'And how are you going to tell them everything? You think they'll believe you? They'll just think you're some paranoid crank.'

'No, I won't tell them everything. But I'll tell them about the mail delivery. At the very least, they'll transfer the mailman somewhere else.'

'And if he won't go?'

The question hung, unanswered, between them.

'Come on,' Doug said. 'Let's go have breakfast.'

The line in front of the post office was long, the patrons irate. Doug walked slowly across the parking lot. The people in line looked different than usual. Shabbier, seedier. They were dressed not in the nice clothes they usually wore when going into town but in older dirtier garb -- painting clothes, work pants, torn undershirts. There was grease on the arms and faces of some of the men, and few of the women had bothered to comb their hair or take it out of rollers. One old woman was wearing a bathrobe and slippers.

Even from here, Doug could hear the menacing tone of the crowd's conversational buzz. The people in line were not chatting of the news, sports, or weather, not catching up on local gossip. They were not even sharing complaints or grievances. They were venting their anger, telling and retelling the same events in order to keep that anger fueled, speaking of canceled insurance, threatened lawsuits for nonpayment of bills, problems caused by the mail.

Instead of standing outside of the post office in line, Doug walked through the second of the double doors into the building. He looked around.

Things had changed since the last time he'd been here. The place seemed darker, dirtier. The blinds over the windows were drawn, and one of the recessed bars of fluorescent light had burned out. The swamp cooler was off again, and the room was sweltering, the humidprestorm air augmented by the sour odor of mingled sweat and breath. The posters on the walls were different as well, he noticed.

The Love stamp poster that had hung forever on the wall above the forms table had been replaced by a poster for a new fifty-cent commemorative guillotine stamp. The poster, white against a black background, depicted a large wooden guillotine, metal blade gleaming as hordes of vicious-looking people crowded around it. On the side wall, where Howard had traditionally hung advertisements for upcoming stamps featuring famous people, was a large poster of an Adolf Hitler stamp and, next to that, a stamp featuring the demented visage of Charles Manson.

At the counter was the mailman, red hair practically glowing in the dim room.

The hair was prickling at the back of Doug's neck, but he refused to let the mailman see his fear. He walked up to the front counter. 'I want to talk to Howard,' he said as forcefully as he could.

The mailman eyed him coldly. 'I'm helping someone else right now. If you'll just wait your turn in line --'

'Just tell me whether or not Howard's here.'

'You'll have to wait your turn.'

'Yeah,' several people echoed.

'He's not here,' a man in line said. 'I heard Mr. Smith tell someone else he's not here.'

Doug turned to look at the owner of the voice. It was a person he did not know, a small timid man sandwiched between a scowling woman and a blank-faced teenager. The man was obviously not used to speaking up or speaking out. He had the naturally apologetic features of the perpetually frightened, but there was determination in his face, anger in his eyes, and at that moment he looked to Doug almost heroic. Someone else was willing to fight back against the tyranny of the mailman.

'Thank you,' Doug said.

The small man grinned. 'No problem.'

The mailman was already helping the customer in line, pretending as though nothing had happened. Doug walked out the door and back outside. He crossed the small parking lot, taking his keys out of his pocket. He would go to Howard's house and catch up with him there. It was obvious to him now that, like the rest of them, the postmaster was afraid of his underling, but maybe he'd be able to talk Howard into taking some action. Something sure as hell had to be done.

He opened the door of the car and got in. He hadn't noticed it from the outside, but his windshield, he saw now, was covered with spit. Saliva dripped from several spots on the glass. He looked over at the line outside the building, trying to determine who had done it, but no one glanced in his direction at all.

He turned on the wiper/washer and backed out of the parking lot, pulling onto the street. He headed toward Howard's.

The postmaster lived on a low hill in one of the nicer sections of town.

His house was in what passed for a subdivision in Willis, and was not far from the post office. Unlike the area in whichHobie lived, the single-story homes on Howard's street were all well kept up and well taken care of.

Doug parked the car on the street in front of the white clapboard house.

He turned off the ignition. There was no sign of Howard's car, but that meant nothing. It could very well be parked in the garage.

He got out of the car and headed up the front walk. The grass, he noticed, was yellowish brown, not green like the lawns in front of the other houses. Not a good sign. Like many older people, Howard had always been a fanatic about maintaining his yard.

He stepped onto the front stoop and rang the bell, listening for the ring.

Nothing. He knocked on the door instead. He waited for a few moments, then pounded again. 'Howard!' he called, 'are you home?'

There was no sound from within the house, and after three more tries and five more minutes he stepped off the stoop and moved over to the large living room windows. The curtains were closed, but they were sheer and he figured he'd be able to see something inside. No such luck. Through the material he could see nothing. The interior of the house was much too dark and monochromatic for individual elements to be differentiated. He moved around the side of the house to the dining-room window, then to the kitchen, then around to the back bedroom, hoping at least that a drape would be parted, open wide enough for him to see inside, but the curtains were all firmly and carefully shut. He tried the back door, but it was locked.

'Howard!' he called, knocking.

No answer.

There were other houses flanking Howard's, but their owners were either inside or at work, and the entire neighborhood seemed empty and abandoned. It gave Doug the creeps. He felt as though he was in one of those movies where the sun flared or some other pseudo-scientific catastrophe had occurred and he was the last man on earth, left alone to wander through the perfectly preserved artifacts of an otherwise untouched world.

A dog barked a few houses away, and Doug jumped. Jesus, he was getting skittish.

'Howard!' he called again.

No answer.

Either the postmaster wasn't here, or he was so sick he couldn't answer the door, or he was hiding.

No matter what, he would give the front door one more try, and if he didn't get an answer, he would call the post office in Phoenix. He walked back around to the front of the house and was about to knock on the front door one last time when he saw a white envelope on the brown straw mat at his feet. It had not been there before. Of that he was certain.

He picked up the envelope. His name was on the front, written in a shaky, childish scrawl. He tore the envelope open and pulled out the piece of paper inside. On it were written two words in that same shaky hand:

_Stay Away_

He pounded on the door. 'Howard!' he called. 'Let me in. I know what's happening. Howard!'

But the door remained stubbornly closed, the curtains unmoving, and for all of his effort he heard no sound from inside the house.

He got the number of the main branch of the post office from Directory Assistance and dialed from the bedroom. He closed the door with his foot. Billy was in the kitchen with Tritia , helping her to make bread, and he didn't want the boy to hear the conversation. A woman's voice came on the line. 'United States Postal Service Information, how may I direct your call?'

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