Bentley Little - The Mailman

The lights came, strong halogen beams that penetrated the dimness and brought to their eyes the enormity of what they were up against, the sheer single-minded craziness of the mailman. Doug stared at the letter walls, at the patterns formed by precise placement of colored envelopes and overlapping stamps. He was reminded of the Aztecs or Mayas or Incas, one of those ancient civilizations that had been able to fit stones together so perfectly that their structures were still standing today without the aid of mortar or cement.

They moved forward, slowly.

"Mr. Smith," Mike called out. "Mr. Smith, are you here?"

The house was silent save for their own breathing and footsteps. They walked through the living room, family room, dining room, kitchen, marveling at the completeness of the mailman's insane renovation. The horrible, putrid smell grew stronger as they moved into the hallway. Mike, in the lead now, pushed open a bedroom door.

And there was Howard.

It was clear from the strength of the stench, a sickening acrid odor of gas and bile and feces, that Howard had long since started to rot, but the signs were not readily visible on his face,. The mailman had crudely painted Howard's lips with a dark-red lipstick, and ineptly applied eye shadow ringed the postmaster's widely staring eyes. There were twin rose circles of rouge on his pale sunken cheeks. Howard's hair had continued to grow after death, and it was piled on top of his head in a feminine swirl, held in place by greasy perfumed mousse. His toenails and fingernails had continued to grow as well and were obscenely long. The mailman had painted them a bright red.

He sat in a chair in the center of the room, staring at a dead television set, the only other piece of furniture in the room. On the floor surrounding him were crusts of moldy bread, old Twinkie wrappers, and the bones of rats.

Mike took a walkie-talkie from one of the other policemen and told the patrolling officers what they had found, requesting that the coroner come to Howard's after he had finished with the chief.

Doug stepped out of the room and walked down the hall, through the living room, and outside to catch his breath. Even with his nose plugged he had been able to smell the rot, and his stomach had churned as he saw what had been done to the postmaster. Part of him had wanted to grab Mike and shake him and say, "I

told you so," but he knew that that was stupid and petty and that this was not the time or place for it.

He stood on the dead lawn, staring up at the sky, breathing. It was getting late. The sun was beginning to sink, the shadows to lengthen. In other towns throughout the state, throughout the country, people were settling down to dinner, talking, watching the news. But here such normalcy was merely a memory.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Mike. "The patrols report no sign of him.

Do you have any idea where he might be?"

The creek, Doug started to say, but then he saw the thin sliver of moon hovering over the dimming horizon in the east. He remembered the mailman's dance of triumphant celebration. "I know where he is," he said, looking confidently into the policeman's eyes. "Get everyone together. Everyone. We can't let him get away this time."

"He won't get away," Mike said softly. He patted Doug's shoulder and went back into the house. Doug could hear his voice, though he could not tell what he was saying, and a few moments later he heard the sound of footsteps behind him as the policemen hurried outside.

The rocks of the ridge were orange in the light of the setting sun, the trees black triangular outlines. Venus had already appeared low in the west, and in the east the moon had risen, brightened. They drove up the narrow road slowly, in single file. Below them, the lights of the town seemed deceptively tranquil, benign, as though nothing out of the ordinary could ever happen in such a sleepy little community.

Doug drove with Tim in his pickup, and neither of them spoke on the ride up the ridge. The radio was off as well, and the only noise was the rattle and clatter of the track as it bounced over the ruts and washboards of the rough road. Doug looked in the side mirror and saw Mike and the other policemen following close behind in their patrol cars, the other pickup bringing up the rear. When they reached the top of the ridge, Doug toldTun to pull over and motioned out the window for Mike to follow suit.

They all got out of their vehicles. The night was cool, an advance scout for the coming fall. There were no clouds, and the new moon was surrounded by a faint hazy white halo.

"Why are we stopping here?" Mike asked.

Doug put a finger on his lips to tell the policeman to be quiet. "We have to walk the rest of the way. It's the only way we'll catch him. If he hears all those cars and trucks driving up the road, he'll be gone before we even get there."

Mike nodded. "All right, then. Lead the way."

They walked slowly across the bumpy ground, the policemen with their guns drawn, everyone nervously alert, on edge, listening for the smallest sound, looking for the smallest movement. They passed through a patch of sticker bushes, maneuvered through the giantmanzanita .

And then they heard it. The familiar rhythmic chanting that brought a chill to Doug's blood, raised goose bumps on his arms.

He looked back at Mike, who nodded for him to keep moving. They crept forward slowly, quietly, until they were at the edge of the field. Doug stopped.

The mailman was dancing, as Doug had known he would be, arms flailing with wild abandonment, legs kicking up in spontaneouscounterrhythm .

And the chant.

". . . rain nor snow nor sleet nor hail. . ."

The chill that had enveloped Doug increased as they approached. There were ten of them all together, he was not alone, but he felt as afraid as if he had been facing the mailman by himself.

The mailman continued to dance. He looked extraordinarily thin, and he seemed ghostly in the moonlight, his red hair fake.

"Okay," Mike whispered, gathering them around. "We'll spread out in a net, a half-circle. He can't go down the cliff, so he'll be trapped." The policeman looked at Doug, then back at his colleagues. "He's not armed, but he's dangerous. If he tries anything, shoot him."

The other policemen nodded.

"Let's go."

The grass and bushes rustled as the men spread out, but the noise was more than covered by the mailman's chanting. Doug, weaponless, stayed close to Mike.

When the policemen saw that they were all in place, he stepped forward. The others followed suit.

The mailman saw them but did not falter in his ritual, continuing to dance without pause, raising his arms toward the sliver of the moon.

"I am placing you under arrest," Mike announced.

The mailman laughed, changing the words to his chant: "Neither men nor women nor hail of bullets shall keep this mailman from his appointed rounds."

Mike stepped forward, Doug next to him. The half-circle began to close in.

The mailman danced away from them, across the rocky field toward the edge of the ridge.

"Stop right there," Mike ordered.

The mailman laughed, leapt, danced, chanted. "Nor dark of night. . ."

They followed as he led them toward the ridge's edge, closing in, tightening their trap until they were almost upon him.

The mailman stopped dancing. He was not sweating, not even breathing hard.

He grinned at Doug. "Billy is such a nice boy," he said. "Such a _nice_ boy."

"Put your hands above your head," Mike ordered.

"What for, Officer?"

"Put them up!"

"You have no proof."

"We have all the proof we need."

The mailman smiled as he looked around the semicircle. "Fuckers," he said quietly.

"Put your hands above your head," Mike repeated.