Bentley Little - The Mailman

They sped along the road. Their plan today was to check out the Indian ruins at the bottom of the hill. A team of archaeology students from ASU had arrived yesterday for their annual summer workshop, and they hoped to be invited to join the exploration.

They had discovered the dig last summer while practicing motocross jumps and maneuvers on the maze of barely perceptible trails that branched outward from the forest service road that dissected the narrow valley. They had seen, from far off, moving swaths of color amid the forest green and had ridden up to investigate. The dig had already been under way for a month by the time they'd arrived, and the sight that greeted their eyes amazed them both. Fifteen or twenty men and women were digging with tiny trowels in square shallow holes precisely outlined with sticks and string. Many of them were examining small rocks and pieces of pottery, dusting the objects off with small black brushes.

In the center of the meadow, next to a battered pickup truck, were rows of bones and skulls and Indian grinding stones. Around the perimeter of this activity, a low stone wall had been partially unearthed.

The two of them had stood with their bikes at the edge of the meadow until someone had spotted them and yelled, "Hey!" Then they'd taken off, pedaling fast and furiously away from the site.

But they had returned the next day.

And came back the day after that.

Gradually, like wild animals, they grew used to the archaeology students, and the students grew used to them, and one day, finally tamed, they had gathered the courage to walk into camp.

It had been an eye-opening experience. The two of them had hung around, trying to stay out of everyone's way, until the professor in charge let them chisel out some arrowheads from the hard-packed ground. It had been fun and rewarding, and although they hadn't been able to keep any of the artifacts they'd unearthed, they had both decided then and there that they were going to be archaeologists when they grew up.

The road curved down and they found the trail that led off the pavement through a vacant lot into the forest. Billy jumped the small embankment, Lane followed, and then they were through the lot and into the trees. The trail wound through the underbrush, following the path of a long-dead stream, running down the hill to the valley below. They sped over the sandy earth. Small lizards scattered out of the way of their onrushing tires; birds flew up from the surrounding bushes, squawking into the air. Finally they reached the bottom of the hill, and Billy turned into his stop, sliding across the dirt. Lane skidded to a halt next to him. From off to their right came the faint sounds of conversation and rock music, and they swiveled their bikes around, heading toward the sounds.

Although the low stone outlines ofAnasazi buildings stretched across the entire floor of the valley, the university team concentrated on only one small section at a tune. Last year, the students had been digging at the north end of the tiny valley, near the meadow, but this year it sounded as though they had given up on that idea and were trying to look for artifacts on the heavily forested south end.

Billy and Lane were at the site almost before realizing it, and they quickly stopped at the edge of the small clearing. Folding tables and chairs had been set up underneath various trees, and on them were piled books and boxes and assorted work tools. The carpet of brown pine needles that ordinarily covered the ground had been cleared and flat bare dirt shone through, broken in spots by square shallow excavation holes. Bright-blue and red tents were set up about the area, though not enough for everyone to sleep in. The students themselves were grouped around their professor, a baldingmiddleaged man with an Abe Lincoln beard and a prospector's tan.

The boys parked their bikes in the bushes and walked slowly and shyly forward. A few of the students' faces were familiar from last year, but most of them were new and Billy and Lane weren't sure what kind of reaction they were going to get.

The eyes of the men and women shifted focus from the professor to the two boys trekking across the rough ground. The professor turned to see the new center of attention, and a smile of recognition crossed his face. "I was wondering when you were going to show up," he said. His voice was cracked and hoarse. "Ready to work?"

"That's why we're here," Lane said.

The professor laughed. "Glad to have you aboard. I'm sure we'll be able to find something for you to do." He turned to face his class. "Those of you who are new to our extension course, meet Lane . . ."

"Chapman," Lane prompted.

"And Billy . . ."

"Albin."

"Right." The professor was about to add something else when his attention was drawn to the other end of the clearing. Pressing forward, Billy followed his gaze. He saw movement in the underbrush. A man. A man with a blue uniform and a thin white face.

And bright red hair.

The mailman stepped into the clearing from the other end. He had obviously been walking through the trees and bushes all the way from the control road, which cut across the valley at its southern tip, but his postal uniform was free from all traces of dirt, there were no small dead leaves or branches in his hat, and the gold buttons on his jacket shone brightly, unscratched. He held in his hand a single envelope.

"Dr. Dennis Holman?" he asked in his smooth low voice.

The professor nodded.

"I have a letter for you." He handed the envelope to the professor, then glanced purposefully over at Billy. There was the same suggestive smile on his face that Billy had seen that day by the mailbox, and he felt both sickened and scared. His heart was pounding, and he glanced over at Lane to see if he had noticed, but Lane's attention was focused on a braless woman in the front row of students.

Billy forced himself to stare only at the professor, trying to ignore entirely the creepy insinuating look of the mailman.

Dr. Holman opened the letter and quickly scanned its contents. "Our funding came through," he announced to the assembled group, holding up the letter. "The university has decided to go ahead with our research project."

There was a spontaneous and only partially tongue-in-cheek cheer from the students.

The professor, grinning, nodded at the mailman. "Thanks," he said. "That's the best news I've gotten all semester."

"Glad to be of service," the mailman said.

Ordinarily, Billy thought, that would have been the man's cue to leave, but he showed no intention of doing any such thing. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood there calmly, looking around the camp, taking everything in.

His face was purposefully neutral, carefully expressionless, but there was an underlying smugness, an indefinable something that manifestedkself in his attitude and that gave Billy the feeling that he was passing judgment on all he surveyed -- and that he was happy it did not live up to his standards. He was silent and expressionless, but Billy could tell that inwardly he was gloating.

The mailman's eyes scanned the faces of the students, lingering on none of them, then landed once again on Billy.

Billy was sweating. He could feel twin trickles of perspiration slide in winding paths from beneath his armpits down his sides. His forehead, too, was sweaty, and he wiped it with a palm. It was hot out, but not that hot, and he swallowed hard, wanting to escape, to run, to get the hell out of here. But he could not move. He was frozen in place by that gaze, by the unnatural promises behind that superficially benign smile, so utterly powerless to react that he could not even glance over at Lane.

The mailman nodded at him, a nod of recognition and acknowledgment, a nod that said "I know what you're thinking," then turned away and strode back through the forest the way he had come.