Doug asked him what he meant, if he had experienced anything unusual connected with the mail, but he frowned and shook his head and refused to answer, and they were both silent as they drove through town toward the school.
Willis High was separated from the town proper by an especially large stand of oaks and acacias and ponderosas, and was located next to the Edward G.
Willis Memorial Park. The football field had been constructed at one end of a natural meadow, and the pool, which was shared jointly by the school and the park, was located at the opposite end.
There was a crowd at the school when they arrived, a large group of people standing near the open door of the gym. In the faculty parking lot were two police cars and an ambulance, lights flashing, although neither Doug norHobie had heard a siren all morning. Doug glanced over at his friend, then out the window at the scene before them. A strange feeling had come over him. He was at once surprised and not surprised, tense and numb, as he looked at the crowd. He knew this was going to be bad.
"Something happened," he said simply.
Hobiepulled the truck under a tree for shade, and they got out, hurrying across the dirt to the gym. Several other teachers were there, as well as nearby residents and one of theschoolboard members.
Doug walked up to Jim Maxwell, who taught ninth-grade social studies.
"What is it?"
"Bernie Rogers hung himself in the gym."
Doug looked atHobie , shocked, feeling as if someone had just kicked him in the stomach. He did not know what he' had been expecting, but it had not been this. A senior who had graduated with honors, Bernie Rogers had been one of those rare students who was into both academics and athletics. The basketball team's star forward, he had scored in the top 10 percent nationally on his SATs and was the only senior this year to have passed the Advanced Placement tests for both history and English. He was also the only student Doug could remember who had taken both his American Literature class andHobie's Advanced Auto, and had excelled in each.
"Lemmesee,"Hobie said, pushing his way through the crowd toward the door. Doug followed, jostling past people until he was through the door and inside the gym.
Bernie was naked, his body bluish and bloated, blackened blood dripping in uneven rivulets from where the rope had cut into his neck. It looked as though he had been there for several days. Below him on the smooth wood of the gym floor was a puddle of hardened urine and feces, some of which had run down the inside of his thighs and now hung like stalactites from his feet. The boy's eyes were wide open and staring, focused on nothing, surprisingly white against his darkened skin.
Doug felt sick to his stomach, but he could not look away. A note was pinned onto Bernie's chest, the pins shoved deep into his skin, dried blood dripping down the page in a jagged wave, obscuring whatever words had been written. The boy had obviously put the noose around his neck and leapt from the top of the closed bleachers, and Doug found himself staring into the rafters high above, wondering how Bernie could have possibly tied the end of the rope up there without the aid of a ladder. Two policemen, a photographer, and a medical examiner stood off to the side of the gently swinging body in a tight group, talking among themselves. Two ambulance attendants stood next to the far wall, waiting. Another policeman kept the crowd from getting too close.
"Jesus,"Hobie breathed. The usual bravado, aggressiveness, was gone from his voice, and his face was bleached, pale. He stepped aside as two other policemen, one carrying long-handled shears, the other a retractable stepladder, pressed through the gym door behind him. "I knew Bernie," he said. "He was a good kid."
Doug nodded. He watched silently as the policemen set up the ladder and cut down the body. Apparently, the photographer had taken his pictures before they'd gotten there. Bernie's form was stiff, unmoving, legs and arms still frozen in the position in which they'd been hanging, but the men laid him down as carefully as they could on the floor, on top of a white plastic tarp spread by one of the ambulance attendants. The medical examiner moved forward to have a look, crouching down on one knee and opening his black bag.
"I was just talking to him last week," a man said. "After school got out."
Doug looked to his right, to the source of the voice. It was Ed Montgomery, the coach. The portly man's natural hangdog expression had been intensified and cemented with shock. He shook his head slowly back and forth, talking to no one in particular. "He was saying how he was going to get a part time job at the post office this summer to help pay for his schooling in the fall. His scholarship didn't cover books and rent, only tuition."
Doug's ears pricked up at this, and he felt a familiar chill creeping down his back. He moved next to the coach. "He was going to get a job where?"
Ed looked at him blankly. "At the post office. He'd already okayed it with Howard." He shook his head. "I can't understand why he'd do such a thing. He had everything going for him." The coach stopped shaking his head and looked into Doug's eyes, his troubled gaze focused, as if he'd just thought of an idea. "You think maybe he was murdered?"
"I don't know," Doug said. And he didn't. He suddenly wanted very badly to see what was written on that note pinned to the boy's chest. He took a step forward.
"Stay back please," the policeman warned, holding his hand palm-up in Doug's direction.
"I have to see something. I was his teacher."
"Only official personnel and family members are allowed near the body."
"Just for a second."
"Sorry," the policeman said.
Doug turned away from the gym and pushed his way out the door, into the fresh air, needing more room, more space in which to breathe. The blood was pounding in his temples.
Bernie Rogers had been planning to work part-time at the post office.
The post office.
It didn't make any logical rational sense, but in some twisted way it fit, and it scared the hell out of him.
He moved through the small crowd and leaned against a tree, gulping in the fresh air. He looked up, toward the road, and thought he saw, through the pines, a red car moving slowly away from the park toward the center of town.
14
Tritia sat alone on the porch, feeling uncharacteristically depressed.
Both Doug and Billy were gone, Doug to his meeting and Billy off somewhere with Lane, and she was all alone. Usually she liked being by herself. She so seldom had time alone anymore that, when the opportunity presented itself, she was grateful. But today she felt different, strange.
The cassette player was next to her on the slatted wooden floor of the porch. It had been barely working the last time she'd used it, but she'd scavenged three batteries from one of Billy's old remote-controlled cars and had found a fourth in a drawer in the kitchen, and now it was playing perfectly. She had the tape player turned loud. George Winston. Ordinarily, she liked to match the music to the day, choosing sounds to complement her feelings, but today the music seemed totally inappropriate for a sound track to her life. The soothing impressionistic piano, the deliberate spacing of clear notes and silences, went perfectly with the summer sky and green forest, but she herself felt hopelessly out of sync.
She stared out at the trees, at the hummingbird-feeders hanging from the branches, seeing them but not seeing them, her eyes using the feeders as a focal point, though her mind was off in space somewhere, thinking about something else.
Thinking about the mailman.
She had not told Doug about seeing the mailman last night, nor about her nightmare afterward, although she was not sure why. It was not like her to be secretive, to keep things from him. They'd always had a close, honest relationship, had always confided in each other, shared their hopes, fears, thoughts, opinions. But for some reason, she could not bring herself to talk to him about the mailman. She had made excuses, rationalized, tried to convince herself, and all of her excuses sounded logical, reasonable -- Billy was awake and listening, Doug had left too early and she'd had no time to talk to him but the t
ruth was that she didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to tell him what had happened. She had never felt that way before, had never experienced anything like it, and it scared her more than she was willing to admit.
Doug had not picked up the mail this morning before he left, and she'd been too afraid to go out to the mailbox and retrieve it herself, so she'd sent Billy out to get it, watching him from the porch to make sure he was all right.
He came back with three letters: two for Doug, one for her. The letter was sitting next to her right now, on the small table on which she'd put her iced tea. She hadn't wanted to open it right away, though it was from Howard and she had no real apprehension about its contents, and she'd set it aside until she felt like looking at it. Now she picked it up, tearing open the envelope. The letter was addressed to her, but the first line of the message read, "Dear Ellen." She frowned. That was strange. But then Howard had been under a lot of stress lately, a lot had happened to him. It was bound to show up in some way or other. She continued reading:
Dear Ellen, Sorry I couldn't come by Saturday night, but I was forced into dinner at theAlbins '. What a horrible time. The food was awful, the kid was a brat, and Albinand his wife were as boring as ever. That phony bitch Tritia . . .
She stopped reading, feeling as though all of the air had been sucked out of her lungs, a sudden emptiness in the pit of her stomach. She looked at the letter again, but the words were blurry, liquid, running. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She was surprised by the vehemence of her reaction. She had never been an overly sensitive person about either herself or her cooking, had never really minded constructive criticism, but this type of cruel betrayal, particularly in regard to her family, particularly coming from a friend like Howard, hurt a lot.
A hell of a lot. She wiped the tears from her eyes angrily, refolding the letter and putting it back in the envelope. Howard had obviously intended to send a letter to both her and Ellen Ronda and had unthinkingly placed the letters in the wrong envelopes.
Ellen was no doubt reading about the lovely time and dinner Howard had had.
She was not usually this emotional, this easily hurt, butdammit , she had been trying to help Howard through a difficult period, and this backhanded backstabbing cut deep. She and Doug had always considered him a friend. Maybe not a close friend, but a friend nonetheless, a man whose company they both enjoyed. Why would he do something like this? And how could he be so two-faced?
He had never been a deceitful or duplicitous man. Outspoken honesty had always been his greatest strength and greatest weakness. He had never hesitated to speak his mind, no matter what the consequences. It would be one thing if he had just come out and said he didn't want to come over for dinner or didn't enjoy their company or didn't like the food they served him, but to sit there and lie to them, to The phone rang. Tritia dropped the letter on the small table, pushed herself out of the butterfly chair, and hurried across the porch into the house.
She caught the phone on the fifth ring, clearing her throat to purge the emotion from her voice. "Hello?"
"He's after me!" The whisper on the other end of the line Was frantic and borderline hysterical, and Tritia did not at first recognize it. "He's here now."
"Excuse me?" Tritia said, puzzled.
"I think he's in the house now," the woman whispered.
Now she recognized the voice. Ellen Ronda. She was shocked at how different Bob's wife sounded. Gone was the cool-as-ice voice Tritia had heard for as long as she could remember; gone, too, was the grief-stricken wildness she'd heard on the day of the funeral. In its place was fear. Terror.
"Who's after you?" Tritia asked.
"He thinks he's being tricky, but I can hear his footsteps."
"Get out of the house," Tritia said. "Now. Go someplace and call the police."
"I already called the police. They refused to help me. They said --"
Ellen's voice was cut off, and a man's deep baritone came on the line.
"Hello?"
Tritia 'sheart leapt to her throat. It took all of her courage, all of her inner strength not to hang up the receiver. "Who is this?" she demanded in the most intimidating voice she could muster.
"This is Dr. Roberts. Who is this?"
"Oh, it's you." Tritia relaxed a little, breathing an audible sigh of relief. In the background, she could hear a male and female voice arguing. "This is Tritia Albin ."
" Tritia . Hello. I heard part of your conversation from this end. Ellen told you she was being chased, did she?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry she disturbed you. Her sons have been trying to keep an eye on her, but they can't monitor her twenty-four hours a day, and lately each time she has a chance she calls someone and tells them she's being stalked." He breathed deeply, the heavy intake of air thick and rough over the phone. "I
don't know what we're going to do. The boys don't want to even consider it, but I told them that their mother's g9ing to have to seek some kind of counseling. I
refuse to treat her by simply pumping drugs into her body, and her emotional situation is far worse than I am equipped to handle. She may even have to be institutionalized for a short period of time. Who knows? I'm certainly no expert in these matters."
"What's happened to her?" Tritia asked.
"Grief. Repressed, pent-up emotions suddenly finding an outlet. As I said, I'm no expert, but it's clear that Bob's sui -- uh, death, triggered this whatever-it-is, acted as the catalyst." The arguing in the background grew louder, more heated. "Sorry, but you're going to have to excuse me. I think we have a slight emergency developing here. Thank you for your patience and cooperation. I'll be in touch."
He hung up before Tritia could say good-bye. She lowered the receiver slowly into its cradle. For some reason, she felt guilty, as though she had somehow betrayed Ellen's confidence. It was a strange thought, not at all logical, but then the entire conversation had been more than a little surrealistic. She had been relieved when the doctor had picked up the phone, grateful to hand over the reins of responsibility and decision, but she had not been able to do so wholeheartedly or with a clear conscience, though she trusted the doctor completely. She walked out of the house, back onto the porch, and sat down numbly in her chair. Ellen was obviously disturbed, obviously having some serious emotional/psychological problems, but for a moment there, before the doctor had come on the line, Tritia had actually believed that someone had been after Ellen, that someone had been in her house.
And she knew exactly who that someone was.
"Wow, look at the tits on that one." Lane grinned hugely.
Billy smiled wanly back. They were on the floor of The Fort, going through the _Playboys_. Ordinarily, Billy would have been just as caught up in their reading as Lane, but today was different. He felt restless, ill at ease, bored.
He stared down at the magazine on his lap, at the photo of the woman in the postal cap. She was without a doubt the most gorgeous, most perfect woman in all of their _Playboys_, but today he didn't feel excited looking at her. He felt uneasy. Was there something familiar about her eyes? Did her mouth look like . . . _his_?
Stop that, he told himself. He forced himself to look at her boobs, at the huge pinkish-brown nipples on the tips of her perfectly formed breasts. There was nothing about her tits that reminded him of the mailman or that was the least bit unusual or masculine. They were normal, healthy, good old American female breasts.
Still. . . .
"Guess what?" Lane said. His voice was casual, nonchalant, but it wasn't a natural nonchalance. Billy had known Lane for most of his life, and he could tell when his friend was lying and sometimes even what he was thinking just by the tone of his voice. This was not spur-of-the-moment. This was a purposeful, intentional casualness, something Lane had planned and practiced.
"What?" Billy said, equally cool.
Lane glanced slowly around, as if making sure that no one was peeking into the HQ from the outside or from the Big Room. He withdrew a crumpled f
olded envelope from his pants pocket, handing it over. "Check this out."
Billy glanced at the outside of the envelope. It was addressed to Lane at his house, and the return name in the upper left corner was Tama Barnes.
"Look inside," Lane prodded.
Billy took out the folded paper inside. It was a letter, written in an obviously female hand. He turned the letter over. Underneath the flowery cursive characters was a Xeroxed photo of a nude Hispanic woman. She was smiling, hands cupping her ample breasts,tegs spread wide. The photocopied picture was too smeared and dark and blurry to provide details, but Billy had seen plenty of details in the magazines on the floor, and his mind filled in what his eyes could not see.
"Read it," Lane said. He was grinning.
Billy turned the letter over and read. The letter started out with a standard salutation but quickly began describing in detail all the forms of pleasure that Tama was willing to give to Lane, all the sexual techniques at which she was an expert. Billy couldn't help smiling as he read what Tama wanted to do to Lane's "love pump."
"What are you laughing at?" Lane demanded.
"I bet she doesn't know you're eleven years old."
"I'm old enough," he said defensively. "Besides, I already sent her a letter back."
"You what?" Billy stared at him.
"Read the end of the letter."
Billy turned the paper over. His eyes flew down the page to the last paragraph:
. . . Maybe we could get together some time. I think we'd have fun. If you send me $10, I'll send you some intimate pictures of me and my sister, along with our address. I sure hope I hear from you soon. I'd love you to come and visit me.
Billy shook his head, looking up from the letter. "What a dick. Can't you tell it's just a rip-off to get your money?" He pointed toward the Xeroxed photo. "They probably cut this out of a magazine."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. Besides, look at where that P.O. box is. New York. Even if she does send you her real address, what are you going to do? Go to New York?" He handed Lane the letter. "You didn't send ten dollars, did you?"
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