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.

Nine

Edwin Nabler crossed the street, unlocked the front door of his shop, went in, closed the door, and set the lock again. He retrieved from a small pouch on the front of his vest a Waltham pocket watch and noted that the store was not due to open for another five minutes, and if there was anything Nabler believed, it was that if said you opened at 9:30 a.m., you didn’t open at 9:29 and you didn’t open at 9:31. You opened the store at 9:30, like it said on the sign. It was just like the railroads. They had schedules, and they were expected to keep them. Take that rail line that ran straight through the center of Lucknow, dividing the north side of town from the south. You could count on the Albany & Bennington passenger service to Stowe to blow its whistle every day at 2:23 p.m.

Without schedules, you had chaos.

He decided to spend these last five minutes quietly, contemplatively, thinking good thoughts about the day to come. The new people he would meet, the train sets he would sell. But it wasn’t about the money. It had never been about the money. It was about making a difference in people’s lives.

Oh yes.

There was a sheet of reflective glass behind the cash register, and Nabler used it to admire his vest, which was currently unbuttoned. There were still a few places for more railroad patches. He didn’t have one for the Bangor & Aroostook Railroad in Maine, or Central Vermont, or the north-of-the-border Ontario Northland. All in good time.

He buttoned the vest, wanting to look his most presentable when potential customers entered.