Irene showed up late in the afternoon, as she always did, and Tritia motioned her over. The old woman alone seemed to be in good spirits, and she helped cheer the three of them up, telling tall tales about holidays of the past as the four of them sat together at a picnic table under the pines.
That night, in the parking lot after the fireworks, Bill Simms and Ron Lazarus got into a shouting match and then a fight as their respective families looked on. They were rolling in the dirt, kicking and punching and screaming obscenities, and it took Doug and two other men to pull the two apart.
"You killed my dog!" Simms screamed. "You fucker!"
"I never touched your goddamn dog, you asshole!" Lazarus spit at the other man, a glob of saliva that landed harmlessly in the dirt at his feet. "But I
wish I had."
Doug held on to Simms. He could feel the man's muscles straining as he struggled to break free. The other men held Lazarus. One of the women ran to get a policeman and returned with Mike Trenton, who warned the two fighters that their butts would be thrown in jail if they didn't knock this crap off right now. The men angrily stomped off to their respective cars, the crowd dispersed, and Doug and the young cop stood looking at each other. The policeman looked away, unable to meet Doug's eyes.
"I guess they told you I came by."
Mike nodded. "I tried to call you this morning, but there was no answer."
"I was home. We were all home."
The policeman shrugged. "I called twice. No one answered."
"Why did you call?"
"I wanted to tell you that I'd interviewed Mr. Smith and that I called Phoenix."
"And?"
"And he denies everything. I didn't use your name, of course. I --"
"What about the post office? What did they say?"
"We couldn't verify what you said. Their computers were down. They'll call us back when they can access the information."
"What do you think?"
There was only a slight hesitation. "I believe you."
"But the chief doesn't."
"But the chief doesn't."
Doug looked over at Billy and Tritia . "Why don't you go over to the car?
I'll meet you there in a sec."
"Keys," Tritia said, holding out her hand.
He dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to her. She caught them in midair and, her arm around Billy's shoulder, headed toward the Bronco. Doug turned back toward the policeman. "He's not human, Mike."
There was silence between them.
"I got another letter from myfiancee yesterday. She said she wants to break up again."
"It's fake. You know that."
"I called her, but she hung up on me. Wouldn't even let me talk."
"Do you think --"
"I think he's sending her letters." The policeman took a deep breath.
Around them, people were walking to their cars, heading for home. "I'm not sure whether I should try to stay out of his way, to stay as far away from you as possible, or whether I should come down hard on his ass and make him pay."
"You don't need me to tell you. You know the right thing to do."
"What right thing? You want to know the truth? I don't care about doing the right thing. I care about keeping Janine. That's what I care about. That's all I care about."
"I don't believe that," Doug said softly. "And neither do you. That's why you're talking to me right now."
"I don't know."
"You know, Mike."
"But there's nothing we can do. Not really. Nothing we can pin onh'im .
Nothing we can prove. I'd like to be able to trip him up on something, to throw him in jail, but I can't."
"He's tampering with the mails. Get him for that."
"No proof."
"There will be when the post office calls you back."
"What if there isn't?"
"People are dying here, Mike. We have to do something."
"Yeah? What do you expect me to do? Hang up my badge? Go out and gun him down?"
"No. Of course not." But a small frightening voice within him was saying, _Yesyes _.
"I'm keeping my eyes open, like I promised. But I can't guarantee that I'll do any more than that. I'm a police officer, not a vigilante."
The young cop was looking for reassurance, Doug knew, but he had none to give. When it came to something like this, older did not necessarily mean wiser.
He was just as afraid as the policeman and just as much in the dark about what to do. Still, he nodded. "That's all I ask."
"I have to get back to work. It's a rough crowd tonight."
"Yeah. I have to go too." Doug started to turn, but he looked back again.
"Be careful, Mike. If he's sending letters to yourfiancee , he knows about you."
The policeman said nothing, but moved away, between the cars, toward the grandstand. Silently, Doug walked back to the Bronco, where Trish and Billy were waiting.
He drove home slowly and carefully, though the anticipated drunks did not materialize. There were very few cars on the road, in fact, and most of the houses they passed as they drove through town were dark. He looked at the clock on the dash. Nine-thirty. That was strange. People were usually up and about later than this on an ordinary Friday, not to mention a holiday. It was like driving through a ghost town, he thought. And even though Trish and Billy were with him in the car, he felt a slight tingle of fear.
Willis was changing.
There was no mail on either Saturday or Sunday, and when Doug went to the store on Monday and saw the mailman unloading one of the mailboxes, he was gratified to see that he looked paler than usual, and thinner, if that was possible. Maybe he's sick, Doug thought. Maybe he's sick and going to die.
But that was just wishful thinking. It wouldn't happen.
As always, the mailman smiled and waved at him as he drove past.
26
Billy rode wildly through the brush, thick BMX tires rolling over weeds and rocks, plowing through thin bushes. He and Lane had both signed up weeks ago for the motocrosscompetition,.and while he had always planned on winning, it was now a necessity rather than a desire. He didn't really care at this point whether or not he came in first -- he just wanted to beat Lane. To beat him bad.
He spun around a large boulder, taking the turn as sharp as he dared without slowing. He and Lane were about equal in skill and experience, and he knew it was going to take a lot of practice and dedication to beat his ex friend.
But he _was_ going to beat him.
He was going to make him eat dirt.
Billy had not been planning to ride anywhere in particular, but he found himself heading down the hill toward the archaeological site. He hadn't been down here since he and Lane had had their falling out, not because he hadn't wanted to, but because Lane had always done most of the talking for the two of them and he felt a little nervous going to the dig by himself.
Today however, he found himself speeding down the hill toward the narrow valley. Ahead was a small natural ditch carved by runoff, and he yanked up on his handlebars, jumping it. The bike wobbled on the hard landing, but he maintained his pace and balance, pedaling furiously.
The ground leveled off, and he slowed as he approached the site, not wanting to startle anyone. When he reached the trees on the perimeter of the dig, he hopped off his bike and walked it the rest of the way.
But there was no one there.
The site was deserted.
He looked around. The university had not been scheduled to conclude their excavation until sometime in late August, but obviously they had decided to leave early. Billy's first thought was that they had all taken a day off, gone to town or to the lake or to one of the streams, but it was clear that they had packed everything up, finished their work, and gone home. Nothing was left save a few stakes embedded in the ground and a scattering of torn envelopes on the dirt.
Billy frowned. Something was wrong here. There had been no litter left behind on the
dig last summer. None at all. The professor's motto had been "Pack it in, pack it out," and he'd made sure that his students left the area as close as possible to the way they'd found it.
He was suddenly scared, and he realized that he was all alone out here, that the closest person to him was up at the top of the hill. It came over him instantly, this feeling of being isolated, cut off from everything and everyone, and he quickly turned his bike around . . .
And he saw the mailman.
The mailman was striding toward him across the dirt, his hair a fiery red against the green background. There was no mail sack on his back, no letters in his hand, and the fact that he had come here to do something other than deliver mail scared Billy more than anything else. He jumped on his bike, swung it around, and began to pedal.
But he did not see one of the excavation trenches, and his front tire slid sideways, spilling him onto the ground. His head connected with the hard dirt.
He was stunned but not hurt, and he jumped to his feet. The mailman was standing right next to him, smiling.
"Billy," the mailman said quietly, horrifyingly gently.
He wanted to run but was powerless to do so. All the will seemed to have been drained from his body. The forest around the archaeological site seemed heavy and impenetrably thick, like a tropical jungle.
The mailman put a hand on Billy's shoulder. His touch was soft and tender, like a woman's. "Come here," he said.
He led Billy with unused force across the empty dig to a large pit at the far end of the clearing. Billy could not remember seeing the pit before, and he tensed as the two of them drew closer to it. He knew he didn't want to see what the mailman wanted to show him.
"Look," the mailman said, smiling.
The pit was filled with bodies and parts of bodies, eyes staring upward, hands fallen limply over torsos. In the split second before he shut his eyes against the horror, Billy saw an alternating color scheme of pink flesh, red blood, and white bone, and he thought he saw, somewhere near the top of the pile near his feet, amid a tangle of arms and legs, fingers and toes, the bottom portion of the professor's face.
Billy awoke from the nightmare drenched with sweat, his mouth dry. For a second, the loft seemed strange, facing the wrong direction, the individual elements of its composition, the furniture and posters, slightly off. Then his brain kicked into its awake mode and everything fell neatly into place.
Well, not everything.
For the images of his dream stayed with him, not as something he had viewed secondhand, like a movie or a regular dream, but as a five-sensory recollection of an actual event, something he had actually experienced, and try as he might to repeat to himself, "It's only a dream It's only a dream It's only a dream," something inside him told him it was not.
27
"It's gotten to the point," Irene said, "where I'm afraid to open the mail."
Tritia , seated on the antique love seat, nodded. "I know what you mean.
The first thing I do these days is check the return address. If it's unfamiliar, I toss it."
"I throw away all mail, even letters from people I've known for years. The last one I opened was from Bill Simms, accusing me of poisoning his dog. Can you believe that?" The old woman licked her lips nervously, and Tritia realized that her friend was frightened. Badly frightened. She frowned. Irene was not a woman who was easily scared, and Tritia was unnerved by the sight of her in such an uncharacteristic state. Something other than a few hate letters had made her so fearful.
Tritia put down her glass of iced tea. "What is it?" she asked. "What's the matter? This is more than just Bill Simms."
Irene shook her head. "Nothing."
"It's not nothing,dammit ! Tell me."
Surprised by the vehemence of her reaction, Irene stared at her. Then she nodded. "Okay," she said. "You want to know what it is? Come here." Her voice was low, conspiratorial, tinged with more than a hint of fear.
Tritia followed her down the hallway into the closed room that had been her husband's den. It was now simply a storage room, filled with the physical forms of painful past memories, items either owned by or associated with her late husband. Tritia looked around. She had never been in this room before, had never even been brave enough to ask about it. Now she saw that it was dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined two opposing walls. Clothes and personal effects were piled high on an old oak dining table that had been placed in the middle of the room next to other unused pieces of furniture.
"There," Irene said. Her voice was shaking.
Tritia followed the old woman's pointing finger. On top of the open rolltopdesk, next to a dusty pile of old western paperbacks, was a small box still half-wrapped in the brown butcher paper in which it had been delivered.
There was an irregular trail of clearness, a skid mark through the dust on top of the desk, which made it obvious that the box had been thrown there in haste.
Irene stood in the doorway, tightly grasping the brass doorknob. "It was sent to me yesterday," she said. She swallowed with obvious difficulty. Her hands were shaking, and Tritia could hear her uneven breathing in the silence of the room. "There's a toe in there."
"What?"
"There's a toe in the box."
Tritia moved slowly forward. Her own heart was pounding loudly. She reached the desk, picked up the box, and opened it.
She had known what to expect, but it was still a shock. A toe, a human toe, lay in the bottom of the box, unnervingly white against the brown cardboard. It was such a small thing that she would have expected it to look fake, to look rubbery. But it was distressingly real. She could see the smooth rounded tip, the curved lines around the joints, the individual hairs growing from the flat skin below the pinkish nail at the top. It had been severed cleanly, cut somehow, but there was no blood, not even a drop.
Tritia put the box down, feeling slightly nauseous. The toe rolled over, and she could see red muscle, blue vein, and a core circle of white bone. The room suddenly seemed too closed, too cramped, and she backed up, away from the desk.
"Jasper lost his big toe in a logging accident in 1954," Irene said quietly.
The severed joint seemed suddenly more sinister, invested with a documented past that lent it a decidedly supernatural aura. Tritia looked at her friend. Irene was pale, frightened, and for the first time since Tritia had known her she looked far older than her years.
Irene closed the door as soon as Tritia came out into the hall, and led the way silently back to the living room. She picked up her iced tea before sitting down on the sofa. Ice cubes rattled nervously against the glass. "He was working in the Tonto," she explained, "out by Payson, and was doing ax work when he swung and missed and chopped off his big toe. I don't know how he got that toe and missed the others, or how he didn't chop off a whole chunk of his foot, but he chopped off only the toe. He said he was screaming so loud that loggers miles away could hear the echoes through the trees. He said the spurting blood turned the green pine needles all around him red.
"They always had someone with them who knew first aid, because there were always logging accidents like these, and somehow they got the bleeding stopped and took him to the hospital in Payson. They didn't have surgical techniques like they do today, and the doctor said he wouldn't be able to sew the toe back on, even though they brought it with them. He said it would be better to close up the existing wound and let it heal." She was silent for a moment.
"What happened to the toe?" Tritia asked.
"Jasper called me, told me what happened, and I had someone drive me to Payson. I didn't drive in those days. The toe was in a jar in his hospital room, floating in this clear liquid, and he asked me if I wanted to save it, but I
couldn't think of anything more repulsive. I hated just seeing it there, and I
had a nurse cover the jar while I was in the room. I certainly didn't want a severed toe in my house, so I told him to have the hospital dispose of it." She shook her head at the recollectio
n. "Instead, I found out later, he and his logging buddies got drunk, had a mock funeral in the woods, and buried it." She looked at Tritia , her eyes haunted. "That was a long time ago. There's not many left who even know that story. And I can't figure out how the mailman learned what happened, let alone how he found the toe again or how it could be in such good shape."
"Maybe it's not --" Tritia began.
"It is," Irene said firmly.
"Did you call the police?"
"What for?"
"This is against the law. Some --"
Irene put a hand on her arm. The old woman's fingers felt dry, cold.
"Look," she said, "this is not a police matter. This is something private."
"No it's not." Tritia leaned forward. "You know what's going on in this town. And you know there's no way we can get the mailman. We have no proof to back up any of our allegations." She gestured toward the hallway and the den beyond. "Now we have proof."
"We have nothing. Do you know what will happen? He will say that he only delivers the mail and is not responsible for its contents, and he'll deny any knowledge of this. You know that as well as I do."
Tritia stared into her friend's eyes. She was right. Much as she hated to admit it, she was right. Irene knew exactly what the mailman would do.
"At least let me call Doug, tell him. He'll get rid of it for you. You don't want a --"
"No," Irene said. "I don't want anyone to touch it. And no one but you will ever see it." She lowered her voice and Tritia felt a chill creep down her spine. "It's evil."
Tritia nodded, feigning for her friend's sake an understanding she did not feel. Irene was slipping, she thought. This had pushed her dangerously close to the edge, and if something else occurred, it might push her all the way over.
Of course, that was exactly what the mailman wanted.
The Mailman Page 17