Now that he was here, now that he could see what Nabler was up to, Harry gave himself permission to think, as they liked to say these days, outside the box. What was going on in this room defied any kind of scientific, rational explanation. What Nabler was doing very likely defied the most basic laws of physics. Nabler had found a way to infuse these trains with some kind of malevolent force, some strange brand of evil intent, and once they found their way into the home of an unsuspecting family, that darkness was unleashed.

I’m losing my mind.

No, he told himself. He wasn’t. From the beginning—okay, maybe not when Darryl Pidgeon had died in that barbecue explosion, but when Nadine Comstock had died with the help of a toy train transformer—Harry had felt that there was something that connected Edwin Nabler to an inexplicable depravity in Lucknow.

Now he was closer to understanding that connection. Once he left here, would anyone believe him? Would his unlawful entry into the premises derail (Ha! Harry thought wildly. Pun intended) his ability to get a search warrant? Would it foul up any potential prosecution and conviction?

Harry believed he had landed in a situation that was outside the bounds of conventional law. Search warrants and suspects’ rights be damned. This was a crime scene of unimaginable proportions, and he’d ensure it was preserved and Nabler, that sick fuck, exposed.

That guy would never see the outside of a prison for the rest of his life. Lucky for Nabler that Vermont abolished the death penalty nearly thirty years ago, so he’d never—

What was that vibration in the front pocket of his jeans?

Harry’s phone, of course.

He’d muted it before coming in here, and even if he hadn’t, he might never have heard it ring over the din of the trains. He dug the phone out, saw that it was a call from the community center. But before he could answer it, he heard a voice.

“What do you think of my trains?”

Harry jumped, dropped his phone, spun around. What he saw standing there, for no more than a fraction of second, was a figure, six feet tall or more, wearing a long dark trench coat, a face featuring a snout and whiskers and pointed ears, almost like a dog or a coyote or a rat, and then Harry blinked—

And now it was Edwin Nabler standing there, wearing a big grin, as well as his usual garb. The vest with the railway patches, the stupid engineer’s cap.

“Please don’t say cute,” Nabler said. “I hate it when people call my trains cute.”

Forty-Six

“Your little trick didn’t work,” Nabler said. “I drove out of the alley, parked down the street for a bit, and then came back. That was very naughty of you. And very naughty of Susie. How stupid did you two think I am?”