Bentley Little - The Mailman

The loft was empty.

They combed the rest of the house, carefully searching the closets, the cupboards, under the beds. Doug checked the windows and the locks on the door, but everything was as it should be. Finally, satisfied that the house was clean, that there was no one there, they returned to the bathroom.

Doug put a reassuring hand on Tritia 's shoulder.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" she demanded, pushing his hand away, turning on him.

He stepped back, surprised by her sudden fury. "What?"

"I said what the hell's wrong with you? You're all gung ho about going to the police and trying to get them to do something about the mailman, but when he comes in our own house when we're asleep and leaves a letter on the goddamned toilet, you pretend like you left it there and nothing's wrong."

"I didn't pretend like nothing's wrong."

"What did you do, then, huh?"

"I just didn't want to scare you."

"Didn't want to scare me? Didn't you think about our son at all? What if the mailman was still in the house? We all could've been killed."

"I wasn't thinking right, okay?"

"No, it's not okay. You endangered all of us. You didn't want to scare me?

I'm already scared. I've been scared all summer! But I'm not some helpless little nitwit who has to be protected from what's going on.Goddammit , I at least expect you to treat me like an adult."

"You'll wake up Billy," Doug said.

"The mailman was in our house!" she screamed. "What do you expect me to do? Whisper?"

"We don't know that he was here. The door's locked, the windows are all closed --"

Tritia slammed the door to the bathroom, almost hitting his nose. He stood in the hall, furious with her, wanting more than anything to go back into the bedroom and crawl into bed and leave her alone in the damn bathroom. That would scare her enough to teach her a lesson. But as angry as he was, he was more afraid. She was right. They were in danger. The mailman had been inside their house, had invaded the one sacred spot where they had always felt themselves to be safe, had entered their fortress against the outside world. He stood there with his ear to the bathroom door, hoping he wouldn't hear the sound of anyone but Tritia .

The toilet flushed and she came out a few seconds later. "Let me see the letter," she said.

He took the envelope from the pocket of his bathrobe. "Maybe we shouldn't touch it," he suggested. "It might be evidence --"

Tritia ripped it open. The envelope was addressed to her, and inside was a sheet of white paper on which was written, in a flowery feminine hand, a single word:

Hi Tritia began to tear the paper into little shreds.

"Hey," Doug said. "Don't do that! We need --"

"We need what?" she screamed at him. "This?" She continued to rip the letter. "Don't you know how he works? Don't you understand yet? Are you that stupid? He can't be caught. He can't be touched. The police will come and there'll be no fingerprints, no sign of forced entry, no proof of anything.

Nothing for them to go on!"

Doug stared at her, saying nothing.

"He knows what he's doing, and he doesn't do things that will allow him to get caught. Even this letter doesn't mean a damn thing unless it has his fingerprints on it or we can prove that it's his writing."

She was right and he knew it, and the knowledge made him feel both angry and helpless. Tritia continued to tear the letter into increasingly tinier pieces, her hands working faster, more nervously, as tears escaped from beneath her eyelids and rolled down her cheeks. He reached out to grab her hands, to stop them, but she pulled away. "Don't touch me."

He moved closer still, putting his arms around her, pulling her close. She struggled. "Don't touch me," she repeated. But her struggles became progressively weaker, her protestations less adamant, and soon she was sobbing in his arms.

It was not yet eight, but Doug knew the post office would be open. He knew the mailman would be there -- if he had returned from his nighttime rounds.

The Bronco sped over the asphalt past the Circle K, past the bank, past the nursery. They had not slept last night after they'd gone back to bed, but they had talked, discussing in whispered voices their fears and feelings, their thoughts and theories. Nothing had been resolved, nothing had been solved, but both of them felt better, safer, more secure.

Doug's anger, however, had not abated one whit, and with the coming of the dawn he had taken a shower, eaten a quick breakfast, and told Trish to stay home and guard Billy. He was going to confront the mailman, and he wanted to do it while he was still mad enough not to be afraid. She had sensed this, understood this, and had not argued with him. She'd simply nodded and urged him to be careful.

He pulled into the parking lot of the post office. The only other vehicle in sight was the mailman's red car, and he parked right next to it. He got out of the Bronco and walked toward the glass double doors. They were being targeted, he and Trish and Billy, though he did not know why. Everything else at least fit together, made a kind of perverse sense. Ronda and Bernie had been killed because they were rivals;Stockley had been done away with to shut him up; the dogs had been murdered because, as everyone knew, mailmen hated dogs.

But no such reasons or rationalizations could be found for the mailman's unceasing harassment of Doug's family and friends. Of course, other people in town were being harassed too, but not as subtly, not as purposefully. Doug knew what was going on, and the mailman knew that he knew and was playing games with him. The horrors were gradually increasing in intensity and proximity, moving in concentric circles toward he and Billy and Trish at the center.

The doors were open and Doug stepped into the post office. The morning chill had not penetrated the inside of the building. The temperature of the stale humid air felt as though it was in the high nineties. He walked up to the front counter, refusing to look at the twisted and repugnant wall posters. The floor felt wet and sticky beneath his feet.

The mailman emerged from the back, smiling. As always, he was wearing his full uniform. As always, his voice was smoothly plastic. "How may I help you, Mr.Albin ?"

"Knock off the shit," Doug said. "We both know why I'm here."

"Why are you here?" The mailman's smile widened.

Doug leaned forward. "Because you're threatening my family. Because you came into my house last night and left us a note."

"What kind of note?"

"You know damn well what kind of note. It said, 'Hi.' "

The mailman chuckled. "That is pretty threatening."

Doug clenched his fist and held it up above the counter. "You can stop the innocent act. There's no one here but me and you, and we both know you broke into my house last night."

"I did no such thing. I was at home all evening with Mr. Crowell." The look on the mailman's face was an obvious parody of bruised innocence.

"And where is Mr. Crowell?"

The mailman grinned. "Unfortunately, he's sick today."

"I want you to stop it," Doug said.

"Stop what?"

"This. Everything. Just get the hell out of Willis, or I swear to God I'll make you get out."

The mailman laughed, and this time there was a harshness under the false nicety. His eyes, hard and blue and dead, bored into Doug's, and his voice, when it came out, had none of its usual calculated blandness. "You can't make me do anything," he said, and his tone made Doug's blood run cold.

Doug backed up a step. He realized that for the first time he was seeing the true face of the mailman, and he had to resist the instinctive impulse to flee. The fact that he had been able to goad the mailman into dropping his cover scared him much more than he ever would have thought. He shouldn't have come here alone. He should have brought Mike or Tim or another cop. But he refused to let the mailman sense his fear. He held his ground. "Why are you harassing my family?" he asked, and his voice came out strong, assured. "Why are you picking on me?"