Bentley Little - The Mailman

Tiptoeing carefully, lightly, quietly, he stepped into the Big Room.

"Billy."

The voice was closer this time. Extremely close. Billy looked up.

The mailman stared down at him through the open trapdoor, grinning. There was corruption in that smile, a twisted cruelty in the hard blue eyes.

"Want to have a good time?" the mailman asked.

Billy backed into the HQ. He glanced down at the stack of _Playboys_ as he retreated, but they were not _Playboys_. They were _Playgirls_.

"Billy," the mailman said again.

Panicked now, he began kicking at the back wall of the HQ, trying to knock off one of the boards so he could crawl through and out. He kicked with all of his might, putting the strength of desperation behind each kick, but they had built The Fort well -- too well -- and the boards would not budge.

He heard the mailman drop through the trapdoor to the floor of the Big Room behind him.

"I brought you a present, Billy," the mailman said.

"Help!" Billy screamed at the top of his lungs. He kicked furiously at the wall. "Mom! Dad!"

"Want to have a good time?" the mailman asked.

Billy turned around and saw over his shoulder the mailman smiling, holding forth his present.

When Billy was not home when they came back from the store and had still not returned an hour later, Tritia began to panic. She had Doug call Mike at the police station, who promised to comb the town, starting with the post office, and she began calling all of Billy's friends. She dialed theChapmans ' number and Lane answered the phone.

"Hello," Tritia said. "This is Mrs.Albin . Is Billy there?"

"No." Lane's voice sounded at once cold and suggestive, not unlike that of the mailman, and the fear grew within her.

"Have you seen him at all today?"

"No." Lane paused. "But I've seen you."

There was a click as the connection was broken.

Tritia hung up the phone. What the hell did that mean? She didn't know, and she didn't think she wanted to know. She started to dial the twins, when she heard Doug come in through the back door.

"He's not under the house or by the clothesline," he said. He was trying to keep the worry out of his voice, but he was not having much luck. "His bike's still here. I'm going to start looking in the back, around the green belt."

"Okay," she agreed. "I'll keep calling."

Doug walked out the front door.

God, she prayed silently, let him be all right.

Doug walked across the length of their property, venturing into the green belts on both sides, searching under every bush, looking up in every tree, calling his son's name. "Billy! Billy!"

Lizards scuttled out of his way, frightened by the noise. Quail flew frantically up from their herbaceous hideaways.

"Billy!"

He continued pressing toward the hill in back of their house until he saw the camouflaged exterior of The Fort before him. "Billy!" he called.

There was no answer.

He stared at The Fort, and there seemed to him something ominous about it.

He had never before thought of the wooden structure as anything more threatening than a children's playhouse, but as he looked at it now, it seemed low and dark and claustrophobically closed, and he realized that the feeling he got from it was uncomfortably close to the feeling he had had when he'd looked at the house in which Ellen Ronda had been killed.

He took a tentative step forward. "Billy?"

He pressed his ear to the wooden wall. From inside The Fort, he could hear a low steady whimpering. "Billy!" he cried. He looked frantically for a weak point in the structure where he could pull off a board and get inside, but the makeshift building was remarkably well-constructed, with no protruding panels or obvious weak points. Desperate, he grabbed hold of the roof and tried to pull himself up. He was horrendously out of shape, and even a partial pull-up caused him to grunt and strain with the effort. A sliver slid into his palm, and his right ring finger pressed painfully against the bent head of a crooked nail, but with the aid of his feet kicking against the side wall for support, he managed to reach the roof and roll on top of the clubhouse.

Nearby, he saw the square open trapdoor that led down into The Fort. He peered in but could see nothing; he quickly dropped through the opening, landing hard. The whimpering was louder now, and he whirled around. "Billy?"

His son was crouched in a dark corner of the room in a modified fetal position, knees drawn up to his chin. His shut was ripped and tattered, covered with grease and dirt. His face was blank.

He was wearing no pants.

"Billy," Doug cried, rushing forward. He was screaming and crying all at once and he fell to the ground, hugging his son. Within him the rage and fear and pain had coalesced into one horrible all-consuming feeling of hatred, and tears flowed down his cheeks as he gripped Billy tightly.

"No," Billy was saying softly. "No. No. No. No . . ."

Doug moved back, still holding his son. Through his tears, he looked into Billy's face. The boy's eyes were wide and scared and staring.

"No. No. No. No . . ."

On the dirt next to him was a soiled wedding dress.

And a pair of bloody underwear.

And several postmarked packages and envelopes.

A bolt of emotional pain wrenched Doug's midsection, so sharp it was physical.

Billy's faraway gaze focused on him for a moment. "I won't wear it!" he screamed. "You can't make me." His entire body shook.

Doug pulled him close. He realized for the first time that his son's skin was warm, feverish. He pulled himself together, forcing himself to act logically, though the bitter hatred that flowed through his veins rebelled against all rationality. He stood and was about to pick up Billy when he noticed the corner of an envelope protruding from underneath one of the folds of the soiled dress. He reached down and grabbed it, saw his name on the front, tore it open. There were only five words and an exclamation point on the otherwise blank page:

I like your wife too!

"No!" Doug screamed, a loud primal denial directed to no one who could hear. "No," Billy repeated. "No. No. No. No. No . . ."

Doug picked up his son without thinking and with adrenaline strength pushed him up through the opening. He guided the limp body away from the hole, then lifted himself up. His muscles were aching, his tortured insides on fire, but he forced himself to move across the roof. He had to get home to Tritia .

Tritia hung up the phone, palms sweaty, the fear feverishly alive within her. She walked into the kitchen to get herself a glass of water, and it was then that she saw the envelope on the counter next to the microwave. Frowning, she picked it up. She could not remember seeing it on the counter before. She certainly hadn't checked the mailbox today, and she was pretty sure neither Doug nor Billy had either. She looked at the front of the envelope. It was addressed to her, but there was no return address.

It's starting again, she thought. And Billy's missing. But she refused to let herself think that way. She tore open the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper inside.

I'm in the bedroom.

The words jumped out at her, hitting her with the impact of a blunt cudgel. He was back. It hadn't ended.

He was back and he was after her.

Fumblingly, she opened the top drawer nearest the sink. She drew out a carving knife and gripped it tightly, holding it before her as she walked slowly down the hall toward the bedroom, prepared to lash out at any sign of movement.

She knew that it was stupid and foolhardy to try to take on the mailman by herself -- she should run to a neighbor's house, call the police -- but he had pushed too far. She had reached her limit and she was damned if she was going to let him terrorize her anymore.