"Just a moment, sir. Let me transfer you to our Personnel department."

Doug listened to a few seconds' worth of innocuousMuzak before a man's voice came on the line. "Hello, this is Jim. How may I help you?"

"I want to complain about one of your mailmen."

"Could I have your name and zip code?"

"My name's DougAlbin . My zip code is 85432. I live in Willis."

"Willis? I'm sorry, sir, but if you have any complaints you should direct them to the postmaster in your area."

"That's the problem. I can't get a hold of my postmaster. Besides, our mail service has deteriorated so much that I think it's time you knew about it."

"Let me connect you to my supervisor."

"I'd --" Doug began, but there was a click. MoreMuzak .Mantovani Beatle songs.

A minute or so later another man came on the line. "Chris Westwood."

"We're having a lot of problems here with our mail. I want someone to do something about it."

"You're in Willis?"

"That's right."

"What exactly is the trouble?"

"Our mailman is dumping our mail by a creek instead of delivering it."

Westwood's voice became more concerned. "That is a serious charge, Mr. --"

"Albin. DougAlbin ."

"Mr.Albin . That doesn't sound very likely to me --"

"I don't care if it's likely or not," Doug said, an edge of exasperation creeping into his voice. "That's exactly what has happened, and there are many witnesses."

"Well, there's nothing really that I can do, but I can fill out a complaint form for you if you wish. Once the complaint is processed, an investigator will be sent out to look into the problem."

"That's fine," Doug said.

Westwood asked his full name, address, occupation, and other personal information that he supposedly wrote onto the complaint form. "Now do you happen to know the carrier's name and number?"

"His name's John Smith. That's all I know."

"John Smith. John Smith. Let me check." Doug thought he heard the soft clicking of computer keys. "I'm sorry, but we have no John Smith working in Willis. I have listed here Howard Crowell as postmaster, and Robert Ronda, carrier."

"Ronda committed suicide over a month ago."

"I'm sorry. We have no record of that here. It's not listed on our computer."

"Well, he was transferred here from Phoenix. Could you just see if you could find any John Smiths working in the Phoenix area?"

"Just a minute. I'll browse by name instead of zip code." There was a pause. "No, Mr.Albin . There is no John Smith working for the post office anywhere in Arizona."

Doug said nothing.

"Did you hear me, Mr.Albin ?"

He hung up the phone.

25.

The town was unusually subdued for the Fourth of July. Fewer than a third of the people who usually came to the annual Picnic in the Park showed up this year, and even the Jaycee's fireworks display was sparsely attended. Doug made Trish and Billy stay for both the daytime celebration and the fireworks, though neither of them wanted to, and while he pretended to have a good time for their sakes, he noticed a definite attitude change among their attending neighbors and acquaintances, and it unnerved him more than he was willing to admit. People he'd known for years, even other teachers and ex-students, seemed cold and distant, almost hostile. No one seemed to be having a good time.

He wasn't feeling that good himself. He'd gone to the police yesterday with his new information about the mailman, but they had treated him as if he was a chronic complainer, someone who consistently came to them with false information based on his own paranoid delusions. He had asked to see Mike but was told that the young policeman was off for the day, and instead he told his story to Jack Shipley, who humored him with the sort of condescending agreement usually reserved for drunks and crazies. As patiently and rationally as he knew how, he explained the facts, told Shipley that he believed impersonating a postal worker was a punishable crime and that everything he said could be verified by calling the main branch of the post office in Phoenix. The officer had said he would follow up on the information Doug had given him, but it was clear that he probably would not.

What could he do when the whole town was going to hell in ahandbasket and the damn police were too blind to see it and too dumb to act on it when it was pointed out to them?

He could not help wondering how the mailman was spending his time today, what he was doing for the Fourth. There was no mail delivery on the holiday, but somehow he just couldn't see the mailman eating hot dogs and apple pie and participating in patriotic celebrations.

The day was hot and at the afternoon softball game the mood was ugly.

There were barely enough men for two teams, and it was clear that most of those who had volunteered to play had done so out of obligation. The game was hard and dirty, with balls thrown intentionally at batters, hits aimed purposefully at pitchers. The spectators seemed to thrive on the nastiness and were soon yelling for blood. In the past, the competition had been light and friendly, with neighbors and families good-naturedly cheering on their teams. But today it was a cutthroat crowd, bent on violence. A fistfightbfoke out among two of the players, another among members of the audience. No one moved to stop either brawl.

Doug, Tritia , and Billy stayed for only a while, then moved on to the barbecue. The food was bad: hot dogs and hamburgers dry and burnt, Cokes Sat and warm. The familiar sight of BenStockley , intruding on family get-togethers with his camera, bothering the town officials with detailed questions they could not answer, conspicuously doing his job on a day when all others were having a holiday, was also missed; it contributed to the rather grim atmosphere that prevailed over this Fourth.

Irene showed up late in the afternoon, as she always did, and Tritia motioned her over. The old woman alone seemed to be in good spirits, and she helped cheer the three of them up, telling tall tales about holidays of the past as the four of them sat together at a picnic table under the pines.

That night, in the parking lot after the fireworks, Bill Simms and Ron Lazarus got into a shouting match and then a fight as their respective families looked on. They were rolling in the dirt, kicking and punching and screaming obscenities, and it took Doug and two other men to pull the two apart.

"You killed my dog!" Simms screamed. "You fucker!"

"I never touched your goddamn dog, you asshole!" Lazarus spit at the other man, a glob of saliva that landed harmlessly in the dirt at his feet. "But I wish I had."

Doug held on to Simms. He could feel the man's muscles straining as he struggled to break free. The other men held Lazarus. One of the women ran to get a policeman and returned with Mike Trenton, who warned the two fighters that their butts would be thrown in jail if they didn't knock this crap off right now. The men angrily stomped off to their respective cars, the crowd dispersed, and Doug and the young cop stood looking at each other. The policeman looked away, unable to meet Doug's eyes.

"I guess they told you I came by."

Mike nodded. "I tried to call you this morning, but there was no answer."

"I was home. We were all home."

The policeman shrugged. "I called twice. No one answered."

"Why did you call?"

"I wanted to tell you that I'd interviewed Mr. Smith and that I called Phoenix."

"And?"

"And he denies everything. I didn't use your name, of course. I --"

"What about the post office? What did they say?"

"We couldn't verify what you said. Their computers were down. They'll call us back when they can access the information."

"What do you think?"

There was only a slight hesitation. "I believe you."

"But the chief doesn't."

"But the chief doesn't."

Doug looked over at Billy and Tritia . "Why don't you go over to the car?

I'll meet you there in a sec."

"Keys," Tritia said, holding out her hand.

He dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to her. She caught them in midair and, her arm around Billy's shoulder, headed toward the Bronco. Doug turned back toward the policeman. "He's not human, Mike."

There was silence between them.

"I got another letter from myfiancee yesterday. She said she wants to break up again."

"It's fake. You know that."

"I called her, but she hung up on me. Wouldn't even let me talk."

"Do you think --"

"I think he's sending her letters." The policeman took a deep breath.

Around them, people were walking to their cars, heading for home. "I'm not sure whether I should try to stay out of his way, to stay as far away from you as possible, or whether I should come down hard on his ass and make him pay."

"You don't need me to tell you. You know the right thing to do."

"What right thing? You want to know the truth? I don't care about doing the right thing. I care about keeping Janine. That's what I care about. That's all I care about."

"I don't believe that," Doug said softly. "And neither do you. That's why you're talking to me right now."

"I don't know."

"You know, Mike."

"But there's nothing we can do. Not really. Nothing we can pin onh'im .

Nothing we can prove. I'd like to be able to trip him up on something, to throw him in jail, but I can't."

"He's tampering with the mails. Get him for that."

"No proof."

"There will be when the post office calls you back."

"What if there isn't?"

"People are dying here, Mike. We have to do something."

"Yeah? What do you expect me to do? Hang up my badge? Go out and gun him down?"

"No. Of course not." But a small frightening voice within him was saying, _Yesyes _.

"I'm keeping my eyes open, like I promised. But I can't guarantee that I'll do any more than that. I'm a police officer, not a vigilante."

The young cop was looking for reassurance, Doug knew, but he had none to give. When it came to something like this, older did not necessarily mean wiser.

He was just as afraid as the policeman and just as much in the dark about what to do. Still, he nodded. "That's all I ask."

"I have to get back to work. It's a rough crowd tonight."

"Yeah. I have to go too." Doug started to turn, but he looked back again.

"Be careful, Mike. If he's sending letters to yourfiancee , he knows about you."

The policeman said nothing, but moved away, between the cars, toward the grandstand. Silently, Doug walked back to the Bronco, where Trish and Billy were waiting.

He drove home slowly and carefully, though the anticipated drunks did not materialize. There were very few cars on the road, in fact, and most of the houses they passed as they drove through town were dark. He looked at the clock on the dash. Nine-thirty. That was strange. People were usually up and about later than this on an ordinary Friday, not to mention a holiday. It was like driving through a ghost town, he thought. And even though Trish and Billy were with him in the car, he felt a slight tingle of fear.

Willis was changing.

There was no mail on either Saturday or Sunday, and when Doug went to the store on Monday and saw the mailman unloading one of the mailboxes, he was gratified to see that he looked paler than usual, and thinner, if that was possible. Maybe he's sick, Doug thought. Maybe he's sick and going to die.

But that was just wishful thinking. It wouldn't happen.

As always, the mailman smiled and waved at him as he drove past.