with impatience. 'Fine,' he said. He moved to the rear of the line.
Ten minutes later he finally moved up to the counter. He had been watching the mailman constantly, studying him, looking for a trace of anything out of the ordinary, but aside from his air of natural superiority there seemed to be nothing amiss. The mailman did not look at him once.
The fear and the anger were in about equal portions now.
He stepped up to the counter, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his palm. 'I'd like to talk to Howard.'
'Mr. Crowell is not here today.'
The words were so simple yet so totally unexpected that they caught him off guard. Howard wasn't here? Howard was always here. 'Is he sick?' he asked.
'Yes he is. May I help you?'
Doug glared at the man. 'Maybe you can. My family and I went on a picnic by Clear Creek yesterday, and we found unopened, undelivered mail strewn along the banks of the creek.'
A light smile played across the mailman's lips. ' 'Strewn?' '
His mocking intonation was so much like Tritia 's that Doug faltered for a second. But he recovered almost immediately and put the envelopes on the counter. 'Here are a few pieces of mail we rescued.'
The mailman reached for the envelopes, but Doug drew them back. 'I'm going to give these to Howard.'
'I'm sorry. It is the duty and responsibility of the postal service to deliver mail. It is against the law for you to retain undelivered items.'
Doug could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He was sweating profusely now and again he wiped his forehead. 'These all seem to be bills,' he said. 'And there were hundreds of more bills at the creek. Now, I haven't been getting my regular bills lately. In fact, I don't think I've gotten a bill since your predecessor died. I don't know what's going on, but a large chunk of my mail seems to be disappearing.'
'I haven't gotten my bills lately either,' the man in back of him said.
Doug watched the mailman's face for a reaction, for a sign that he had hit a nerve. He'd expected the mailman to glare at him, to get angry, to somehow tip his hand and admit that he'd been dumping the mail at the creek, but the mailman's face remained serenely neutral.
'I promise that we will look into these complaints as soon as possible,'
the mailman said. His voice was pleasant, unperturbed, calmly reassuring. 'Do you have anything else, Mr.Albin ?'
'Just that someone's been sending letters to the department of water and power telling them to cut off my water and electricity. The same person sent a letter to the phone company telling them to disconnect my phone. I believe that's mail fraud.'
'Yes it is, Mr.Albin . And I assure you we will look into it immediately.
I will tell Mr. Crowell of your concerns.'
Doug looked into the mailman's eyes and saw in them a blank hardness that bored right through him and made him want to glance away, but he forced himself to hold contact. The sweat felt cold on his body. 'Thank you,' he said tersely.
The mailman stretched out a thin pale hand. 'Now would you please hand over the undelivered mail in your possession?'
Doug shook his head. 'Take me to court. I'm giving these to Howard.'
'Fine,' the mailman said, his voice eminently reasonable. 'Now, would you please step aside? There are other people waiting behind you, Mr.Albin .'
Doug turned away from the counter and strode out of the post office to his car. It was not until he was halfway home that he remembered that he had not told the mailman his name.
The mailman had simply known.
12
Hobiearrived home feeling good. The pool had been crowded today, and not just with kids. A gaggle of women in their early to mid-twenties had arrived in the afternoon and had taken up residence near the deep end of the pool, far away from the children and their mothers. Before their arrival he had been casually scoping out Mrs. Farris, who was trim and fit and wore a pinkish-peach bathing suit that became nearly see-through when it was wet, but his attention shifted as the new group set up their towels and broke out the tanning lotion. They all had the brown smooth bodies of aerobic instructors, and they all had incredibly great tits. One of them, a brunette, was wearing a modified string bikini, and when she bent over, he could see almost up the crack of her perfectly formed ass. The others wore brightly trendy swimsuits cut so close to the crotch that he knew they had to shave.
It had been a damn good day.
He pulled out his keys and opened the door, taking his mail out of the box before walking inside.
AlthoughHobie lived in a large brown-and-white mobile home near the center of town, just down the road from the shopping center in what was admittedly not the best section of Willis, he was comfortable with his place of residence. The houses here were close together and not as nice as those in the rest of town, but that suited him just fine. No one bothered him, no one told him to turn down his stereo, no one told him to clean up his yard or get rid of his automobiles. He knew that his property looked like a miniature junkyard.
There was no lawn to speak of, only flat dirt, and there was a 1974 Vega and a 1979Datsun parked in the front and a 1965 Mustang on blocks in the back. His carport was littered with various auto parts and two old engine blocks. But he didn't mind it, and neither did his neighbors.
The inside of the trailer was nicer. He kept it up, even though he lived alone, and it wasn't bad, if he did say so himself. He tossed his shades on the front table and went into the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge. He popped open the tab, took a swig, and glanced at the return addresses on the envelopes in his hand: his mother, the Classic Mustang Club, his paycheck from the district.
One piece of mail, a long yellowish envelope, had no return address at all, and he turned it over in his hand. Both the front and back were covered with smeared brownish red fingerprints. Frowning, he put down his beer and tore the envelope open. Inside were two photographs paper-clipped together. The top one showed a nude Oriental girl of fifteen or sixteen lying on a flat straw mat.
He stared at the picture. The girl was beautiful, with large almond-shaped eyes and a full sensuous mouth. She was spread-eagled, legs in the air, the dark folds of her vagina clearly visible through her sparse black pubic hair.
He unfastened the paper clip. The bottom photo showed the same teenage Oriental girl on the same straw mat.
But her head had been cut off and placed on top of her stomach.
On the photo were the same smudged brownish red fingerprints as on the envelope.
He felt suddenly sick to his stomach. Against his will, he had been aroused by the first picture of the girl. She was young, but she was gorgeous and her body looked luscious, inviting. But the second photo was like a punch to the gut. He closed his eyes, turning the picture over so he wouldn't have to look at it, but he could still see in his mind the girl's dead staring eyes and round-O mouth, the twisted veins and tubes protruding like spaghetti from her open throat, and the puddle, no, _pool_ of blood spreading outward from her neck across the mat.
Who would have sent him such a thing? Who could have sent him such a thing? And why?
And what about those fingerprints?
He quickly crumpled up the photos and the envelope they'd come in and dropped the whole thing in the trash. He washed his hands off in the sink, scrubbing them with Lava the way he did when trying to get grease off his fingers. The kitchen seemed darker than it had before, although the sun would not set for another two hours, and he flipped on the lights, grabbing another beer after downing the first in three large successive swallows. He sat down at the table, forcing himself to read the other letters, but even the message from his mother could not cheer him up, and when he tried to recapture his earlier good mood, tried to think again of the bathing beauties at the pool, he saw them lying on the hard concrete, decapitated, their heads placed on their tan stomachs and staring at him with dead open eyes.
13
Hobiecame over just after breakfast, knocking once, perfunctorily, on the doorjamb before pulling open the screen and walking into the living room. He cocked a finger at Billy, sprawled on the couch. 'Hey, sport.'
