Shallow Graves

chain-link gate opened onto thesecrets of the Trading Post: the rental car responsible for Marty’s death.
    There was a small shack in front of the fence. It leaned to the left at a serious angle, like a Dogpatch residence. When Pellam knocked no one answered. He strolled over to the jetsam of the car.
    The wreck was scary, the way bad ones always are—seeing the best Detroit can do, no longer glossy and hard, but twisted, with stretch marks deep in the steel. The front half was pretty much intact but in the back the paint was all blistered or missing and it was filled with black, melted plastic. Pellam could see the gas tank had blown up. The metal had bent outward like foil. Inside of the car nothing remained of the seats except springs and one or two black tufts of upholstery, sour as burnt hair.
    Then he found the holes.
    At first, he wasn’t sure—there were so many perforations in the car. Parts where the metal had burned clean through, dents and triangular wounds where shrapnel from the tank had fired outward. But, crouching down, studying the metal, he found two holes that were rounder than the others, about a third of an inch in diameter. Just the size of a .30-06 or .303 bullet—which wasn’t to say that some hunters or kids hadn’t left the holes there after they found the wreck (Pellam himself had spent a number of lovely, clandestine afternoons playing Bonnie and Clyde with his father’s Colt .45 automatic and an abandoned 1954 Chevy pickup). But still—
    “Help you?”
    Pellam rose slowly and turned.
    The man was in his thirties, rounding in the belly,wearing overalls and a cowboy hat. He had a moonish face and weird bangs.
    “Howdy,” Pellam offered.
    “To yourself,” the man said, grinning. His hands were slick with grease and he wiped them ineffectually with a wad of paper towels.
    “This your place?”
    “Yep. I’m the R of R&W. Robert. Well, Bobby I go by.”
    “Got a lot of interesting stuff here, Bobby.”
    “Yep. Used to be all Army-Navy but surplus ain’t what it used to be.”
    “That a fact?” Pellam said.
    “You don’t get the deals you used to. My daddy, owned the place before us, he’d buy some all-right from Uncle Sam. Compasses, jeep parts, tires, clothes. World War Two, you know. Bayonets, Garands, M-1s. Originals, I’m talking. I’m talking creosote and oil paper.” The man’s eyes strayed to the wreck. “I got a better set of wheels, you’re interested.”
    “Nope, just happened to notice it.”
    “I bought it from a garage over in Cleary. A hundred bucks. There’ll be something under the hood I’m thinking I can salvage, then sell ’er to somebody for scrap. Could clear three hundred. . . . But if you’re not after a vehicle what would you be looking for?”
    “Just sightseeing.”
    “You’re not from around here,” Bobby said, “but your, you know, accent. Sounds familiar.”
    “Born over in Simmons. Only about fifty miles away.”
    “Got a cousin lives there.” The man walked backtoward the shack. “You need any help, just holler. I don’t mark prices on nothing, too much trouble, but you see something you take a liking to we’ll work something out. I’ll listen to any reasonable offer.”
    “Keep that in mind.”
    “You price stuff too high,” Bobby explained, “people just aren’t going to buy it. Never make money unless you make a sale.”
    “Good philosophy.”
    THIS TIME IT was the sheriff himself.
    Pellam hadn’t even set foot on the asphalt of Main Street before the man was next to him. He smelled of Old Spice or some kind of drugstore aftershave. Unlike the deputies he was tall and thin, like a hickory limb. He wasn’t wearing any Cool Hand Luke law enforcer sunglasses either.
    “How you doing today, sir?”
    Sir, again.
    He was wearing that smile, that indescribable smile the whole constabulary seemed to have. Like Moonies.
    Pellam stepped out of the camper and answered, “Not bad. How ’bout yourself?”
    “Getting by. Hectic this time of year. Crazy, all these people come looking at colored leaves. I don’t get it myself. I’m thinking maybe we should open a travel agency here, take tours of people into Manhattan to look at all the concrete and spotlights.”
    Pellam grinned back.
    “Name’s Tom Sherman.” They shook hands.
    “Guess you know me,” Pellam said.
    “Yessir, I do.”
    “You’re back in town now,” Pellam pointed out. “I heard you were away.”
    “Some personal business. How you