Bentley Little - The Mailman

Doug smiled, though he felt like doing nothing of the sort. "How're you doing?"

Hobieshrugged. "Not too good. But I'm glad you came." He opened the door wider and gestured for Doug to come inside.

The electricity was off here, as it was almost everywhere, but rather than open the drapes and windows,Hobie kept the curtains shut, relying solely on candles for illumination. The trailer was filled with the smell of burning wax and rotting food, and as Doug's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the refrigerator had been left open and that the food inside was spoiling. Trash and clothes were scattered everywhere, over both the living room and kitchen. He looked over at his friend.Hobie may have been loud and crude, but he had always been neat in his personal habits, and the shape of the trailer's interior frightened Doug more than he was willing to admit.Hobie's mental state had clearly deteriorated since the last time they'd spoken.

"I got another letter from Dan,"Hobie said, sitting down on the dirty couch. "He wrote it last week."

Doug looked sharply up, but it was obvious that his friend was not joking.

He was completely and totally serious. And he was terrified.

"Here. Read it."Hobie handed him a page of crude white paper on which was written a message in a thick bold hand. Doug could not see to read, and he got up and pulled open the drape, letting sunlight into the room.

In the light, the state of the trailer looked even worse and more disgustingly filthy than it had in the dark.

"He says he's coming to visit,"Hobie said quietly.

Doug read the letter:

Bro, Finally got some R&R. I'll be coming by to see you in a week or so, soon as I can get a transport out of here. I'm bringing some primepoon don't no one know about, so we can have us some real fun. She's 12 and a virgin to boot. At least that's what the guy who sold her to me said.

I'll be bringing my knives.

See you soon.

It was signed "Dan," and it was dated last week.

Doug folded the paper and looked atHobie . "You know this isn't real," he said. "He's doing it. The mailman. He's trying to --"

"It's Dan,"Hobie insisted. "I know my brother."

Doug licked his lips, which had suddenly become very dry. "What is this about a twelve-year-old? What does he mean when he says he's bringing his knives?"

Hobiestood up and began pacing nervously around the room. His face was tense, muscles strained. There was an element of the caged animal in his walk.

"I don't want to see him," he said.

"What about the twelve-year-old girl and the knives?"

Hobiestopped pacing. "I can't tell you that." He looked at Doug, eyes frightened. "I don't want him coming here. He's my brother and I haven't seen him since I was sixteen, but . . . but he's dead. He's dead, Doug."Hobie resumed his pacing. "I don't want him coming here. I don't want to see him." He took a deep audible breath. "I'm afraid of him."

Doug heard the wildness in his friend's voice, the threat of hysteria just below the surface. He stood up and grabbedHobie's shoulders, confronting him.

"Look," he said, "I know you recognize your brother's handwriting. I know he says things in those letters that only he could know. But listen to me carefully. It's a trick. The mailman's doing it. You know as well as I do what's going on in town, and if you think about it logically you'll realize that the same thing is happening to you. You said yourself that your brother is dead. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but do you honestly think that his rotted corpse is going to fly on a transport plane from Vietnam, land in Phoenix, and take a bus or cab or rent a car to come to Willis? Does that make any sense to you?"

Hobieshook his head.

"It's the mailman," Doug said.

Hobielooked straight into his eyes, and for the first time since he'd stepped into the trailer, his friend seemed rational, lucid. "I know that," he said. "I know the mailman's doing this. The letters come at night. I can't sleep anymore because I stay awake listening until I hear his car and hear him drop the letters in the slot. I'd like to go down to the post office and beat the living fuck out of thefaggy son of a bitch, but I'm afraid of him, you know?

Maybe . . . maybe he really can deliver letters from Dan. Maybe he can bring Dan back from the dead. Maybe he can bring Dan here."

"He's just trying to pressure you, to make you crack."

Hobielaughed a short nervous laugh. "He's doing a damn good job." He pulled away from Doug and walked into the demolished kitchen, picking up a bottle of Jack Daniels from the crowded counter and pouring himself a shot in a dirty glass. He quickly downed" the liquor. "If he is faking those letters, writing them himself, then he knows a lot of things only Dan could know. He's even been able to copy Dan's handwriting perfectly. How do you explain that?"

"I can't."

Hobiepoured himself another shot, drank it. "There's a lot of evil shit going down," he said. "A lot of evil shit."

Doug nodded. "You're right there."

Hobielooked at him. "He's not human, is he?"

"I don't think so," Doug admitted, and just saying that aloud made him feel cold. "But I don't know what he Js."

"Whatever he is, he can bring back the dead. Dan's been writing to me. And now he's coming to visit."

"Maybe we should tell the police --"

"Fuck the police!"Hobie slammed down his shot glass, spilling whiskey. He shook his head, his voice softer. "No police."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"If you're going to act like this, then get the hell out of here and go home."

Doug held up his hands in acquiescence. "Okay, okay."

And he stood there silently as, shot by shot,Hobie finished off the bottle.

And he did not leave until afterHobie had passed out on the couch.

Five rings. Six. Seven. Eight.

On the tenth ring, Tritia finally hung up the phone. Something was wrong.

Irene always answered her phone by the third ring. It was conceivable that she was out of the house, but it was hardly likely. She did not seem to be of a mind lately to leave the house for any reason.

Maybe she had to buy groceries.

No, Tritia thought. Something had happened.

As soon as Doug got back, the two of them would drive over there and see if Irene was all right.

She picked up the phone again and dialed Irene's number.

One ring. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

On an impulse, Doug pulled to a stop on the side of the road just after the crossing. It wasmidafternoon and the cicadas were out in force, their airplane humming the only counterpoint to the muted splash-babble of the stream.

Near the road, the banks of the creek were narrow and rocky, with saplings creating a maze out of any attempted walkway. He was wearing his good tennis shoes and he knew he should stick to the bank no matter how awkward it was, but he stepped into the middle of the stream itself, waiting for a moment for his feet to acclimatize themselves to the coldness of the water before heading upstream.

He began wading purposefully upstream, toward the spot where Billy had discovered the mail. He had not been here since the day of the picnic, though he had thought of it often. Somehow, he had never heard whether the police had checked out the creek. They had taken his soggy samples, and Mike had confronted the mailman with them, but he did not recall hearing that the creek had been investigated.

Maybe he'd just forgotten.

Maybe not.

He was acutely aware of the loneliness of this place, of its relative inaccessibility. High cliffs rose up on both sides of the creek, and the sounds of man were nonexistent. Geographically, this area was not really remote; it was a mile or so from town, and fairly close to their settled section of the forest.

But the lay of the land ensured that the creek remained as removed from civilization as the most out-of-the-way corner of the Tonto.