Chapters (73)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Prologue
- Part IAnnie
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Part IIHarry
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Part IIIAnnie
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Part IVHarry
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Part VAnnie
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Also by Linwood Barclay
- About the Publisher
“That’s a terrible thing that family’s going through.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Excuse my eavesdropping. This Dorfman man who’s victimizing them for something they had nothing to do with? What’s wrong with people?”
“Been doin’ this awhile and I still haven’t figured that out,” Harry said, then added, “But you know what? Most of the folks in this town? They’re good people.”
His stroll took him to the far end of Main Street, past the temporary barriers, and he spotted half a block away the old pickup he knew belonged to Gavin. He made his way to it and peered inside, expecting to find Gavin sprawled across the seat, sound asleep. But he wasn’t there, and when Harry tried the door, he found it locked.
He glanced down the street in both directions, hoping he might spot the man, but there was no sign of him.
Harry didn’t know that he needed to be concerned. Gavin had probably been scared off by the crowds downtown today. But Lucknow’d already had two men go missing. And the one who’d turned up wasn’t exactly in the best shape.
Twenty
Wendell Comstock hadn’t had this much fun since he was ten.
It had been several days since he’d made his initial purchases, but he’d returned to Choo-Choo’s Trains a few times since. What he had accomplished in such a short time was, in his own estimation, pretty goddamn amazing.
His intention, as he’d told Edwin Nabler, had been to use his Ping-Pong table in the basement as the base for his model train empire. He put down a roll of grass-like carpet, staple-gunned it into place, then assembled a large oval of track with two sidings. With some sheets of black cardboard he created a street, which he lined with several assembled building kits. The transformer was notched into a corner of the table, two wires running between it and the track, plus the cord that ran to the wall outlet.
Wendell had been spending most of his time, once he had come home from work and shoveled dinner down his throat, in the basement. It was, he soon realized, just what he had needed, because Wendell had been looking for more than something to entertain himself. He had been looking for a refuge.