I wasn't sure what I was looking for, so I browsed from shelf to shelf, from old furniture to almost-new car-seat covers, until something caught my eye. In one corner, beside a rack of foul-weather clothing-old slickers mainly, and some faded yellow oilskins-stood two rows of shoes and boots. Most of them were ragged and worn, but the Zamberlans stood out immediately. They were men's boots, relatively new and considerably more expensive than the pairs surrounding them, and some care had obviously been lavished on them recently. Someone, probably the store owner, had cleaned and waxed them before putting them out for sale. I lifted one and sniffed the interior. It smelled of Lysol, and something else: earth, and rotting meat. I lifted the second boot and caught the same faint odor from it. Ricky had been wearing Zamberlans on the day they came to visit me, I recalled, and it wasn't often that boots so fine turned up in an out-of-the-way secondhand goods store. I brought the pair of boots to the counter.
The man behind the register was small with thick, dark artificial hair that seemed to have come from the head of a department store mannequin. Beneath the wig, at the back of his neck, wisps of his own mousy-colored strands peered out like mad relatives consigned to the attic. A pair of round eyeglasses hung from a string around his neck and lost themselves in the hairs of his chest. His bright red shirt was half unbuttoned and I could see scarring at the left side of his chest. His hands were thin and strong looking, with the little finger and ring finger of his left hand missing from just above the first joint. The nails on the fingers that remained were neatly clipped.
He caught me looking at his mutilated left hand and raised it in front of his face, the twin stumps of the lost fingers making his hand look as if he was trying to form a gun with it, the way little kids do in the school yard.
"Lost them in a sawmill," he explained.
"Careless," I replied.
He shrugged. "Blade damn near took the rest of my fingers as well. You ever work in a sawmill?"
"No. I always thought my fingers looked okay on my hands. I like them that way."
He looked at the stumps thoughtfully. "It's strange, but I can still feel them, y'know, like they're still there. Maybe you don't know how that feels."
"I think I do," I said. "You Stuckey?"
"Yessir. This is my place."
I put the boots down on the counter.
"They're good boots," he said, picking up one with his unmutilated hand. "Won't take less than sixty bucks for 'em. Just waxed 'em, buffed 'em and put 'em out for sale myself not two hours ago."
"Smell them."
Stuckey narrowed his eyes and put his head to one side. "Say what?"
"I said, 'Smell them.'"
He looked at me oddly for a few moments, then took one boot and sniffed the inside tentatively, his nostrils twitching like a rabbit's before the snare.
"I don't smell nothin'," he said.
"Lysol. You smell Lysol, don't you?"
"Well, sure. I always disinfect ' em before I sell 'em. Don't nobody want to wear boots that stink."
I leaned forward and raised the second boot in front of him. "You see," I said softly, "that's my question. What did they smell of before you cleaned them?"
He wasn't a man who was easily intimidated. He thrust his body forward in turn, six knuckles on the counter, and arched an eyebrow at me. "Are you some kind of nut?"
In a mirror behind the counter, I saw that the bikers had turned around to watch the show. I kept my voice low. "These boots, they had earth on them when you bought them, didn't they? And they smelled of decay?"
He took a step back. "Who are you?"
"Just a guy."
"You was just a guy, you'da bought the durned boots and been gone by now."
"Who sold you the boots?"
He was becoming belligerent now. "That's none of your goddamned business, mister. Now get out of my store."
I didn't move. "Listen, friend, you can talk to me, or you can talk to the cops, but you will talk, understand? I don't want to make trouble for you, but if I have to, I will."
Stuckey stared at me, and he knew that I meant what I said. A voice interrupted before he could respond. "Hey, Stuck," said one of the bikers. "You okay back there?"
He raised his battered left hand to indicate that there wasn't a problem, then returned his attention to me. There was no trace of bitterness when he spoke. Stuckey was a pragmatist-in his line of business, you had to be-and he knew when to back down.
"It was an old fella from up north," he sighed. "He comes in here maybe once a month, brings stuff that he's found. Most of it's junk, but I give him a few bucks for it and he goes away again. Sometimes, he brings in something good."
"He bring these in recently?"
"Yesterday. I gave him thirty bucks for 'em. Brought in a backpack too, Lowe Alpine. I sold it straight off. That was about it. He didn't have nothin' else to offer."
"This old guy from up Dark Hollow way?"
"Yeah, that's right, Dark Hollow."
"You got a name?"
His eyes narrowed again. "Just tell me, mister, what are you: some kind of private cop?"
"Like I said, I'm just a guy."
"You got a lot of questions for someone who's just a guy." I could sense Stuckey digging his heels in again.
"I'm naturally curious," I said, but I showed him my ID anyway. "The name?"
"Barley. John Barley."
"That his real name?"
"The hell do I know?"
"He show you any identification?"
Stuckey almost laughed. "You seen him, you'd know he wasn't the kind of fella carries no ID."
I nodded once, took out my wallet and counted six ten-dollar bills onto the counter. "I'll need a receipt," I said. Stuckey filled one out quickly in sloped capitals, stamped it, then paused before handing it to me.
"Like I told you, I don't want no trouble," he said.
"If you've told me the truth, there won't be any."
He folded the receipt once and put it in a plastic bag with the boots. "I hope you won't take this personal, mister, but I reckon you make friends 'bout as easy as a scorpion."
I took the bag and put my wallet back in my coat. "Why?" I asked. "You sell friendship here too?"
"No, mister, I sure don't," he said, and there was a finality in his tone. "But I don't reckon you'd be buying any even if I did."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was already dark when I began the journey back to Dark Hollow. Snow was drifting across the road to Beaver Cove and beyond, where the narrow, winding, tree-lined road led to the Hollow. The snow seemed to glow in the headlights, small golden fragments of light tumbling down, as if heaven itself was disintegrating and falling to earth. I tried to call Angel and Louis on the cell phone, but it was a useless effort. As it turned out, they were already at the motel when I got back. Louis answered the door dressed in black pants with a razor-sharp crease and a cream-colored shirt. I could never figure out how Louis kept his clothes so neat. I had shirts that had more creases than Louis's while they were still in the box.
"Angel's in the shower," he said, as I stepped past him into their room. On the television screen, a reporter mouthed silently before the White House lawn.