“I think ‘haunted’ is kind of melodramatic. But I did hear another odd story about the house. George Bukowski told me this—George is a Highway Patrol cop, owns a double-wide mobile home down by the marina. He said he was up along the Post Road last year, cruising by, when he saw a light in the house—which he knew was unoccupied ’cause he’d been in on the search for Ben Collier. So he stopped for a look. Turned out a couple of teenagers had broken a basement window. They had a storm lantern up in the kitchen and a case of Kokanee and a ghetto blaster—just having a good old party. He took them in and confiscated maybe an eighth-ounce of dope from the oldest boy, Barry Lindell. Sent ’em all home to their parents. Next day George goes back to the house to check out the damage—the kicker is, it turns out there wasn’t any damage. It was like they’d never been there. No matches on the floor, no empties, everything spit-polished.”

Tom said, “The window where they broke in?”

“It wasn’t broken anymore.”

“Bullshit,” Tom said.

Archer held up his hands. “Sure. But George swears on it. Says the window wasn’t even reputtied, he would have recognized that. It wasn’t fixed—it just wasn’t broken.”

The waitress delivered the sandwich. Tom picked it up and took a thoughtful bite. “This is an obsessively tidy ghost we’re talking about.”

“The phantom handyman.”

“I can’t say I’m frightened.”

“I don’t guess you have any reason to be. Still—”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“And let me know how it goes,” Archer said. “I mean, if that’s okay with you.” He slid his business card across the table. “My home number’s on the back.”

“You’re that curious?”

Archer checked out the next table to make sure nobody was listening. “I’m that fucking bored.”

“Yearning for the old days? A sunny afternoon, a rock in your hand, the smell of a wild convertible?”