Bentley Little - The Mailman

He moved forward. It was stupid of him to have come here by himself without telling anyone where he was going. He should have at least called Trish.

If something happened to him . . .

He passed the spot near the path where they'd had their picnic and continued wading through the water. The bend was just ahead. How much mail would be there now? he wondered. Maybe it would not have been just dumped randomly.

Maybe the mailman was now using the discarded mail for a purpose. He saw in his mind a mail city, small shacks constructed next to the creek from millions of dumped envelopes, letters meticulously arranged into foundations and floors, walls and roofs.

But that was crazy.

What wasn't crazy these days?

He stood just before the final turn, listening for any unnatural sounds, but could hear only the water and the cicadas. He moved slowly forward and peeked around the bend.

There was nothing there.

The mail was gone.

He was almost relieved. Almost. But his satisfaction in discovering that he had forced the mailman to dump the mail elsewhere, to find another spot in which to deposit the town's real correspondence, was offset by the knowledge that the mailman had been so frighteningly thorough that he had cleaned up the mail he had already dropped there, that, one by one, he had meticulously picked the thousands of envelopes from the water, from the ground, from the trees, from the bushes, and had taken them all away.

Billy was upstairs when Doug arrived home, watching his own TV because Tritia had on _Donahue_ in the living room. The electricity, apparently, had finally been restored. Tritia was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, but Doug made her quit and dragged her into the living room, sitting her down on the couch. He told her what had happened toHobie , and as she sat silently listening to his story, she grew increasingly pale.

"He's doing the same thing to Irene," she said when he was finished.

"What happened?"

She hesitated for only a second. Although she had promised Irene she would tell neither Doug nor the police what had occurred, that promise was no longer valid. Her friend might be in trouble, in danger, and it was more important to help her out than to remain true to some ridiculous promise.

Tritia told him of the toe and of Irene's husband's accident, explaining also that she had tried calling four or five times this afternoon but that no one had answered the phone.

"Jesus! Why didn't you call the police?"

"I didn't think --"

"That's right. You didn't think." Doug strode across the living room to the phone and picked up the receiver.

The phone was dead.

He slammed it down angrily. "Shit!" He looked over at Tritia . "Come on, get ready. We're going to talk to the police." He walked upstairs. Billy was lying in bed, watching _Bewitched_. "We're going into town," Doug told his son.

"Put your shoes on."

Billy did not even look at him. "I want to watch this show."

"Now!"

"Why can't I stay here?"

"Because I said you can't. Now, get your shoes on or that TV goes off permanently." He clomped back down the stairs, checked the back door to make sure it was locked. Tritia emerged from the bedroom, patting down her hair, a purse slung over her shoulder. Billy's angry sullen footsteps could be heard on the stairs.

"Let's go," Doug said.

They drove all the way to town in silence, Tritia worried beside him, Billy, arms folded across his chest, angry in the back seat. Doug drove into the parking lot of the police station, pulling next to a beat-up Buick. He told Billy to remain in the car, and he and Tritia walked into the building. The desk sergeant on duty came immediately to the front counter when he saw the two of them standing there. "May I help you?" he asked.

Doug glanced around the office. "Where's Mike?"

"Which Mike?"

"Mike Trenton."

"I'm sorry, but information concerning the shifts and hours of department employees is confidential."

"Look, I know him, okay?"

"If you knew him well enough, you wouldn't have to ask. I'm sorry, but for security reasons we do not give out personal information concerning our officers. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?"

"I hope so." Doug told the sergeant aboutHobie and Irene. At first, he left out the details, explaining merely that their friends were being harassed through the mail and had reason to believe that the mailman was behind it, wanting to let the police discover for themselves what had happened. But when the sergeant looked doubtful and started to give him a vague "we'll-look-into it" answer, Doug decided to tell all.

"HobieBeecham has been getting letters from his dead brother," he said.

"Irene Hill was sent a severed toe through the mail.Hobie's dead drunk right now because of it, passed out on the couch where I left him. Irene's not answering her phone. Now, do you think, possibly, that you could spare a few minutes from your busy schedule to check this out?"

The sergeant's attitude had changed completely. He was suddenly eager to help, although there was a strange anxious nervousness to his manner. He took down Doug's and Tritia 's names and address as well as the addresses ofHobie and Irene. He knows, Doug thought. He's been getting mail too.

"I'll have an officer sent out to interview both Mr. Beecham and Ms.

Hill," the sergeant said.

Doug glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly four. The post office would be open for another hour. "What about John Smith? Are you going to send someone over to the post office to talk to him?"

"Of course."

"I'm going too," Doug said.

The sergeant shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid the civilians --"

"Fine." Doug smiled thinly. "Then I will just go to the post office and happen to be there the same time as your man." He looked at Tritia . "Let's go."

The two of them walked out of the police station without looking back.

Doug was sweating and his body was charged with adrenaline. Encounters with authority, even on such a minor level, still made him nervous, although he was getting increasingly used to them.

He had left the keys in the car for Billy, who had turned on the radio.

His mood seemed to have improved during their absence, and he was no longer silently sullen when they got into the car.

"Why did we come here?" he asked.

"Because," Tritia told him.

"It's about the mailman, isn't it?"

Doug looked at his son in the rearview mirror as he started the engine.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Are they going to get him?"

Doug nodded. "I hope so."

Billy sat back in his seat. "Probably not, though."

Doug did not respond. He waited for a moment until he saw Tim Hibbard and two other officers emerge from the building. Tim waved to him, motioned for him to follow, and Doug put the Bronco into reverse, pulling out of the parking space. He got behind the patrol car and followed it out of the lot, onto the street, and to the post office.

"Stay here," Doug said as he got out of the car. Tim was already waiting for him near the building's entrance.

Tritia unbuckled her seatbelt. "No way. I'm coming with you."

"Me too," Billy said.

"You definitely stay here," Doug told his son.

"Yes," Tritia agreed.

"Then why couldn't I just stay home and watch TV?"

Because I was afraid to leave you alone, Doug thought, but he only shook his head, saying nothing. He left the keys in the ignition, turned the radio to Billy's favorite station, and closed the car door. He and Tritia walked over to where Tim stood waiting.

The officer grinned as they approached. "The chief would croak if he knew you were here with me," he said. "He doesn't like you at all, you know."

Doug pretended to be surprised. "_Moi_?"