The sergeant's attitude had changed completely. He was suddenly eager to help, although there was a strange anxious nervousness to his manner. He took down Doug's and Tritia 's names and address as well as the addresses ofHobie and Irene. He knows, Doug thought. He's been getting mail too.

"I'll have an officer sent out to interview both Mr. Beecham and Ms.

Hill," the sergeant said.

Doug glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly four. The post office would be open for another hour. "What about John Smith? Are you going to send someone over to the post office to talk to him?"

"Of course."

"I'm going too," Doug said.

The sergeant shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid the civilians --"

"Fine." Doug smiled thinly. "Then I will just go to the post office and happen to be there the same time as your man." He looked at Tritia . "Let's go."

The two of them walked out of the police station without looking back.

Doug was sweating and his body was charged with adrenaline. Encounters with authority, even on such a minor level, still made him nervous, although he was getting increasingly used to them.

He had left the keys in the car for Billy, who had turned on the radio.

His mood seemed to have improved during their absence, and he was no longer silently sullen when they got into the car.

"Why did we come here?" he asked.

"Because," Tritia told him.

"It's about the mailman, isn't it?"

Doug looked at his son in the rearview mirror as he started the engine.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Are they going to get him?"

Doug nodded. "I hope so."

Billy sat back in his seat. "Probably not, though."

Doug did not respond. He waited for a moment until he saw Tim Hibbard and two other officers emerge from the building. Tim waved to him, motioned for him to follow, and Doug put the Bronco into reverse, pulling out of the parking space. He got behind the patrol car and followed it out of the lot, onto the street, and to the post office.

"Stay here," Doug said as he got out of the car. Tim was already waiting for him near the building's entrance.

Tritia unbuckled her seatbelt. "No way. I'm coming with you."

"Me too," Billy said.

"You definitely stay here," Doug told his son.

"Yes," Tritia agreed.

"Then why couldn't I just stay home and watch TV?"

Because I was afraid to leave you alone, Doug thought, but he only shook his head, saying nothing. He left the keys in the ignition, turned the radio to Billy's favorite station, and closed the car door. He and Tritia walked over to where Tim stood waiting.

The officer grinned as they approached. "The chief would croak if he knew you were here with me," he said. "He doesn't like you at all, you know."

Doug pretended to be surprised. "_Moi_?"

Tim laughed.

Doug looked toward the door to the post office. The afternoon sun reflected off the glass so he could not see clearly inside, but there appeared to be no patrons in the office. He turned toward Tim. "Where's Mike?" he asked.

"The truth? He was taken off this case because the chief thought he was getting too close to it."

"Too close to me, you mean."

"Well, yeah."

Doug frowned. " 'This case?' You mean the mailman?"

Tim smiled again. "Unofficially."

"Well at least something's being done. I was getting really worried about you guys."

"Don't stop worrying yet. The chief still thinks it's a load of crap, and we still haven't been able to substantiate anything."

"Until now," Tritia said.

"We'll see." Tim looked from Tritia to Doug. "You two ready to go in?"

Doug nodded. "Let's do it."

The day was waning, the air cooling, but the inside of the post office was extraordinarily hot and muggy. It had changed again, Doug noticed immediately.

The walls, formerly a drab public-building grayish-green, had been painted a deep black. He had never before noticed the color of the floor, but the cement was now an unmistakable blood red. The philatelic posters on the wall were all of stamps that could not possibly exist. Bloody tortures. Unnatural sex.

Behind the counter, Doug saw Giselle. She was sorting through a pile of letters. She looked almost Nazi-like in her new blue uniform, Teutonic hair swept under her cap, and the sight of her in this place, in this position, made her seem like an entirely different person. She seemed tainted, corrupt, merely by her association with him, as though she had somehow turned her back on everyone else in town, on her parents and her old friends, and had betrayed them.

The thought crossed his mind that the mailman's goal all along had been to establish some sort of paramilitary organization using the local kids, a youth group that would usurp the power in the community. But, no, if that had been his plan, there would have been earlier signs and indications; he would have recruited other people already. Besides, that answer was too easy, too clean, too literal. The mailman's real goal, he felt sure, was not so simple, not so clearly defined.

If he had a goal at all . . .

Real life, Doug reminded himself, was not like literature. As an English teacher, he dealt constantly with the themes and motives of fiction, and he had a tendency to ascribe a similar structure to reality. But this was not a novel where acts were performed for a reason: to illuminate character, to reveal a truth, or to achieve an end. It was possible, more than possible, that the mailman was here in town not for a specific purpose, not as part of some evil grand design, but for his own entertainment or amusement. Or for no reason at all. He found Tritia 's hand and held it.

Tim cleared his throat, approaching the counter. He, too, must have been surprised by the state of the post office, but he let none of it register. "I need to speak with Mr. Crowell and Mr. Smith," he said.

Giselle looked up from her work and glanced from Tim to Doug and Tritia .

She smiled at Doug, and he instantly regretted his superficial characterization of her. She bad not changed, after all.

Then why was she working for the mailman?

"Is Howard here?" Doug asked.

Giselle shook her head. "He's still sick."

"Could you please tell Mr. Smith I'd like to talk to him," Tim said.

The mailman emerged from the back room. As always, he was dressed impeccably in his uniform. His hair, Doug noticed, was very nearly the same color as the floor. "Hello, gentlemen," he said. He smiled at Tritia , nodding his head. "Ladies."

Tritia tried to hide behind Doug. She did not like the mailman's eyes. She did not like the mailman's smile.

_You're nice_.

His eyes remained on her, holding her gaze though she wanted to look away.

"How's your son?" he asked. The question was asked innocently, casually, but beneath the superficial interest was a deeper, obscene, frightening implication.

_Billy's nice too_.

"We didn't come here to chat," Doug said coldly.

"We've had reports that there has been some tampering with the mails," Tim said. His voice was steady, even, but Doug could sense a hint of fear in it. He knew the mailman could too. "Two citizens have complained that they have been receiving" -- he reached for a word -- "rather bizarre items in the mail."

The mailman stared at the policeman calmly. "Such as?"

"Illegal items."

The mailman smiled patiently, understandingly. "The Postal Service is not responsible for the contents of the mail it delivers and under federal law cannot be held liable for damage caused as a result of its delivery. However, we are just as concerned as you are about abuses of the postal system and are willing to cooperate fully with any efforts designed to get to the root of this problem."

Tim did not know how to respond, and he looked to Doug for help.

"You're sending mail yourself," Doug said.

The mailman's gaze was unwavering and unreadable. "Of course I am," he said. "We all send mail. Are you implying that became I work for the post office I cannot send letters to people? Do you think that is some sort of conflict of interest?" He laughed, a false plastic laugh Doug knew he was supposed to see through. This conversation, Doug realized, was operating on two levels. The mailman was threatening him.

John Smith smiled. "I have to pay for postage just like everyone else. I don't even get a discount. But there is no limit to the amount of letters I can send. I can mail as many items as I want to."

"And have you mailed any threatening letters?" Tim asked. "Have you mailed any body parts?"

The mailman did not even pretend to be surprised. "I don't like your insinuation," he said.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to let me search this post office."

"I'm afraid you're going to have to get a search warrant," the mailman said. "And I'm afraid you're going to find it fairly difficult to obtain a warrant to search an office of the federal government." He looked past Doug and Tritia out the window. "How's Billy today?" he asked.

"You leave him alone, damn you." Tritia glared at him.

The mailman chuckled.

Doug noticed Giselle backing away from the mailman behind the counter. She looked confused.

"I'm afraid you gentlemen" -- the mailman smiled at Tritia -- "and ladies will have to excuse me. I have work to do."

"I haven't finished talking to you," Tim said.

"I'm finished talking to you," the mailman replied, and there was something in his voice that made the rest of them fall silent. They watched him retreat back into the rear of the building.

Giselle tried to smile apologetically, but the smile did not quite work.

"Tell Howard to call me," Doug told her. "If you ever see him."

She glanced behind her to make sure she wasn't being watched, then shook her head slightly from side to side.

"To hell with the search warrant," Tim said angrily. "I'm going to get an arrest warrant. Let's get out of here."

They walked out of the hot dark building and into the fresh outside air.

Behind them, from somewhere deep within the post office, they heard the mailman laugh.

32.

The next day the telephones went out again, and Doug had to drive into town to discover that the police had questionedHobie and Irene and that both of them had denied receiving anything unusual in the mail.

He talked to the desk sergeant since neither Mike nor Tim was in the office.

When he drove out to seeHobie afterward, his friend refused to answer the door, pretending not to be home.

Irene did exactly the same thing.

33.

Billy awoke early, his nose stuffed, his eyes itchy and watery, the nightmare from which he had awoken all but forgotten in the face of his overwhelming physical discomfort. He sneezed, then sneezed again, wiping his nose on the sheet, since there was no handkerchief handy. It was going to be one of those allergy days. He could feel it. He lay back on the pillow, eyes open.

More than once, his parents had talked about taking him up to Flagstaff for tests, to find out exactly what he was allergic to, but when he'd learned that the tests involved needles, he promptly vetoed that idea. There was nothing he hated worse than needles. The allergy was horrible but bearable, usually not lasting more than a day or two at a time, and was infinitely preferable to being poked and scratched and jabbed.