Nabler had also been consumed with putting down more track. The longer the route, the more opportunity for a train to absorb the qualities of that through which it passed. What Nabler was creating was a nurturing nest, the loops of track akin to the small sticks and blades of grass a bird collected and stitched together. To enter this area behind the shop was to immerse yourself into a literal web of tracks. Visitors—and there would surely be more of those who would get to see his handiwork once—would have to duck and weave to work their way to the center of it, not unlike some jungle explorer navigating a pathway obstructed by vines.

What a beautiful thing it was.

And there were always trains running. A cacophony of sound that might be annoying to the non-enthusiast, but it was a glorious medley to Nabler. There were multiple loops of track that allowed him to run eight, nine, ten trains at any given time. The chorus of metal wheels traversing metal track was a symphony.

ChuffchuffCLICKETYCLACKclicketyCLACKwooWOOchuffCLICKETYchuffCLICKETYchuffWOOchuggachuggaclackclicketyCHUFFCHUFFclicketyCLACKwooWOOchuffCLICKETYchuffCLICKETYchuffWOOchuggachuggaclackclicketyCHUFFCHUFFclicketyCLACKwooWOOchuffCLICKETYchuffCLICKETYchuffWOOchuggachuggaclackclicketyCHUFF . . .

It was a good thing he’d found a way to surreptitiously tap into the town’s electrical grid.

His current favorite train consisted of three blue Chesapeake & Ohio diesels pulling a long line of tanker cars. It clickety-clacked past on one of the upper tracks, roughly eye level for Nabler. He squinted as it sped by, imagining it was a real train hurtling toward some yet-to-be-realized catastrophe.

So, what next?

While there was always more to be done on the layout—and to accomplish that, Nabler would need more material, including not just actual people, but their personal items—it struck him as prudent to ease up for a period of time. Lucknow’s rate of calamities was on a noticeable upswing. Nabler believed it highly unlikely anyone would connect the dots—even if someone did, they’d question their own sanity suspecting that a toy train somehow played a role—but it didn’t hurt to play it safe. That meant turning out product that was a little less, well, high-voltage. Dial it back some. Once things settled down, he’d do some modifications to the production process and resume selling sets with a high level of chaotic potential.

It was good to have a plan.

Over the din, Edwin heard a sound.

The bell.

“Ah!” Nabler said. “A customer.”

Thirty-Five

Harry sat in the diner, nursing a coffee and rereading his notes, going back not only to the disappearances of Tanner and Hillman—what struck Harry as the starting point of Lucknow’s recent troubles—but to more recent events, including one that happened only that morning.

After that incident two days earlier—the adorable family dog that had gone feral—he didn’t think anything could top that. Then he got the call about trouble over on Braymor Drive.

“Woman says her son’s choking to death on a pack of cigarettes,” the dispatcher said.

“What?”