Beyond the village, the access roads stretched between hills and fields, threading around farms and across a river that flowed under the highway to the southeast, and routinely flooded the roads during the spring thaw.
Off to the west, one of the roads led to an old abandoned farm, rotting for lack of use. Before the sodden and crumbling farmhouse, however, the road split and the smaller fork wound up a small hill covered in pine trees. In the shade of The Pines was a little cottage, probably built by the man who once built and abandoned the farmhouse. It was situated so that the road curled around the house, the front door facing south-west and the kitchen windows predominantly east to catch the sunrise in the winter. The hill and trees shielded the western sunset, making for early darkness even when the days were long. It's difficult to find a reason anyone would have built the cottage or a reason anyone would stay there, since a wide two miles of field lay between the cottage and the nearest edge of the village. In the winter it would be cut off without a four-wheel-drive or a long cold hike on snowshoes, and it had no advantage in its isolation.
In addition, the roof leaked.
Paula, who ran the hardware store, was the second person to ask me about Lucas. She came over the day after I was commissioned to repair the Farmer's Guide, bringing with her a mallet and a stylus set I'd asked to borrow so I could emboss the new leather cover. I capped the scalpel I was using, set it somewhere I'd remember to find it later, and joined her at the counter.
"Tools for the master," she said, passing them over. "Whaddaya give me for them?"
"My undying gratitude?"
"Can I eat gratitude?"
"Fine, grab a few magazines," I said, waving a hand at the rack while I looked through the box of oddly-shaped implements.
"So have you heard about the new boy in town?" she asked, studying the golf magazines. There weren't any golf courses within forty miles, but we had lots of wide open fields.
"Lucas?" I asked.
"Is that his name? He didn't introduce himself," she said. She thumbed through one of them and put it back. "Just gave me a list and asked where he could find it all."
"What did he buy?"
"Aluminum, some three-quarter nails, all-weather caulking, shingles. Do you know what he's doing here?"
"Patching a roof, from the evidence."
"Funny, Christopher. You know what I mean. Who is he?"
"Well, if you wanted intel in return for the loan of your tools, you should have said so."
"I'll pay for the magazines," she sighed.
"Good. Man's got to earn a living somehow." I closed the lid of the box and set it on the workbench. "His name is Lucas, he's living at the cottage out at The Pines, and he has a leaky roof. Aside from that, he's terrified of children and direct questions."
"Terrified of everything."
"He seems nice enough."
"Sort of a gawky kid, isn't he?"
"We can't all be grace and charm like you are," I answered. She snickered.
"He made me nervous," she continued. "Skulking around the shelves, always half-behind something."
I accepted the magazines she'd chosen and rang them up. "I don't think he has any intention of stealing anything, if that's what you're asking. He paid at my place, anyway."
"Unless he's casing us for a midnight attack."
"Yes, Low Ferry is a prime target for hardened criminals," I drawled. "He'll score a life-changing forty-seven dollars from my cash register."
"You never know."
"He's a stranger here. I'm sure he's just feeling his way."
"Maybe. Anyway, he won't get far without a hammer or a caulk-gun."
"I imagine he might have a hammer."
"The man had to buy nails, Christopher."
"All right, maybe not. Why didn't you try to sell him one?"
"Well, I'm not sure. I didn't think about it until later. I told you, I was unnerved."
"Find it in yourself to be re-nerved." I offered her the magazines with her change on top. "Listen, why don't you package up a caulk-gun and a hammer and I'll take them out to him. It's a long walk into town. I don't think he has a bicycle."
"Wouldn't work very well out on that rutty old dirt road," she sniffed. "You haven't got a bicycle either."
"I don't mind the walk."
"You're either too unselfish or too curious for your own good."
"I can't be both?" I asked with a smile. She made a face, but twenty minutes later she had returned with a metal bucket. Inside was a strange, skeletal contraption I took to be the caulk-gun, a generic cheap hammer, and a pair of wicked-looking snips for the sheet aluminum.
"What's the bucket for?" I asked.
"In case he gives up on the repairs," she replied with a grin.
It was nearly dark at that point and I didn't particularly enjoy the idea of walking down a rutted dirt road or crossing a pitted field with only the moon to guide me, so I put the bucket near the front door to remind me in the morning. I guessed that a single night wouldn't make any difference, even if the smell of early-autumn rain was already on the wind.
I felt differently the next day, when the heavens opened at around seven in the morning and the rain came pelting down. I didn't mind a little wet, personally, but it was true that I liked my wet to stay firmly outside and away from my books. If I were a young man with a leaking roof, I would be frustrated not to have the proper tools.
So, I dug my umbrella out of the closet and hung up the closed sign on the door. I followed the main street south and then turned onto one of the residential roads, ambling along until I'd left the houses well behind. Halfway across the wide field that led from town to The Pines, the asphalt ended abruptly where Low Ferry's municipal authority did, and turned instead into a dirt road carved up with tire tracks. The cottage was just barely visible as a blot on the side of the hill.