The Mailman

by Bentley Little

  The loft was deserted. There was no one there.

  Still holding the knife, she made a quick check of the closet, of the area behind Billy's bed, but the loft was empty.

  He had gone.

  The house was clean.

  She made her way downstairs. In the living room, she peered out the window, trying to spot any unnatural objects in the drive or in the surrounding trees and bushes, but the property was disturbed only by a pair of battling blue jays. She double-checked first the front door, then the back, and when she found that both were locked, she allowed herself to relax a little.

  Her bladder had been considerably weakened by the tension, and she walked into the bathroom, still clutching the knife. She no longer had a death grip on the handle, but she was taking no chances -- she might have missed him in her cursory examination of the forest in back. He could have been hiding behind a tree, knowing she would not go out of the house to search for him, and he might be waiting outside right now, listening in at the door, waiting for precisely a moment like this, a moment when she was vulnerable, to come inside and attack.

  She left the bathroom door open and quickly pulled down her pants, sitting on the toilet.

  The mailman stepped out of the shower.

  She screamed in terror, dropping the knife, then immediately reached down with scrambling fingers to pick it up off the floor. He stepped on top of it, his shiny black shoes completely covering the blade. He was fully dressed, wearing his pressed postal uniform, but she could see the huge bulge in his trousers as he stood in front of her. She covered her exposed lap with one hand and held the other tremblingly in front of her to push him away.

  She had not stopped screaming, but he did not seem to mind. He smiled at her. "Nice bush," he said, and the crudity of his words, juxtaposed against the smoothness of his voice, was somehow more terrifying than if he had simply come out and attacked her.

  Why the hell hadn't she checked the shower?

  He bent down to pick up the knife and she leapt off the toilet and out of the bathroom in a frantic, instinctive escape attempt. Her body slammed against his in the constricted space before the doorway, and for a sickening second as she flew past him, she felt his clothed hardness against her naked skin. And then she was across the hall and in the bedroom, slamming the door shut. She fumbled with the knob for a second before turning the lock. Her eyes darted around the room as she searched for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon.

  Outside, in the hall, she heard a clattering sound as the mailman threw the knife across the floor into the kitchen. Obviously, he didn't want to kill her. Then what did he want?

  She pressed her shoulder against the bedroom door and let out an involuntary sound of raw animal fear. She was too afraid to cross the room to reach the telephone. The door lock was cheap and flimsy, and if she let up on her support for even a second, he would be inside.

  _Inside_.

  She closed her eyes, willing herself not to be overwhelmed by the fear.

  "Get out of my house," she ordered. Her voice was wavering,unforceful . "Get out of here now!"

  "You want it," he said, his voice coolly unperturbed. "You know you want it."

  "Get the fuck out of here!" she screamed. "I'm calling the police."

  His voice dropped an octave to a tone of low insinuating intimacy. "Do you like your mail delivered at the back door?" he asked.

  "Help!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. She meant for the scream to be loud and piercing, a cry of terror and rage, but the shout was almost a sob, desperation eating away at its edges, and she abruptly fell silent, unwilling to let the mailman sense her weakness, the stubbornness within her unwilling to concede anything to the monster outside the door.

  "Do you like blood?" the mailman asked in that same low intimate tone. He was right next to the crack of the door; she could hear the sound of his dry lips pressing together as he spoke. "Do you like warm, thick, salty blood?"

  "Help me!" she cried, and this time it really was a sob. She heard the mailman's low answering chuckle.

  And the sound of a zipper being pulled down.

  "You know you want it," he repeated.

  She held her breath.

  There was the quiet slapping sound of skin against skin.

  He was playing with himself.

  "Billy likes his mail delivered upstairs and at the back door."

  That gave her the strength that had been eluding her. White-hot anger coursed through her veins. "You son of a bitch!" she screamed; "Don't you dare touch him!"

  From outside the house, from the rear, she heard Doug's voice. "Trish!"

  Again: "Trish!" He was running; the amplification of his words came at a pace much faster than it would have had he been moving more slowly. Something had happened. She could hear the fear in his voice, and the burning anger. Something had happened.

  But she was just thankful to hear his voice at all. She was saved.

  Whatever else had happened, he was here to save her. "In here!" she yelled as loud as she could. "I'm in the bedroom!"

  She had not heard the mailman leave, but from the silence on the other side of the door she knew he was gone.

  There were heavy running steps on the porch. "Trish!" Doug called frantically. The screen door slammed shut.

  "I'm in here!" She fumblingly opened the bedroom door and flew out of the room, sobbing. "I --"

  Her sobs stopped when she saw that Doug was carrying Billy into the living room. She stopped breathing. Time stood still. The boy's unmoving body was draped limply over his father's outstretched arms, and for one sick second she was reminded of a scene from _Frankenstein_. She had to will herself into action. She snapped out of her trance and ran forward, putting an ear to her son's chest. "What happened?" she demanded.

  "I found him in The Fort." Doug's voice was a shocked emotionless monotone. "The mailman found him first."

  Tritia noticed for the first time that Billy was wearing no pants.

  Doug placed his son carefully on the couch. Billy's skin was grayish, pale. His lips moved silently in unbroken fever sentences. Tritia could not make out what he was saying.

  "When we get to the hospital, I'm calling the police," Doug said in the same flat tone. "And if they won't go after him, I'll kill him myself."

  Tritia felt Billy's forehead with a trembling hand. "What happened?"

  "I don't know. He was lying in The Fort like this. His pants were off and his underwear was bloody and there was a . . . a wedding dress next to him."

  Tritia put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my God."

  Doug felt the hot tears spilling onto his cheeks. His voice cracked. "I

  think he was raped."

  "We have to get him to the hospital. I'll call the ambulance."

  "Fuck the ambulance. There's not enough time."

  Tritia cradled her son's head in her arms.

  "No," he murmured. "No I won't. No. No. No. No . . ."

  "Let's go," she said.

  The thoughts that ran through Doug's mind as the Bronco sped over the rough dirt road were fragmented, disjointed: what he should have done, what he could have done, what he did wrong, what he would do over again if given the chance. Billy moaned in the back seat, a muffled delirious sound followed instantly by Tritia 's soft soothing. Doug cursed himself for not living closer to the hospital.

  They sped past the trailer park and bumped onto paved road. The shock had left him, had disappeared as quickly as it had come, and had been replaced by a seething bottomless anger that could be assuaged only by revenge. Once Billy was okay, he would go to the police. And if the police refused to do anything, he would go after the mailman himself. There was no way in hell he was going to get away with this.

  Willis Community Hospital was a low white brick building located off the main road in the center of town. It was situated between the Presbyterian church and a short row of tract houses, the model homes from one of the town's aborted real-estate developments.
Although the hospital was the newest and best-equipped medical facility in the county -- it even had its own heliport for the transporting of serious cases to Phoenix or Flagstaff -- it now seemed to Doug small and seedy and hopelessly out of date. He wished they lived in a metropolitan area with access to state-of-the-art medical technology.

  They pulled into the emergency loading area, and Doug ran around the back of the Bronco to open the passenger door. He let Tritia out, and she ran into the hospital to explain the situation while he carefully lifted Billy from the back seat and carried him into the building.

  A doctor, an orderly, and two nurses were already wheeling out a gurney, and Doug placed his son gently down on the crinkling sanitary paper that covered the gurney's thin mattress. The doctor introduced himself as Ken Maxwell, and he fired off questions one after another as they headed through the double doors and down the hall, asking a follow-up before Doug or Tritia had time to adequately respond to its predecessor. The pinched-faced woman at the admissions desk tried to insist that someone had to stay and fill out forms, but the doctor snapped at her, telling her to shut up and leave it for later as he followed the orderly pushing the wheeled stretcher through the corridor. The two nurses had already hurried ahead to prepare the examination room.

  The gurney was pushed next to a stationary operating table in the center of the room, and the doctor helped the orderly shift Billy onto the raised platform. He listened with a stethoscope to Billy's chest, checked his eyes with a pen-light. His hands expertly prodded and probed the boy's prone form, but Billy noticed nothing. He neither moved nor flinched, and he kept up the low insistent words he had been repeating since Doug found him.

  Doug licked his dry lips. The doctor was busy. This would be a good time to call the police. He caught the eye of the orderly. "Is there a phone around here?" he asked. "I have to call the cops and tell them what happened."

  "There's one out in the waiting room."

  The doctor finished his external examination of Billy's body and said something to the nurse nearest him. He looked up at Doug and Tritia . "I will have to give him a thorough examination," he said. "And I'll have to take some X

  rays, perform a few standard tests." The nurse handed him a pair of clear rubber gloves taken from an unopened package. "As you're his parents, you may remain here if you wish, but it may be a little rough to watch." He pulled on the gloves and picked up his penlight. Both nurses carefully rolled Billy over onto his stomach. Doug could see the smeared dirt on his son's buttocks, and he turned away.

  "I'll stay," Tritia said, giving his hand a small squeeze. "You go make your phone call."

  Doug nodded slowly. He really did have to call the police, but he was glad that he did, grateful to have that excuse to fall back on, and for that he felt guilty. He knew he should be there for Billy, but he could not watch the doctor examine his son. Tritia knew that, and this was her way of telling him it was okay. But he still felt awful about it. He had always been like this. He had not wanted to watch his son's birth and had thrown up himself when Billy was an infant and had vomited on his shoulder. Sickness involving members of his family made him squeamish, particularly if it involved blood and bodily functions. He wished he didn't feel this way, wished he could let it not affect him, the way Tritia did, but he had no control over his reactions. He had often wondered if this was a trait common to all fathers, and he thought that perhaps this was one reason why young children inevitably felt closer to their mothers and turned to their maternal parents when they needed comfort. After sharing bodies for nine months, mothers did not seem to mind a little blood or pain. It wasn't as alien to them as it was to fathers.

  He looked over at his son, saw the smeared dirt, saw red lines that looked like scratches.

  "No," Billy was murmuring. "No. No. No. No . . ."

  "You go," Tritia prodded him.

  The doctor bent over Billy's body.

  Doug squeezed Tritia 's hand and walked quickly out of the room. He was angry at himself and he flinched as Billy's murmurs cut off with a sharp gasp.

  The door swung shut behind him, and he was in the corridor. He hurried back the way they had come in. At least the doctor seemed to know what he was doing. He had wasted no time, had reacted instantly to the situation, had cut the red tape off at its source, and had exhibited a no-nonsense attitude in his quick appraisal of what was to be done. For that Doug was grateful, and despite his initial paranoid misgivings, he was now confident that his son would receive the best medical attention possible.

  There was going to be hell to pay in the psychological department, though.

  The damage here was not entirely, or even predominantly, physical. What had happened to Billy would probably scar him emotionally for the rest of his life.

  The anger burned through Doug, unwavering,undiminishing . They were going to have to really search around and make sure they found someone who could help Billy. But now it was time for the mailman to pay.

  The pinched-faced woman glared at him from behind her glass-walled room as he walked up to the pay phone in the waiting area. He ignored her and dialed the number of the police department. He closed his eyes. The phone rang once, twice, thrice.

  An unfamiliar voice answered. "Willis Police Department."

  Doug cleared his throat. "I'd like to speak to Mike Trenton, please." He sounded like a stranger to himself.

  The voice on the other end of the line was cautious. "Who shall I say is calling?"

  "DougAlbin ." There was a pause, then Mike came on the line. Doug gripped the receiver tightly, not bothering with pleasantries. "The mailman's back."

  "I know."

  "He attacked my boy, Mike, and he threatened my wife. I'm going after him." "We're going after him too. He killed the chief."

  It took a moment for the information to sink in. Doug felt cold, frightened. The mailman was no longer playing around. He was not hiding behind rules and regulations, not working through letters. He was coming in for the kill. But though the fear was strong within him, it paled next to the towering strength of his anger.

  "We just found the chiefs body a few minutes ago," Mike said. "How's your son? Is he going to be okay?"

  "We don't know."

  "We're gathering everyone together. We'll be leaving in ten minutes."

  "Wait a sec, Mike." Doug felt weak. He saw Tritia running down the hall toward him, nearly tripping on the slippery tile. She was crying, sobbing, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach he knew that Billy was dead. Then she drew closer, and he saw that she was crying and laughing, sobbing and smiling.

  "He's okay," she cried. "He's all right."

  "Hold on, Mike," Doug said into the receiver. He left the phone dangling as he took Tritia 's hand and ran down the corridor to the examination room. The doctor was just maneuvering the largecranelike X-ray machine over Billy's back.

  "Is he okay?" Doug asked.

  "There's been no real physical damage," the doctor told him. "Billy is clearly suffering from traumatic shock, but he seems to have sustained no actual injuries. There're a few scratches and bruises, and I'll continue the tests, but I think you're safe."

  "He wasn't . . . ?" Doug left the question unfinished.

  "There does not appear to have been any penetration," the doctor said quietly, "although I have no doubt that he was assaulted."

  "But the blood on his underwear . . . ?"

  "It's not Billy's blood."

  A flood of relief washed over Doug, and he held Tritia , who continued to sob. The doctor gave him a quick reassuring smile, then moved the X-ray camera into place.

  Five minutes later, Doug was back in the waiting room. He picked up the receiver. "Mike? You still there?"

  The other end of the line was silent. "Mike!" He heard a low knock as someone obviously picked up the phone from where it had been lying. "Mike?"

  "Yeah?"

  "He's okay."

  "Thank God."

  "I want to be in on this," Doug said.


  "I can't --"

  "Mike?"

  Silence.

  "Mike?"

  "All right," the policeman conceded. "How fast can you get over here to the station?"

  "I'll be there as soon as I can. Wait for me."

  "Make it fast. We want to get him before he leaves town. You have five minutes."

  "Goddammit!"

  "All right," the policeman said. "Sorry. We'll wait."

  "Thank you. I'll be there in ten."

  "Meet you here." Mike hung up and Doug did the same. He returned to the examination room, where the doctor was putting away a hypodermic syringe. One of the nurses covered Billy with a sheet. "Get him a room," the doctor ordered. He looked from Doug to Tritia . "He'll be sleeping for a while now. I suggest you try to get some rest. He'll be coming out of it before morning, and he's going to want you nearby."

  "I'm staying," Tritia said.

  The doctor nodded. "We can set up a chair in his room. Or even a cot, if you'd like."

  Tritia looked up at Doug, who put his arms around her. "Have they caught him?" He shook his head. "We're going after him now."

  "'We?' "

  "We."

  The doctor, orderly, and nurses worked busily next to Billy.

  Doug squeezed Tritia tightly. "Watch him," he said. "Take care of him."

  She shivered as he pulled away, rubbing her arms. "Where are you going?

  What are you going to do?"

  "I'll meet them at the police station. Then we'll go to the post office."

  They both followed the hospital team as they wheeled the now sleeping and silent Billy into his room, a large private room witha.raised color television and two adjoining beds. Doug gave Tritia the pertinent insurance information from his wallet, and she promised to take care of everything.

  She followed him out to the waiting room. "Be careful!" she called after him as he walked between the sliding glass doors.

  45

  Doug ran into the police station. He noticed the difference immediately.

  No one was working or talking. The room was still and silent. The policemen were standing around the front office, visibly nervous, unsure of what to do. Mike seemed to have taken charge, though there were one or two officers above him in rank, and he alone appeared to be thinking clearly and rationally. He was on the phone, apparently talking to someone important in Phoenix.