”

“That’s an interesting theory,” Harry said.

“Just thought I’d mention it so you’d know what you might be up against. Osama’s minions right here in Vermont.”

“You have a good day, Gavin.”

Harry stepped out of the way to let a woman in a dark green pantsuit exit the diner, then went in. Jenny had already filled his mug and had it on the counter in front of the stool closest to the cash register. Harry hauled his butt up onto the padded cushion, reached for the sugar dispenser, poured in a generous amount, and gave the black liquid a stir.

“You’re an angel from heaven, Jenny.”

“And you look like hell,” she said.

Jenny had always been one to give it to him straight. She’d been slinging bacon and eggs and hash browns since Harry’s dad

brought him here for the occasional breakfast back in the seventies. Jenny was pushing that magic number herself, still working

at an age when most had retired, but she showed no signs of slowing down, except for the odd complaint about her aching feet.

“Can I get a bacon sandwich or something for Gavin out there? He’s not lookin’ all that great. Put it on my tab.”

“Tab? You gotta tab?”

“Just put it on there.”

“How about you?”

“Just coffee.”

“Bullshit. You need something to eat. You’ve lost five pounds this last month.”

More like eight or nine, he thought. There was a tossed copy of the Lucknow Leader two stools over. Harry grabbed it, unfolded it to see the front page, ignoring the egg yolk stain across the banner. The lead story was not, for a change, about the two Lucknow men who had been missing for more than a month now. Angus Tanner, a fifty-two-year-old maple syrup producer, married thirty years, father of two. It had been a Tuesday, and sometime between leaving the factory and heading home, he vanished. And then a couple of days later, Walter Hillman, twenty-five, single, assistant manager of a Business Depot, didn’t come to work one day. Someone finally went to his home—he lived on his own in a one-room apartment in a rooming house—and he was gone.

In both cases, there was no sign of foul play, but nor was there any indication that they had voluntarily walked away from

their lives in Lucknow. No charges to credit cards, no withdrawals from cash machines. And in both cases, their cars—Tanner’s

1996 Dodge minivan and Hillman’s 1984 Toyota Celica—had been left behind.

But a story like that, of two town men disappearing, didn’t stay on the front page of the local rag without developments.

There’d been updates for the first ten days or so, then a story every couple of days, then maybe one a week. There were theories;

chief among them, and without any supporting evidence, was that the two men had run off together. Hillman was gay, but if

Tanner was, he’d kept that part of his life a secret.

Harry wasn’t buying it. Not that he had a theory that was any better. And then came that call in the middle of the night—just

a few hours earlier—about something suspicious being found in a ditch on one of the county roads about ten miles out of town.

He didn’t know how long he could keep a lid on that. Especially since there’d been a local in attendance who wasn’t likely

to stay quiet.

“I’ve been hearing some things,” Jenny said, putting in front of him a plate with two pancakes stacked on it. She leaned in

close enough to whisper. “Out Miller’s Road way. Lots of flashing lights.”

Well, there you go, Harry thought. Word was already getting around.

“People talk,” he said, shrugging. “Thanks for the pancakes. Got some extra syrup?”

She reached down the counter, brought back a bottle, and set it in front of him. “I heard you found something. Or somebody.

Emphasis on body .”

Harry was about to reply when the woman in the green pantsuit, who had left moments earlier, came back in and asked Jenny, “Did anybody turn in a lipstick?”

“What’s that, sugar?”

“A lipstick. Thought I left it on the table, but it’s not there.”

“Sorry. If somebody finds it I’ll hang on to it, give it to you next time you’re in.” The woman left, and Jenny focused again

on Harry. “You were going to tell me about a body.”

“You asked about a body,” he said. “I can neither confirm nor deny what you’re saying.” He lifted up the top pancake so he could pour

syrup on the bottom one, then drenched the top one, too.

“When you say that, you’re basically confirming it,” she said.

“Not true,” he said, cutting the pancakes with the side of his fork and taking a bite, then washing it down with coffee.

“Okay, suppose I asked whether it was true that Osama bin Laden is hiding out in Lucknow, serving ice cream down at the Frostee

Freeze. Would you say the same thing, that you can’t confirm or deny, when we all know it’s a crock of shit?”

“Jenny, if you have information that bin Laden is working at the Frostee Freeze, you have an obligation to come forward with

that. If you don’t want to tell me, then you should get on the phone ASAP to Homeland Security. There might be a reward.”

“Oh, forget it,” she said, then grabbed the coffeepot and went to refill someone else’s mug. On her way back, she pulled a

bacon sandwich from under the heat lamp and set it next to his plate after slipping it into a white paper bag. He’d already

killed off one of his pancakes and was downing the last of his coffee when he dug out his wallet. Jenny said, “You got a tab,

remember ? Just go. We’ll settle up later. Go sort out that shit you can’t confirm or deny.”

He still left a five on the counter when Jenny turned away, then slid off the stool and went outside. He was heading toward the bench to give Gavin the sandwich, figuring he might not accept a cash donation but would find it hard to turn down something to eat, when he saw that there was someone already there, handing Gavin a paper cup of what Harry guessed was coffee.

“That’s mighty decent of you,” Gavin said. “And you remembered how I like it, too.”

“Two cream, one sugar,” said the man cheerfully. “You only have to tell me once.”

Harry could not recall ever seeing this character before. A short man, almost pixieish. Bit of a tummy, probably bald on top

judging by the lack of hair around his ears, which stuck out like handles, but it was hard to be sure because he wore a hat.

One of those caps engineers on old steam engines wore. White with blue pinstripes. His jacket, or, more accurately, a vest,

was railroad-themed as well, almost entirely covered with patches depicting various railroads. Santa Fe, Boston & Main, New

York Central, Canadian National, and Canadian Pacific.

“Don’t need the cup back,” the man said. “Got plenty more just like it.” As he was turning to go back across the street, he

caught sight of Harry, gave him a quick, respectful nod, and said, “Chief.” Then he made his way across the street, waiting

for traffic to pass.

Harry stepped closer and handed Gavin the bag. He took it, peered inside, and said, “Aw, man, you shouldn’t have.”

“Ordered it along with some pancakes and couldn’t finish it, so I thought, no sense wasting it.”

Gavin dug out one half of the sandwich and took a huge mouthful of it in his first bite.

“Who’s that?” Harry asked.

Gavin swallowed some of what was in his mouth. “That’s Mr. Choo. Like choo-choo. Like a train. Look at the sign.”

And that was when Harry noticed that there was a business in town he’d not been aware of until this very moment. “Choo-Choo’s Trains,” he said, reading the sign. “When did that place open?”

“Fuck if I know,” Gavin said. “Nice enough guy, though. And I don’t know much about him, before you ask. All I know is his

first name. Edwin. I don’t think Choo’s his last name. He doesn’t look like a Choo, if you get my meaning. It’s probably a

kind of, whaddya call it, stage name? ’Cause of his business.”

“He looked like some kind of nut. That hat and the vest and all.”

“Kinda nerdy,” Gavin agreed. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the sandwich.”

“No problem.”

It was time to move on, get in touch with the coroner, and try to determine whether that body they’d found was Angus Tanner

or Walter Hillman or even somebody else, and whoever it was, why this corpse was missing most of its bones, its teeth, and

the hair on its head.