Doug turned away from the gym and pushed his way out the door, into the fresh air, needing more room, more space in which to breathe. The blood was pounding in his temples.

Bernie Rogers had been planning to work part-time at the post office.

The post office.

It didn't make any logical rational sense, but in some twisted way it fit, and it scared the hell out of him.

He moved through the small crowd and leaned against a tree, gulping in the fresh air. He looked up, toward the road, and thought he saw, through the pines, a red car moving slowly away from the park toward the center of town.

14.

Tritia sat alone on the porch, feeling uncharacteristically depressed.

Both Doug and Billy were gone, Doug to his meeting and Billy off somewhere with Lane, and she was all alone. Usually she liked being by herself. She so seldom had time alone anymore that, when the opportunity presented itself, she was grateful. But today she felt different, strange.

The cassette player was next to her on the slatted wooden floor of the porch. It had been barely working the last time she'd used it, but she'd scavenged three batteries from one of Billy's old remote-controlled cars and had found a fourth in a drawer in the kitchen, and now it was playing perfectly. She had the tape player turned loud. George Winston. Ordinarily, she liked to match the music to the day, choosing sounds to complement her feelings, but today the music seemed totally inappropriate for a sound track to her life. The soothing impressionistic piano, the deliberate spacing of clear notes and silences, went perfectly with the summer sky and green forest, but she herself felt hopelessly out of sync.

She stared out at the trees, at the hummingbird-feeders hanging from the branches, seeing them but not seeing them, her eyes using the feeders as a focal point, though her mind was off in space somewhere, thinking about something else.

Thinking about the mailman.

She had not told Doug about seeing the mailman last night, nor about her nightmare afterward, although she was not sure why. It was not like her to be secretive, to keep things from him. They'd always had a close, honest relationship, had always confided in each other, shared their hopes, fears, thoughts, opinions. But for some reason, she could not bring herself to talk to him about the mailman. She had made excuses, rationalized, tried to convince herself, and all of her excuses sounded logical, reasonable -- Billy was awake and listening, Doug had left too early and she'd had no time to talk to him but the truth was that she didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to tell him what had happened. She had never felt that way before, had never experienced anything like it, and it scared her more than she was willing to admit.

Doug had not picked up the mail this morning before he left, and she'd been too afraid to go out to the mailbox and retrieve it herself, so she'd sent Billy out to get it, watching him from the porch to make sure he was all right.

He came back with three letters: two for Doug, one for her. The letter was sitting next to her right now, on the small table on which she'd put her iced tea. She hadn't wanted to open it right away, though it was from Howard and she had no real apprehension about its contents, and she'd set it aside until she felt like looking at it. Now she picked it up, tearing open the envelope. The letter was addressed to her, but the first line of the message read, "Dear Ellen." She frowned. That was strange. But then Howard had been under a lot of stress lately, a lot had happened to him. It was bound to show up in some way or other. She continued reading: Dear Ellen, Sorry I couldn't come by Saturday night, but I was forced into dinner at theAlbins '. What a horrible time. The food was awful, the kid was a brat, and Albinand his wife were as boring as ever. That phony bitch Tritia . . .

She stopped reading, feeling as though all of the air had been sucked out of her lungs, a sudden emptiness in the pit of her stomach. She looked at the letter again, but the words were blurry, liquid, running. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She was surprised by the vehemence of her reaction. She had never been an overly sensitive person about either herself or her cooking, had never really minded constructive criticism, but this type of cruel betrayal, particularly in regard to her family, particularly coming from a friend like Howard, hurt a lot.

A hell of a lot. She wiped the tears from her eyes angrily, refolding the letter and putting it back in the envelope. Howard had obviously intended to send a letter to both her and Ellen Ronda and had unthinkingly placed the letters in the wrong envelopes.

Ellen was no doubt reading about the lovely time and dinner Howard had had.

She was not usually this emotional, this easily hurt, butdammit , she had been trying to help Howard through a difficult period, and this backhanded backstabbing cut deep. She and Doug had always considered him a friend. Maybe not a close friend, but a friend nonetheless, a man whose company they both enjoyed. Why would he do something like this? And how could he be so two-faced?

He had never been a deceitful or duplicitous man. Outspoken honesty had always been his greatest strength and greatest weakness. He had never hesitated to speak his mind, no matter what the consequences. It would be one thing if he had just come out and said he didn't want to come over for dinner or didn't enjoy their company or didn't like the food they served him, but to sit there and lie to them, to The phone rang. Tritia dropped the letter on the small table, pushed herself out of the butterfly chair, and hurried across the porch into the house.

She caught the phone on the fifth ring, clearing her throat to purge the emotion from her voice. "Hello?"

"He's after me!" The whisper on the other end of the line Was frantic and borderline hysterical, and Tritia did not at first recognize it. "He's here now."

"Excuse me?" Tritia said, puzzled.

"I think he's in the house now," the woman whispered.

Now she recognized the voice. Ellen Ronda. She was shocked at how different Bob's wife sounded. Gone was the cool-as-ice voice Tritia had heard for as long as she could remember; gone, too, was the grief-stricken wildness she'd heard on the day of the funeral. In its place was fear. Terror.

"Who's after you?" Tritia asked.

"He thinks he's being tricky, but I can hear his footsteps."

"Get out of the house," Tritia said. "Now. Go someplace and call the police."

"I already called the police. They refused to help me. They said --"

Ellen's voice was cut off, and a man's deep baritone came on the line.

"Hello?"

Tritia 'sheart leapt to her throat. It took all of her courage, all of her inner strength not to hang up the receiver. "Who is this?" she demanded in the most intimidating voice she could muster.

"This is Dr. Roberts. Who is this?"

"Oh, it's you." Tritia relaxed a little, breathing an audible sigh of relief. In the background, she could hear a male and female voice arguing. "This is Tritia Albin ."

" Tritia . Hello. I heard part of your conversation from this end. Ellen told you she was being chased, did she?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry she disturbed you. Her sons have been trying to keep an eye on her, but they can't monitor her twenty-four hours a day, and lately each time she has a chance she calls someone and tells them she's being stalked." He breathed deeply, the heavy intake of air thick and rough over the phone. "I don't know what we're going to do. The boys don't want to even consider it, but I told them that their mother's g9ing to have to seek some kind of counseling. I refuse to treat her by simply pumping drugs into her body, and her emotional situation is far worse than I am equipped to handle. She may even have to be institutionalized for a short period of time. Who knows? I'm certainly no expert in these matters."

"What's happened to her?" Tritia asked.

"Grief. Repressed, pent-up emotions suddenly finding an outlet. As I said, I'm no expert, but it's clear that Bob's sui -- uh, death, triggered this whatever-it-is, acted as the catalyst." The arguing in the background grew louder, more heated. "Sorry, but you're going to have to excuse me. I think we have a slight emergency developing here. Thank you for your patience and cooperation. I'll be in touch."

He hung up before Tritia could say good-bye. She lowered the receiver slowly into its cradle. For some reason, she felt guilty, as though she had somehow betrayed Ellen's confidence. It was a strange thought, not at all logical, but then the entire conversation had been more than a little surrealistic. She had been relieved when the doctor had picked up the phone, grateful to hand over the reins of responsibility and decision, but she had not been able to do so wholeheartedly or with a clear conscience, though she trusted the doctor completely. She walked out of the house, back onto the porch, and sat down numbly in her chair. Ellen was obviously disturbed, obviously having some serious emotional/psychological problems, but for a moment there, before the doctor had come on the line, Tritia had actually believed that someone had been after Ellen, that someone had been in her house.

And she knew exactly who that someone was.

"Wow, look at the tits on that one." Lane grinned hugely.

Billy smiled wanly back. They were on the floor of The Fort, going through the _Playboys_. Ordinarily, Billy would have been just as caught up in their reading as Lane, but today was different. He felt restless, ill at ease, bored.

He stared down at the magazine on his lap, at the photo of the woman in the postal cap. She was without a doubt the most gorgeous, most perfect woman in all of their _Playboys_, but today he didn't feel excited looking at her. He felt uneasy. Was there something familiar about her eyes? Did her mouth look like . . . _his_?

Stop that, he told himself. He forced himself to look at her boobs, at the huge pinkish-brown nipples on the tips of her perfectly formed breasts. There was nothing about her tits that reminded him of the mailman or that was the least bit unusual or masculine. They were normal, healthy, good old American female breasts.

Still. . . .

"Guess what?" Lane said. His voice was casual, nonchalant, but it wasn't a natural nonchalance. Billy had known Lane for most of his life, and he could tell when his friend was lying and sometimes even what he was thinking just by the tone of his voice. This was not spur-of-the-moment. This was a purposeful, intentional casualness, something Lane had planned and practiced.

"What?" Billy said, equally cool.

Lane glanced slowly around, as if making sure that no one was peeking into the HQ from the outside or from the Big Room. He withdrew a crumpled folded envelope from his pants pocket, handing it over. "Check this out."

Billy glanced at the outside of the envelope. It was addressed to Lane at his house, and the return name in the upper left corner was Tama Barnes.

"Look inside," Lane prodded.

Billy took out the folded paper inside. It was a letter, written in an obviously female hand. He turned the letter over. Underneath the flowery cursive characters was a Xeroxed photo of a nude Hispanic woman. She was smiling, hands cupping her ample breasts,tegs spread wide. The photocopied picture was too smeared and dark and blurry to provide details, but Billy had seen plenty of details in the magazines on the floor, and his mind filled in what his eyes could not see.

"Read it," Lane said. He was grinning.

Billy turned the letter over and read. The letter started out with a standard salutation but quickly began describing in detail all the forms of pleasure that Tama was willing to give to Lane, all the sexual techniques at which she was an expert. Billy couldn't help smiling as he read what Tama wanted to do to Lane's "love pump."

"What are you laughing at?" Lane demanded.

"I bet she doesn't know you're eleven years old."

"I'm old enough," he said defensively. "Besides, I already sent her a letter back."

"You what?" Billy stared at him.

"Read the end of the letter."

Billy turned the paper over. His eyes flew down the page to the last paragraph: . . . Maybe we could get together some time. I think we'd have fun. If you send me $10, I'll send you some intimate pictures of me and my sister, along with our address. I sure hope I hear from you soon. I'd love you to come and visit me.

Billy shook his head, looking up from the letter. "What a dick. Can't you tell it's just a rip-off to get your money?" He pointed toward the Xeroxed photo. "They probably cut this out of a magazine."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Besides, look at where that P.O. box is. New York. Even if she does send you her real address, what are you going to do? Go to New York?" He handed Lane the letter. "You didn't send ten dollars, did you?"

Lane nodded. "Yeah," he admitted.

"That was dumb." He looked at his friend curiously. "Where'd you get the money anyway?"

Lane glanced away. "My old man."

"You stole it?" Billy was shocked.

"What am Igonna do? Tell him I want ten dollars to send to Tama Barnes so I can get her pictures and address?"

"Youshouldn't've stole it."

"Fuck you. My old man has plenty of money. He didn't even notice it was gone."

Billy looked down at the open magazine on his lap, saying nothing. He and Lane often fought, often argued, often insulted each other, but there had been something else in his friend's voice just now, a hardness, a belligerence, a seriousness that said this was not a subject for argument, at least not for their usual temporary playful form of argument.

They were silent for a while, the only sound in The Fort the quiet whisk of turning pages.

"You're probably right," Lane said finally. "I probably won't get anything. I probably won't even get my pictures. But who can tell?"

"Yeah," Billy said.

"I bet she has a nice beaver, though."

Lane's voice was normal again, but underneath the superficialities something had changed, something that could not change back, and Billy somehow knew that this mundane moment was a turning point in their relationship. He and Lane might never again be as close as they had been, or even as close as they were now. It was a sad realization, a depressing discovery, and though Lane soon tired of looking at the _Playboys_ and wanted to ride down to the dig and see what was happening there, Billy convinced him to stay in The Fort, as if by remaining within its boundaries they could stop the change from occurring and freeze everything exactly as it was now.

The two of them remained within the HQ for the rest of the morning, talking, looking at the pictures, reading aloud the party jokes, like the friends they had always been and had thought they always would be.

15.

The entire town was talking about The Suicides. For that was how they thought of them now. The Suicides. In big capital letters. It had been easy in the aftermath of the funeral and the outpouring of public sympathy for Bob Ronda's family to focus on the mailman's life rather than his death, to dwell on his good points. But the fact remained that he had killed himself. He had blown his brains out with a double-barreled shotgun and had, in the process, pushed his wife over the edge of sanity and let down an entire town that had loved him, cared about him, believed in him.

And now Bernie Rogers had done it as well.

It was all Doug and Tritia heard about at the grocery store. The Suicides.

Willis had had suicides before --Texacala Armstrong had shot herself last year just after her husband had been finally taken by cancer -- but the deaths had been isolated and understandable: people dying of disease, people who had recently lost a loved one, people with no hope. Never, in anyone's memory, had there been two suicides within two weeks of each other. And by seemingly normal people for no good reason.

The bizarreness of the coincidence was not lost upon anyone, and shocked grief was mixed with both morbid curiosity and superstitious fear as people talked in hushed whispers about what had happened. Even the worst gossips in town seemed to approach the subject reverently, as if suicide was a communicable disease and by not trivializing or sensationalizing the deaths they could somehow vaccinate themselves against it.

The afternoon before, after returning from the meeting, Doug had told Tritia about Bernie Rogers, about seeing the body, about his suspicions. She, in turn, had told him about the call from Ronda's wife and about the letter from Howard, although she still, for some reason, could not bring herself to tell him of her nocturnal experience with the mailman. He wanted to go immediately to the police, to explain to them that he thought the mailman was somehow behind or responsible for both deaths, but she convinced him, after a heated name-calling argument, that as a teacher and supposedly respected member of the community, he could not afford to damage his credibility by making wild accusations. He still had the envelopes they'd retrieved from the creek, but he realized that everything else was entirely unsubstantiated and required not only a tremendous leap of faith but also a belief in . . . what?

The supernatural?

Maybe he was crazy, but he didn't think so, and he knew that behind Tritia 'slogical arguments she didn't either. He still thought he should go to the police and tell them what he knew, or what he suspected, but he was willing to hold off for her sake. She was right. News spread in a small town, and if he happened to be wrong, if the mailman was just a normal man with pale skin and red hair, he would forever be branded a nut. In the back of his mind, though, was the nagging thought that someone else might be in danger, that by remaining silent and passive he might allow something else to happen, and he was determined to keep his eyes and ears open for anything unusual, anything out of the ordinary, and to report everything to the police if he suspected that anyone was going to be hurt or injured. Or killed.

They moved up and down the aisles of the store, Tritia going through the coupons, reading aloud from the shopping list, Doug taking the items from the shelves and putting them into the cart.

"Mr.Albin !"

Doug put a box of cornflakes into the cart and looked up. A tan young woman wearing tight shorts, a tight T-shirt, and no bra waved at him from down the aisle. She smiled, radiant teeth lighting up her pretty face. He knew she was an ex-student, though he could not immediately place her, and he tried desperately to connect a name with the face as she walked up the aisle toward him.

"Giselle Brennan," she said. "Composition. Two years ago. You probably don't remember me --"

"Of course I remember you," he said, and now he did, although he was surprised at himself. Giselle had been one of those fringe students who had shown up for class only when she felt like it and had barely eked out a C for the semester. Not the type of student he ordinarily remembered. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," she said.

"I haven't seen you around for a while."

"Yeah, well, I moved to Los Angeles, worked as a temp in a law office while I went to school part-time, but I didn't really like it much. Los Angeles, I mean. Too crowded, too smoggy, too everything. I'm back here visiting my parents right now." She smiled brightly at him. "The place seems to haveweirded out since I left."

Was it that obvious? Doug wondered. Could even an outsider sense it?