Hobiehad not even answered his phone.

Which was why he was driving over to see him now.

He drove through the center of town towardHobie's neighborhood. As much as anything else, he thought, it was the small things that were disturbing: the unmowngrass at the park, the weeds protruding from the asphalt in the bank parking lot, the garbage cans lining the streets, filled with uncollected trash -- insignificant items on the surface, but telltale signs that something was seriously amiss. Just driving through Willis, Doug had the impression that many people were not at work, had not gone in today, that their jobs were not being performed. It was almost inconceivable that a single individual could have this much of an effect on an entire town, but the evidence was before his eyes and indisputable.

He pulled in front ofHobie's trailer. All of the cars seemed to be in place, so he was obviously home.Hobie never walked anywhere if he could drive.

Doug walked up the dirty path to the door, pushing the bell.

A moment later,Hobie answered the door, obviously shaken. He was wearing a black-and-gold Willis Warthogs T-shirt, and above the school colors his face looked pale, bleached, even his lips drained of pigment. "Hey," he said. "Long time no see."

Doug smiled, though he felt like doing nothing of the sort. "How're you doing?"

Hobieshrugged. "Not too good. But I'm glad you came." He opened the door wider and gestured for Doug to come inside.

The electricity was off here, as it was almost everywhere, but rather than open the drapes and windows,Hobie kept the curtains shut, relying solely on candles for illumination. The trailer was filled with the smell of burning wax and rotting food, and as Doug's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the refrigerator had been left open and that the food inside was spoiling. Trash and clothes were scattered everywhere, over both the living room and kitchen. He looked over at his friend.Hobie may have been loud and crude, but he had always been neat in his personal habits, and the shape of the trailer's interior frightened Doug more than he was willing to admit.Hobie's mental state had clearly deteriorated since the last time they'd spoken.

"I got another letter from Dan,"Hobie said, sitting down on the dirty couch. "He wrote it last week."

Doug looked sharply up, but it was obvious that his friend was not joking.

He was completely and totally serious. And he was terrified.

"Here. Read it."Hobie handed him a page of crude white paper on which was written a message in a thick bold hand. Doug could not see to read, and he got up and pulled open the drape, letting sunlight into the room.

In the light, the state of the trailer looked even worse and more disgustingly filthy than it had in the dark.

"He says he's coming to visit,"Hobie said quietly.

Doug read the letter: Bro, Finally got some R&R. I'll be coming by to see you in a week or so, soon as I can get a transport out of here. I'm bringing some primepoon don't no one know about, so we can have us some real fun. She's 12 and a virgin to boot. At least that's what the guy who sold her to me said.

I'll be bringing my knives.

See you soon.

It was signed "Dan," and it was dated last week.

Doug folded the paper and looked atHobie . "You know this isn't real," he said. "He's doing it. The mailman. He's trying to --"

"It's Dan,"Hobie insisted. "I know my brother."

Doug licked his lips, which had suddenly become very dry. "What is this about a twelve-year-old? What does he mean when he says he's bringing his knives?"

Hobiestood up and began pacing nervously around the room. His face was tense, muscles strained. There was an element of the caged animal in his walk.

"I don't want to see him," he said.

"What about the twelve-year-old girl and the knives?"

Hobiestopped pacing. "I can't tell you that." He looked at Doug, eyes frightened. "I don't want him coming here. He's my brother and I haven't seen him since I was sixteen, but . . . but he's dead. He's dead, Doug."Hobie resumed his pacing. "I don't want him coming here. I don't want to see him." He took a deep audible breath. "I'm afraid of him."

Doug heard the wildness in his friend's voice, the threat of hysteria just below the surface. He stood up and grabbedHobie's shoulders, confronting him.

"Look," he said, "I know you recognize your brother's handwriting. I know he says things in those letters that only he could know. But listen to me carefully. It's a trick. The mailman's doing it. You know as well as I do what's going on in town, and if you think about it logically you'll realize that the same thing is happening to you. You said yourself that your brother is dead. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but do you honestly think that his rotted corpse is going to fly on a transport plane from Vietnam, land in Phoenix, and take a bus or cab or rent a car to come to Willis? Does that make any sense to you?"

Hobieshook his head.

"It's the mailman," Doug said.

Hobielooked straight into his eyes, and for the first time since he'd stepped into the trailer, his friend seemed rational, lucid. "I know that," he said. "I know the mailman's doing this. The letters come at night. I can't sleep anymore because I stay awake listening until I hear his car and hear him drop the letters in the slot. I'd like to go down to the post office and beat the living fuck out of thefaggy son of a bitch, but I'm afraid of him, you know?

Maybe . . . maybe he really can deliver letters from Dan. Maybe he can bring Dan back from the dead. Maybe he can bring Dan here."

"He's just trying to pressure you, to make you crack."

Hobielaughed a short nervous laugh. "He's doing a damn good job." He pulled away from Doug and walked into the demolished kitchen, picking up a bottle of Jack Daniels from the crowded counter and pouring himself a shot in a dirty glass. He quickly downed" the liquor. "If he is faking those letters, writing them himself, then he knows a lot of things only Dan could know. He's even been able to copy Dan's handwriting perfectly. How do you explain that?"

"I can't."

Hobiepoured himself another shot, drank it. "There's a lot of evil shit going down," he said. "A lot of evil shit."

Doug nodded. "You're right there."

Hobielooked at him. "He's not human, is he?"

"I don't think so," Doug admitted, and just saying that aloud made him feel cold. "But I don't know what he Js."

"Whatever he is, he can bring back the dead. Dan's been writing to me. And now he's coming to visit."

"Maybe we should tell the police --"

"Fuck the police!"Hobie slammed down his shot glass, spilling whiskey. He shook his head, his voice softer. "No police."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"If you're going to act like this, then get the hell out of here and go home."

Doug held up his hands in acquiescence. "Okay, okay."

And he stood there silently as, shot by shot,Hobie finished off the bottle.

And he did not leave until afterHobie had passed out on the couch.

Five rings. Six. Seven. Eight.

On the tenth ring, Tritia finally hung up the phone. Something was wrong.

Irene always answered her phone by the third ring. It was conceivable that she was out of the house, but it was hardly likely. She did not seem to be of a mind lately to leave the house for any reason.

Maybe she had to buy groceries.

No, Tritia thought. Something had happened.

As soon as Doug got back, the two of them would drive over there and see if Irene was all right.

She picked up the phone again and dialed Irene's number.

One ring. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

On an impulse, Doug pulled to a stop on the side of the road just after the crossing. It wasmidafternoon and the cicadas were out in force, their airplane humming the only counterpoint to the muted splash-babble of the stream.

Near the road, the banks of the creek were narrow and rocky, with saplings creating a maze out of any attempted walkway. He was wearing his good tennis shoes and he knew he should stick to the bank no matter how awkward it was, but he stepped into the middle of the stream itself, waiting for a moment for his feet to acclimatize themselves to the coldness of the water before heading upstream.

He began wading purposefully upstream, toward the spot where Billy had discovered the mail. He had not been here since the day of the picnic, though he had thought of it often. Somehow, he had never heard whether the police had checked out the creek. They had taken his soggy samples, and Mike had confronted the mailman with them, but he did not recall hearing that the creek had been investigated.

Maybe he'd just forgotten.

Maybe not.

He was acutely aware of the loneliness of this place, of its relative inaccessibility. High cliffs rose up on both sides of the creek, and the sounds of man were nonexistent. Geographically, this area was not really remote; it was a mile or so from town, and fairly close to their settled section of the forest.

But the lay of the land ensured that the creek remained as removed from civilization as the most out-of-the-way corner of the Tonto.

He moved forward. It was stupid of him to have come here by himself without telling anyone where he was going. He should have at least called Trish.

If something happened to him . . .

He passed the spot near the path where they'd had their picnic and continued wading through the water. The bend was just ahead. How much mail would be there now? he wondered. Maybe it would not have been just dumped randomly.

Maybe the mailman was now using the discarded mail for a purpose. He saw in his mind a mail city, small shacks constructed next to the creek from millions of dumped envelopes, letters meticulously arranged into foundations and floors, walls and roofs.

But that was crazy.

What wasn't crazy these days?

He stood just before the final turn, listening for any unnatural sounds, but could hear only the water and the cicadas. He moved slowly forward and peeked around the bend.

There was nothing there.

The mail was gone.

He was almost relieved. Almost. But his satisfaction in discovering that he had forced the mailman to dump the mail elsewhere, to find another spot in which to deposit the town's real correspondence, was offset by the knowledge that the mailman had been so frighteningly thorough that he had cleaned up the mail he had already dropped there, that, one by one, he had meticulously picked the thousands of envelopes from the water, from the ground, from the trees, from the bushes, and had taken them all away.

Billy was upstairs when Doug arrived home, watching his own TV because Tritia had on _Donahue_ in the living room. The electricity, apparently, had finally been restored. Tritia was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, but Doug made her quit and dragged her into the living room, sitting her down on the couch. He told her what had happened toHobie , and as she sat silently listening to his story, she grew increasingly pale.

"He's doing the same thing to Irene," she said when he was finished.

"What happened?"

She hesitated for only a second. Although she had promised Irene she would tell neither Doug nor the police what had occurred, that promise was no longer valid. Her friend might be in trouble, in danger, and it was more important to help her out than to remain true to some ridiculous promise.

Tritia told him of the toe and of Irene's husband's accident, explaining also that she had tried calling four or five times this afternoon but that no one had answered the phone.

"Jesus! Why didn't you call the police?"

"I didn't think --"

"That's right. You didn't think." Doug strode across the living room to the phone and picked up the receiver.

The phone was dead.

He slammed it down angrily. "Shit!" He looked over at Tritia . "Come on, get ready. We're going to talk to the police." He walked upstairs. Billy was lying in bed, watching _Bewitched_. "We're going into town," Doug told his son.

"Put your shoes on."

Billy did not even look at him. "I want to watch this show."

"Now!"

"Why can't I stay here?"

"Because I said you can't. Now, get your shoes on or that TV goes off permanently." He clomped back down the stairs, checked the back door to make sure it was locked. Tritia emerged from the bedroom, patting down her hair, a purse slung over her shoulder. Billy's angry sullen footsteps could be heard on the stairs.

"Let's go," Doug said.

They drove all the way to town in silence, Tritia worried beside him, Billy, arms folded across his chest, angry in the back seat. Doug drove into the parking lot of the police station, pulling next to a beat-up Buick. He told Billy to remain in the car, and he and Tritia walked into the building. The desk sergeant on duty came immediately to the front counter when he saw the two of them standing there. "May I help you?" he asked.

Doug glanced around the office. "Where's Mike?"

"Which Mike?"

"Mike Trenton."

"I'm sorry, but information concerning the shifts and hours of department employees is confidential."

"Look, I know him, okay?"

"If you knew him well enough, you wouldn't have to ask. I'm sorry, but for security reasons we do not give out personal information concerning our officers. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?"

"I hope so." Doug told the sergeant aboutHobie and Irene. At first, he left out the details, explaining merely that their friends were being harassed through the mail and had reason to believe that the mailman was behind it, wanting to let the police discover for themselves what had happened. But when the sergeant looked doubtful and started to give him a vague "we'll-look-into it" answer, Doug decided to tell all.

"HobieBeecham has been getting letters from his dead brother," he said.

"Irene Hill was sent a severed toe through the mail.Hobie's dead drunk right now because of it, passed out on the couch where I left him. Irene's not answering her phone. Now, do you think, possibly, that you could spare a few minutes from your busy schedule to check this out?"