The mailman drove by the house three times before stopping. David Adams grinned to himself as he saw the red car brake in front of the house. He had dug up the mailbox, had filled in the post hole, and had dumped the whole thing into the back yard. Later, after breakfast, he would cut up the post for kindling and smash the mailbox itself.
The mailman got out of his car and, letters in hand, walked straight up the driveway toward the front door.
David quickly locked the screen door, shut the real door and pulled the curtains, still grinning. The mailman was getting pretty damned desperate. He looked like hell, and he was even delivering mail in the daytime. They had the bastard on the ropes now.
There was a knock at the door. 'Mr. Adams!'
David said nothing, did not move.
Another knock. 'Mr. Adams!'
David did not respond.
'I know you're in there,' the mailman said. He knocked again, loudly, more forcefully. 'Mr. Adams? I regret to inform you that you are in violation of federal statute. Since you do not have a post-office box or drawer, you are required by law to have either a mailbox or mail slot at your place of residence so that mail can be properly delivered. If you do not have a mailbox or mail slot, you are interfering with the daily operation of the federal government and, as such, can be prosecuted.'
David smiled. There was a hard edge to the mailman's voice and more than a hint of desperation.
'I know you're in there,' the mailman repeated. His voice took on a sly tempting quality. 'I have things here that I know you'd like to see. Darla's last letter. A letter from her lover. This is good mail today, Mr. Adams. Good mail.' David said nothing, though he wanted to scream at the son of a bitch;
remained unmoving, though he wanted to attack. He heard the mailman angrily throw the letters on the stoop and stalk off. A moment later, he heard the start of a car's engine and then a decreasing purr as the car pulled away. David opened the door, opened the curtains, breathed deeply, feeling good.
It was only a matter of time.
52
Doug and Mike andTegarden sat silently on the lone bench in front of Bayless. From this vantage point, they could see most of the town's business section, and for the past hour they had watched as the mailman had driven up and down the street, desperately trying to find a place to deliver mail. All of the businesses had disposed of their mailboxes or blocked off their mail slots, and most of them had put up signs, some elaborately hand-painted onposterboard by wives and children, some banner-printed by home computer, some crudely scrawled on cardboard:
NO MAIL ON BOARD
ONE LETTER CAN RUIN YOUR WHOLE DAY
I WON'T TOUCH A LETTER UNLESS
YOU PRY IT INTO MY COLD DEAD FINGERS
MAIL IS NOT HEALTHY FOR CHILDREN
AND OTHER LIVING THINGS
MAIL SUCKS
The mailman's behavior had become increasingly frantic as he darted from shop to shop, gas station to office, his driving increasingly crazy as he sped for the fourth, fifth, and sixth times over the same section of street. Observed from this vantage point, he seemed like a trapped and doomed bug trying to escape from the lethal confines of a killing jar.
Doug was nervous and excited, and he knew the other two men were too, but all three of them had for some reason assumed masks of laconic disinterest, as though they were three old-timers whiling away their hours on a park bench and casually commenting on the sights that passed before their eyes.
'Looks like he's going back to the donut hut,'Tegarden drawled.
'Yep,' Mike said.
A part of Doug felt sorry for the mailman. He did not like to see anything hurt or wounded. But he had only to think of Trish and Billy, ofHobie and Stockleyand everyone else, for that sympathy to disappear and be replaced by a grim feeling of satisfaction.
The mailman was getting what he deserved.
'He's trying to shove mail under the door of the catalog store,' Mike observed.
'Won't work,'Tegarden said.
The mailman ran wildly back to his car and drove back up the street for the eighth time.
53
The water came on sometime during the ninth morning, the electricity that afternoon.
By the end of the next day, both gas and telephone service had also been restored.
54
The mailman had not been seen for over two days, and when Doug called the police station, Mike told him that the mailman's car had not moved from the front of the post office for fifty-two hours. 'I think it's time for us to go in there and check,' he said. 'Let's see what's going on.'
They drove together, in four cars, and Doug couldn't help thinking about Jack and Tim. When this was over, they would have to have a memorial service for them. For all the victims of the mail.
Flies were buzzing on the dried heads of the dead dogs. The air was thick with the putrid odor of the decapitated carcasses. The eight men strode across the parking lot. Directly in front of the door, behind an overturned bench, Doug saw something he hadn't before.
An infant's head.
Speared on a fallen mailbox post.
He looked at Mike, but neither of them said a word. The child's head, like those of the dogs, was dried and old and swarming with flies. The small eyes were clear deflated sacs.
Mike motioned toTegarden , the biggest, strongest man on the force. 'Kick it in,' he said, gesturing toward the glass door.
Tegardenobliged happily and shattering shards exploded inward.
They stepped through the open door frame.
The interior of the post office was dark, windows completely boarded up, lights off. Brown packaging paper covered the walls and floor and ceiling. The men stepped hesitantly inside, Doug first. The sounds of their movement were loud in the stillness. 'Where the hell are you?' Doug called.
There was no answer, and they moved carefully forward as one. The room was a shambles. The tall metal table that had stood against one wall was overturned, and the floor was littered with paper and boxes and pieces of broken furniture.
The body of a rat lay on the front counter, its head gone, chewed off. Next to it, large bones, probably from a dog, had been arranged in precise geometric patterns. The entire countertop was covered with dried blood.
Doug stepped slowly around the counter. The post office seemed empty, felt dead, but he was nervous nonetheless. He tiptoed toward the open door that led to the back room.
From inside the room came a long low sigh.
And a frightened whimper.
Doug stopped in his tracks, heart pounding. Looking behind him, he saw fear on the faces of both the old and young policemen. All of them had heard the noise, and none of them knew what to make of it. Only Mike seemed unaffected. He pushed roughly past Doug, preparing to lead the assault into the rear of the post office, but Doug held him back. He was scared, but he was not about to let Mike do what he knew was his responsibility. 'No,' he said.
The policeman looked at him.
'I want to go alone.'
Mike shook his head, pulling out his revolver, snapping off the safety.
