Bentley Little - The Mailman

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The Mailman: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Once upon a time, waiting for the mail was filled with warm anticipation. But there's a new mail carrier in town, one who's delivering lethal letters stuffed with icy fear. Now nothing--not even the most outstanding citizens or the most secret weaknesses--is safe from the sinister power of this malicious mailman!
Amazon.com Review
It's the first day of summer in a small American town. We meet a school teacher, his wife, and their young son, Billy. One thing, one seemingly minor thing, goes wrong. And all that was safe and ordinary slowly unravels into nightmare. This familiar premise for the contemporary horror novel has rarely, if ever, been developed so brilliantly as in Bentley Little's 
. A tall, pale postal carrier with carrot-red hair may seem an unlikely candidate for the embodiment of evil, but Little reveals the personality behind the mailman's ever-present smile with such finesse, you'll be more than happy to fall under his spell. By the time the frightened town folk are chanting, "No mail! No mail! No mail! No mail!"--and Billy ends up half-naked in a dark room, next to a soiled wedding dress--you'll be jumping right out of your skin.

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Tritia put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my God."

Doug felt the hot tears spilling onto his cheeks. His voice cracked. "I

think he was raped."

"We have to get him to the hospital. I'll call the ambulance."

"Fuck the ambulance. There's not enough time."

Tritia cradled her son's head in her arms.

"No," he murmured. "No I won't. No. No. No. No . . ."

"Let's go," she said.

The thoughts that ran through Doug's mind as the Bronco sped over the rough dirt road were fragmented, disjointed: what he should have done, what he could have done, what he did wrong, what he would do over again if given the chance. Billy moaned in the back seat, a muffled delirious sound followed instantly by Tritia 's soft soothing. Doug cursed himself for not living closer to the hospital.

They sped past the trailer park and bumped onto paved road. The shock had left him, had disappeared as quickly as it had come, and had been replaced by a seething bottomless anger that could be assuaged only by revenge. Once Billy was okay, he would go to the police. And if the police refused to do anything, he would go after the mailman himself. There was no way in hell he was going to get away with this.

Willis Community Hospital was a low white brick building located off the main road in the center of town. It was situated between the Presbyterian church and a short row of tract houses, the model homes from one of the town's aborted real-estate developments. Although the hospital was the newest and best-equipped medical facility in the county -- it even had its own heliport for the transporting of serious cases to Phoenix or Flagstaff -- it now seemed to Doug small and seedy and hopelessly out of date. He wished they lived in a metropolitan area with access to state-of-the-art medical technology.

They pulled into the emergency loading area, and Doug ran around the back of the Bronco to open the passenger door. He let Tritia out, and she ran into the hospital to explain the situation while he carefully lifted Billy from the back seat and carried him into the building.

A doctor, an orderly, and two nurses were already wheeling out a gurney, and Doug placed his son gently down on the crinkling sanitary paper that covered the gurney's thin mattress. The doctor introduced himself as Ken Maxwell, and he fired off questions one after another as they headed through the double doors and down the hall, asking a follow-up before Doug or Tritia had time to adequately respond to its predecessor. The pinched-faced woman at the admissions desk tried to insist that someone had to stay and fill out forms, but the doctor snapped at her, telling her to shut up and leave it for later as he followed the orderly pushing the wheeled stretcher through the corridor. The two nurses had already hurried ahead to prepare the examination room.

The gurney was pushed next to a stationary operating table in the center of the room, and the doctor helped the orderly shift Billy onto the raised platform. He listened with a stethoscope to Billy's chest, checked his eyes with a pen-light. His hands expertly prodded and probed the boy's prone form, but Billy noticed nothing. He neither moved nor flinched, and he kept up the low insistent words he had been repeating since Doug found him.

Doug licked his dry lips. The doctor was busy. This would be a good time to call the police. He caught the eye of the orderly. "Is there a phone around here?" he asked. "I have to call the cops and tell them what happened."

"There's one out in the waiting room."

The doctor finished his external examination of Billy's body and said something to the nurse nearest him. He looked up at Doug and Tritia . "I will have to give him a thorough examination," he said. "And I'll have to take some X

rays, perform a few standard tests." The nurse handed him a pair of clear rubber gloves taken from an unopened package. "As you're his parents, you may remain here if you wish, but it may be a little rough to watch." He pulled on the gloves and picked up his penlight. Both nurses carefully rolled Billy over onto his stomach. Doug could see the smeared dirt on his son's buttocks, and he turned away.

"I'll stay," Tritia said, giving his hand a small squeeze. "You go make your phone call."

Doug nodded slowly. He really did have to call the police, but he was glad that he did, grateful to have that excuse to fall back on, and for that he felt guilty. He knew he should be there for Billy, but he could not watch the doctor examine his son. Tritia knew that, and this was her way of telling him it was okay. But he still felt awful about it. He had always been like this. He had not wanted to watch his son's birth and had thrown up himself when Billy was an infant and had vomited on his shoulder. Sickness involving members of his family made him squeamish, particularly if it involved blood and bodily functions. He wished he didn't feel this way, wished he could let it not affect him, the way Tritia did, but he had no control over his reactions. He had often wondered if this was a trait common to all fathers, and he thought that perhaps this was one reason why young children inevitably felt closer to their mothers and turned to their maternal parents when they needed comfort. After sharing bodies for nine months, mothers did not seem to mind a little blood or pain. It wasn't as alien to them as it was to fathers.

He looked over at his son, saw the smeared dirt, saw red lines that looked like scratches.

"No," Billy was murmuring. "No. No. No. No . . ."

"You go," Tritia prodded him.

The doctor bent over Billy's body.

Doug squeezed Tritia 's hand and walked quickly out of the room. He was angry at himself and he flinched as Billy's murmurs cut off with a sharp gasp.

The door swung shut behind him, and he was in the corridor. He hurried back the way they had come in. At least the doctor seemed to know what he was doing. He had wasted no time, had reacted instantly to the situation, had cut the red tape off at its source, and had exhibited a no-nonsense attitude in his quick appraisal of what was to be done. For that Doug was grateful, and despite his initial paranoid misgivings, he was now confident that his son would receive the best medical attention possible.

There was going to be hell to pay in the psychological department, though.

The damage here was not entirely, or even predominantly, physical. What had happened to Billy would probably scar him emotionally for the rest of his life.

The anger burned through Doug, unwavering,undiminishing . They were going to have to really search around and make sure they found someone who could help Billy. But now it was time for the mailman to pay.

The pinched-faced woman glared at him from behind her glass-walled room as he walked up to the pay phone in the waiting area. He ignored her and dialed the number of the police department. He closed his eyes. The phone rang once, twice, thrice.

An unfamiliar voice answered. "Willis Police Department."

Doug cleared his throat. "I'd like to speak to Mike Trenton, please." He sounded like a stranger to himself.

The voice on the other end of the line was cautious. "Who shall I say is calling?"

"DougAlbin ." There was a pause, then Mike came on the line. Doug gripped the receiver tightly, not bothering with pleasantries. "The mailman's back."

"I know."

"He attacked my boy, Mike, and he threatened my wife. I'm going after him." "We're going after him too. He killed the chief."

It took a moment for the information to sink in. Doug felt cold, frightened. The mailman was no longer playing around. He was not hiding behind rules and regulations, not working through letters. He was coming in for the kill. But though the fear was strong within him, it paled next to the towering strength of his anger.

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