The Mailman

by Bentley Little

  But no such reasons or rationalizations could be found for the mailman's unceasing harassment of Doug's family and friends. Of course, other people in town were being harassed too, but not as subtly, not as purposefully. Doug knew what was going on, and the mailman knew that he knew and was playing games with him. The horrors were gradually increasing in intensity and proximity, moving in concentric circles toward he and Billy and Trish at the center.

  The doors were open and Doug stepped into the post office. The morning chill had not penetrated the inside of the building. The temperature of the stale humid air felt as though it was in the high nineties. He walked up to the front counter, refusing to look at the twisted and repugnant wall posters. The floor felt wet and sticky beneath his feet.

  The mailman emerged from the back, smiling. As always, he was wearing his full uniform. As always, his voice was smoothly plastic. "How may I help you, Mr.Albin ?"

  "Knock off the shit," Doug said. "We both know why I'm here."

  "Why are you here?" The mailman's smile widened.

  Doug leaned forward. "Because you're threatening my family. Because you came into my house last night and left us a note."

  "What kind of note?"

  "You know damn well what kind of note. It said, 'Hi.' "

  The mailman chuckled. "That is pretty threatening."

  Doug clenched his fist and held it up above the counter. "You can stop the innocent act. There's no one here but me and you, and we both know you broke into my house last night."

  "I did no such thing. I was at home all evening with Mr. Crowell." The look on the mailman's face was an obvious parody of bruised innocence.

  "And where is Mr. Crowell?"

  The mailman grinned. "Unfortunately, he's sick today."

  "I want you to stop it," Doug said.

  "Stop what?"

  "This. Everything. Just get the hell out of Willis, or I swear to God I'll make you get out."

  The mailman laughed, and this time there was a harshness under the false nicety. His eyes, hard and blue and dead, bored into Doug's, and his voice, when it came out, had none of its usual calculated blandness. "You can't make me do anything," he said, and his tone made Doug's blood run cold.

  Doug backed up a step. He realized that for the first time he was seeing the true face of the mailman, and he had to resist the instinctive impulse to flee. The fact that he had been able to goad the mailman into dropping his cover scared him much more than he ever would have thought. He shouldn't have come here alone. He should have brought Mike or Tim or another cop. But he refused to let the mailman sense his fear. He held his ground. "Why are you harassing my family?" he asked, and his voice came out strong, assured. "Why are you picking on me?"

  "Because you know," the mailman said.

  "I don't know anything."

  "Because you complained."

  "A lot of people have complained."

  "Because I feel like it," the mailman said, and the random callousness of that admission, the utter lack of reason, struck Doug as the truth. He stared into those cold eyes and saw nothing. No passion, no feeling, nothing. Evil was not hatred, he thought. Evil was this.

  The mailman smiled, and his voice was filled with an ugly undercurrent of threatening sexuality. "How's the little woman, little man?"

  "You bastard!" Doug struck out at the mailman, but the mailman stepped easily back, avoiding the blow. Doug, thrown off-balance, fell against the counter.

  The mailman chuckled, then his usual benign mask fell into place. "I'm sorry, Mr.Albin . The post office is not open yet, but if you'd like to buy a book of stamps --"

  "Just leave us alone," Doug said, standing straight.

  "It's my job to deliver the mail, and I will continue to perform my duties to the best of my ability."

  "Why? No one reads it anyway."

  "Everyone reads their mail."

  "I don't. I stopped reading it weeks ago."

  The mailman stared at him, blinked. "You have to read your mail."

  "I don't have to do anything. I take my mail directly from the mailbox to the garbage can, no stops in between."

  For the first time, the mailman seemed to Doug at a loss for words. He shook his head as if he didn't understand what Doug was saying. "But you have to read your mail," he repeated.

  Doug smiled, realizing he had hit a nerve. "I don't read my man. My wife doesn't read her mail. We don't look at it at all. We don't even look to see who it's from or who it's addressed to. We just throw it away. So just stop wasting your time and leave us alone."

  "But you have to read your mail."

  Giselle walked into the office from the back.

  "Just leave us alone," Doug said to the mailman. He turned and strode out of the building. He was trembling, shaking, as he walked out to the car.

  He thought he heard the mailman say something to him as he left, but he didn't hear what it was and wasn't sure he wanted to know.

  36

  Doug drove through the night shirtless, his hair still uncombed, wearing only his Levi's and a pair of tennis shoes. He had driven this route a thousand times, but now he seemed to be moving in slow motion, the Bronco putting along at a pitifully inadequate speed. He hit the steering wheel as hard as he could, angry at the car and at himself. The horn bleated, and he almost drove into a tree as he turned a corner too sharply. He slowed down as much as he dared, but he had to get moving. He'd already taken far too long. The Bronco bumped onto the pavement as the dirt road ended, and he pressed down on the gas pedal.

  He'd been scared a lot lately and he'd thought he'd reached the limit of terror, that he'd been as frightened as he could be, but when he'd picked up the phone from a sound sleep and heardHobie's panicked high-pitched voice screaming of blood and virgins while in the background the static of a police radio crackled, he knew that fear had no limit. It was bottomless, and he just kept sinking deeper and deeper into it.

  He saw the police lights from far down the street, a twin red-and-blue pulsing against the trees and houses of the neighborhood. The cars and the ambulance were directly in front ofHobie's house, so he had to park several houses away. He slammed the car door shut and ran down the cracked and dirty sidewalk. A gang ofbathrobed men and women, neighbors, mingled about behind the yellow ribbon used to cordon offHobie's trailer, and he pushed his way through them to reach the driveway.

  "Hey!" a policeman yelled at him. "What do you think you're doing?"

  "I'm here to seeHobie ," Doug said.

  "I'm sorry," the policeman said, blocking his way. "But you cannot move beyond the barrier."

  "I called him,"Hobie yelled from the doorway. "Goddammit! Let him in."

  Doug looked over at his friend.Hobie's eyes were wide and wild, his short hair sticking out crazily in irregular clumps. He was wearing only Jockey shorts and a T-shirt, and Doug saw with horror that both were streaked with blood.

  "Let him through," Tim Hibbard ordered from behindHobie , and the first policeman motioned Doug under the barrier. Doug ducked under the ribbon and crossed the yard. Sealed plastic containers and boxes marked "Willis Police Department" had been placed next to the walk, and from inside the house came the hissing of radio static, the beeping of electronic instruments, and rough voices ragged with frightened disgust.

  "I didn't do it, Doug."Hobie's voice was high and frightened. "I --"

  Doug walked up to the door. "Don't say anything until you get a lawyer,"

  he said.

  "I didn't --"

  "Don't say anything." Doug put a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder, hoping he appeared calmer than he felt. Something worse than horrible had happened here, something that had turnedHobie into this frightened gibbering creature before him, and he wished for one cruel selfish instant that he had never metHobie and that he could be one of the hundreds of other people in Willis sleeping right now, totally unaware and unaffected by what was going on.

  But then he saw the simple look of blind need on his fr
iend's face and was sorry such a thought had even crossed his mind. He turned toward the closest policeman, a middle-aged man with a mustache he had seen around but did not know. "What happened here?"

  The policeman looked at him with barely concealed disdain. "You want to know what happened here? You want to see what your buddy did? Come into the bedroom."

  "I didn't do it,"Hobie insisted. "I swear --"

  "Shut up," Doug told him. "Don't say anything." He followed the uniformed officer into the bedroom, where another group of policemen were looking through the closet.

  The smell hit him immediately. A thick sour-sweet stench that sickened his stomach and made him want to gag.

  Blood.

  "Oh, God," Doug breathed. "Oh, Jesus."

  The girl's body was lying on the bed. Next to the knives. She was nude and on her stomach, facing away from him. The back of her skull was visible through the bloody hole that had been carved through her scalp. The bone had been chipped off in several places, revealing the pale red-tinged worm twists of her brain. Across her back were scores of stabs and slices, and the skin on her buttocks had been completely peeled off, exposing the wet muscle beneath. A

  stain of blood that took up half of the sheet spread outward from between her legs.

  Doug looked up, unable to bear the sight. On the wall above the bed, snapshots of nude girls had been taped to the paneling. Dozens of them. All of the girls had been tortured and mutilated, sexually violated with knives identical to the ones lying on the bed.

  "I didn't do it,"Hobie insisted. "I swear to God I didn't do it. I just got here and found --"

  The men by the closet turned around. ChiefCatfield's eyes widened when he saw Doug. "Get him out of here!" the chief roared.

  "I just wanted him to see what his friend did," the mustached policeman stammered.

  "I don't give a flying fuck what you wanted!"

  Doug staggered backward out of the room, gulping air, not needing to be told to leave. He could still smell the sickening heavy odor of fresh blood, could taste its disgustingly salty muskiness in his mouth. He stood for a moment with his hands on his knees, trying to keep down the gorge threatening to rise in his throat.

  "I didn't do it,"Hobie said. "He did it!" He grabbed Doug's shoulders, and Doug could see small flecks of blood splattered on his cheeks. "He set me up!" "Who?" Tim asked from the other side of the room.

  "The mailman."

  "Don't say anything until you get a lawyer," Doug ordered. He glared at his friend, andHobie looked subserviently away.

  "We have his ass dead to rights," the mustached policeman said. "Ain'tno way he'sgonna get out of this."

  "It wasn't me --"

  "Shut up!" Doug roared.

  "We'll do the shutting up around here." The chief emerged from the bedroom. "What are you doing here anyway?"

  Doug was still trying to get the taste out of his mouth, the smell out of his nostrils. "Hobiecalled me."

  "Are you his lawyer?"

  "No. I'm his friend."

  "Well, who let you through? Friends are not usually allowed on crime scenes."

  Doug held up his hands. "You want me to leave, I'll leave."

  "No!"Hobie cried.

  "I'll find you a lawyer," Doug promised. "I'll get you whatever you need.

  Don't worry. There's nothing I can do here anyway."

  "I didn't do it,"Hobie said. Tears trickled down his cheeks, turning pink as they mingled with the flecks of blood on his skin.

  "I know you didn't. And we'll get you out --"

  "No you won't," the chief said.

  "But you'll have to stay in jail for a few days until everything gets straightened out. Do you want me to call anyone? Your parents?"

  "No!"

  "Fine. But I'll do what I can, and I'll see you in the morning. Don't worry."

  "Jeff!"Catfield motioned for the mustached policeman. "Escort Mr.Albin to the street."

  The policeman nodded. "Yes sir."

  "We'll get you out," Doug promised.

  On the street, the neighbors were talking loudly and animatedly about what they thought had happened insideHobie's trailer. One squat ugly woman with huge curlers in her hair insisted that she'd known for years the auto teacher was a practicingsatanist .

  Doug walked slowly back to his car. He wanted to run, he was so pumped up with adrenaline, but he forced himself to move deliberately, trying to keep under control the conflicting emotions raging through him. There was a lot to do. He had to find a lawyer, a good lawyer, getHobie's stuff together, find out whatHobie's rights were, what could be done for him, whether he was going to be kept in Willis, taken to the county jail, or put in the state prison in Florence. But nothing could be done until morning.

  He started the Bronco and backed up. He had not accomplished anything by coming over, he realized, had not helped his friend in any way, although perhaps he had succeeded in gettingHobie to keep quiet until he had legal counsel. What he really needed to do was to nail the mailman, to prove that the mailman had really committed the murder. But that was going to be impossible. There had been no witnesses; andHobie himself was too far gone to be believable to anyone.

  He turned the corner and saw the mailman's car on the next street over. He watched as the mailman's pale hand opened the mailbox in front of a house and inserted a stack of letters.

  The hand rose up above the roof of the car and waved once, lazily.

  Doug turned in the opposite direction, toward home.

  37

  Yard Stevens, the lawyer Doug retained forHobie , was a southern gentleman of the old school who had emigrated to Arizona late in life and still retained many of the mannerisms of the Deep South. He lived and practiced in Phoenix but had a vacation home in Willis, where he spent the summers to escape the heat. He was well-known for both accepting and winning garish tabloid murder cases, and when Doug described to himHobie's situation, he agreed to take it, even though it meant cutting his vacation short. Stevens' fees were so astronomical as to be unbelievable, but Doug was assured by a school-district representative that Hobie'sinsurance would cover the cost.

  "You know," the lawyer drawled as they drove over to the police station in a huge white Lincoln, "I've been having trouble with the mail myself this summer. I have tried several times to speak to the postmaster about this, but he never seems to be in when I call."

  Doug had debated whether or not to tell Stevens all, and he had decided it would be better forHobie if he did not. At least not yet. He didn't want the lawyer to think both of them were nuts, and if Stevens discovered during his research what was really going on here, well, then they'd have another ally on their side. If he discovered nothing, Doug could always fill him in on the details later. "I've had trouble too," Doug admitted.

  "If, as I believe, this is atownwide problem, we may be able to work this to our advantage."

  Doug smiled. "Let's hope so."

  The lawyer looked at him. "Do you think your Mend's guilty? Tell me the truth. We're covered here by lawyer-client privilege, and it will never go further than this."

  Doug was surprised by the forthrightness of the question. "He's innocent,"

  he said.

  "That's what I like to hear."

  "What do you think?"

  Stevens 'chuckled, a low mellifluous comforting sound. "I'll make my decision once I talk to my client."

  At the police station, they were searched, then led into a small room empty save for three chairs and a table, all bolted to the floor.Hobie was brought in, handcuffed, and remained silent until his guard left the room. He looked even worse, even crazier, than he had last night, and Doug had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd been hopingHobie would make a good impression on the lawyer.

  "Okay," Doug said. "Now we can talk."

  Hobieglanced furtively around. He looked under the table, felt under the chair, as if searching for electronic listening devices. Under other circumstances, the paranoia ofHobie's reac
tion would have been funny. But nothing seemed funny anymore.

  "There're no bugs," Doug said. "Our police department can't afford any."

  "And even if there were," Stevens said, "evidence gathered through their use would not be admissible in court."

  "This is your lawyer," Doug said. "Yard Stevens."

  The lawyer held out a thick pink hand. "How do you do?"

  "How do you think? I'm in jail for murder."

  "Did you do it?"

  "Hell, no."

  Doug felt a little better.Hobie still looked awful, but the shocked incoherence of last night and the dissolution of the past few weeks seemed to have disappeared. He seemed more confident now, closer to his normally abrasive self.

  "Doug?" Stevens turned toward him. "I would like to speak to my client alone from here on. I may need your testimony in court, and I don't want to jeopardize its validity by allowing you access to privileged information."

  Doug nodded. "Okay. I'll be waiting right outside."

  "Fine."

  "Thanks,"Hobie said.

  "I'll be by to see you later." Doug knocked on the closed door and it was opened from the outside. He was walking down the hall toward the front office when he heard a familiar voice behind him. "Mr.Albin ? Can I talk to you for a moment?"

  He turned to see Mike Trenton beckoning him from the doorway of an office.

  "Doug. I thought I told you to call me Doug."

  "Doug?"

  He followed Mike into a small room dominated by a huge desk. Two walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with textbooks and bound case studies. "This used to be the police library," Mike explained, noticing his glance. "Well, it still is, but now it doubles as my office."

  "What did you want to talk to me about?"

  "Mr. Beecham."

  "I thought you were off all mailman cases."

  Mike shrugged. "It's a small department. A lot's been happening. We're shorthanded. Besides, this is not a 'mailman case.' "

  "It is too, and you know it."

  "I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Mr. Beecham."

  Doug began pacing up and down the length of the tiny crowded room. "Come on, Mike. You know damn well thatHobie didn't kill that girl."