He sneezed again. He had been planning to take Brad and Michael out to The Fort today to check out the _Playboys_. The twins had never really believed that he and Lane had as many magazines as they said they did, and had often begged, had even offered to buy, their way into The Fort. Lane had always turned them down, insisting that only the original builders were allowed to see The Fort's interior, but now Lane was gone, and Billy had decided to invite the twins to come over and check it out for themselves.

Brad had sounded a little strange when he'd talked to him over the phone, hostile almost, as though he was mad for some reason, but since Billy had no one else to hang out with . . . Well, beggars couldn't be choosers.

Besides, it would be nice to see someone besides his family again. And he knew the twins would be impressed with the _Playboy_ collection.

He forced himself to sit up. Behind his eyes, his head felt thick and heavy. He wasn't sure he should be walking through the forest with his allergy this bad; all the plants would probably only make it worse. But he didn't want to spend the whole day in bed. That was fine during the school year, when he could cajole his mom into bringing him toast and tea and could lie in his pajamas and watch cartoons and TV shows from morning to afternoon, but when it was summer and he had plans for the day . . .

He got out of bed and padded across the floor to the closet, taking out his bathrobe and putting it on. An old handkerchief was wadded up in the robe's pocket and he used it to blow his nose.

"Allergies?" his mom called from downstairs.

He didn't answer, hoping that if he ignored her she would go back to whatever she was doing and leave him alone. He moved over to the window, looking out. The sky was overcast, a cumulus ceiling painted with gradations of gray, and the morning sun was a hidden light dimly brightening a small section of cloud cover in the east. Above the pointed silhouettes of the pines he could see a lone hawk circling upward toward the top of the hill. Though it was not raining now, the ground was wet, the window misty.

Maybe he wouldn't be taking the twins to The Fort, after all.

He walked downstairs. The electricity was on again, and his dad was watching the morning news. His mom was standing in the kitchen at the sink, looking out the window at the forest, her back to him. On the counter were several boxes of high-fiber cereal along with freshly squeezed orange juice.

Next to the toaster was a cut loaf of whole grain bread.

Things were back to normal.

Billy sneezed, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his bathrobe. He could barely breathe and his head was throbbing to the rhythm of his pulse, but when his mom turned around, a questioning look on her face, he said, "I'm fine,"

before she could even ask how he felt.

"You don't look fine," she said, walking over to the cupboard. She took out a glass and poured some orange juice, giving it to him. "You look sick."

"Allergy."

She nodded. "It's the rain. It gets those mold spores in the air. I want you to drink your juice and take some vitamin C."

He sat down at the counter and sipped from the glass. He chose the least objectionable cereal, poured about half a bowlful, and sprinkled several spoons of sugar on top of it.

"What do you think you're doing?" his mom said.

"I can't eat this stuff without sugar."

"One spoon. That's all."

Billy smiled at her. "Too late now." He poured the milk in his bowl.

"Hurry up and eat and get ready," his dad said from behind him. "We're going to the store this morning, and I want to get it over with as soon as possible."

Billy swallowed his cereal. "I don't want to go."

"You have to go."

"My allergies are bothering me. I feel kind of sick. I think I'd better stay home."

"I thought you said you were fine. What a liar." His mom tried to make her voice light and playful, but he could hear an undercurrent of tension in it. He saw worried concern in the glance she shot over his head at his dad. "Why do you really want to stay?"

"Brad and Michael might be coming over. We were going to go play in The Fort."

"You're coming with us," his dad said.

"You guys always treat me like I'm a baby. I'm old enough to stay by myself. God, Lane's parents left him by himself for two days before."

"When?" his mother asked. "When you were staying overnight?"

"No," he lied.

"Where is Lane, by the way? I haven't seen him around lately. Did you two get into a fight or something?"

Billy looked at his mom, feeling his stomach knot up.

_Naked_.

"Yeah," he said. He dug into his cereal, focusing his attention on the bowl, not wanting to look at his mom, not wanting to think about Lane.

His dad came into the kitchen, dumped the last little bit of his coffee down the sink, and rinsed out his cup. "I think you'd better come with us today," he said.

Billy looked up at his father. "I think I'd be safer here," he said.

A look passed between them. Though none of them had said anything, the subtext of their conversation was clear to all of them, and Billy had obviously struck a responsive chord in his father with the word "safer." He was not sure if it was true, not sure if he really would be safer here, but he did want to stay, and he did not want to go to town. His dad continued to stare at him, but Billy did not avert his gaze, and he saw a host of conflicting emotions pass over his father's face.

His dad finally looked away and put hiscoffeecup on the drying rack. "Are you sure you'll be okay here by yourself?" he asked.

Billy nodded.

"You cannot leave the house," he warned. "I don't want you stepping outside that door until we come back. You understand?"

"Yes."

"If Brad and Michael come by," he added, "you just stay in here with them and watch TV or something, okay? Watch a videotape."

He nodded. "Don't worry."

His mom put a hand on his dad's shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

They finished breakfast in silence, his dad going back to the TV, his mom going into the bathroom to get ready. Something had happened here between them, something that he could almost but not quite understand, that barely eluded his grasp, and he wasn't sure if he was glad it had happened or not. He almost wished he had agreed to go to the store with them.

He sneezed, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

A half-hour later, his parents were ready to go. They said good-bye to him and gave him preparatory instructions that made it seem as though they were going to be embarking on a week-long journey instead of just going on a ten minute trip to the store.

Billy watched them drive away, then he looked back into the kitchen. They had taken care of most of the breakfast dishes, but had left some for him to do.

The sugar and orange juice and cereal boxes all still stood on the top of the counter, waiting for him to put them away. The TV was already off and he turned out the lights. The house grew dark, sliding into an artificial state halfway between night and day. He sat down for a moment on the couch to enjoy it. There was something special about being inside on a cloud-darkened day. Particularly when he was alone. It somehow made everything seem more valuable, more tentative and transitory and therefore precious. It was a strange feeling, as distinct from the feeling of safety and security he got from being warm inside the dry house on a snowy winter's night as it was from the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped inside on a warm sunny day, and it made him feel grown-up, as though he were already an adult and this was his house.

Outside, it began to rain. In the silence of the house, he could clearly hear the faint clattering sound of raindrops on the roof. He sat there for a moment, taking in the staccato rhythm of the rain, the modulating shift of daylight through the windows as the clouds above drifted, moved, overlapped.

He glanced at the clock. It was nearly nine-thirty. The twins were supposed to be here between nine-thirty and ten. Obviously, they wouldn't be able to go to The Fort if the rain kept up this way, but they could play a game inside or something until it abated.

First of all, though, he had to clean up the breakfast stuff. He sat up and walked into the kitchen. He put the orange juice in the refrigerator, put the cereal boxes in the cupboard. Moving over to the toaster, he glanced down at the counter.

Next to the loaf of wheat bread was a long white envelope.

An envelope addressed to him.

An icy finger of fear tickled Billy's spine. He stared down at the white paper rectangle. Had the envelope been there before? It couldn't have. If it had, he would have seen it.

He wanted to walk away, to go outside, to go back upstairs and wait for his parents to come home, to get away from the kitchen entirely, but the envelope beckoned him. He stared at it, unable to look away. He reached for the envelope as though it was booby-trapped, picking it up slowly, holding it at arm's length. He did not want to open it, was afraid to open it, but he had to see what was inside. Carefully, he pressed his fingers against the envelope, making sure it did not contain photographs.

_His mother, naked_.

His hand trembled. There were no pictures inside, the envelope was pliable, not stiff, and with one quick movement, he tore it open.

There were only four words typed on the plain white paper: _Come out and play_ Come out and play. The words on their own were innocuous enough, innocent even, but the meaning behind them was anything but. He knew exactly who had sent the note, though there was no signature, and he knew exactly what the message meant. Come out and play.

He dropped the paper on the floor, stepping away from it. He should have gone with his parents. He should never have stayed here alone. What the hell was wrong with him? The darkened house, which only a few moments before had seemed so wonderfully special, now seemed sinister and filled with shadows. He reached over and flipped on the light switch next to the sink.

Nothing happened.

The electricity was out.

He was scared now. He quickly rushed to the phone, picking it up.

It was dead.

Outside, beneath the low clatter of the rain, he heard the unmistakable sound of a purring car engine. He ran to the back door, checking to make sure it was closed and locked, then locked the front door. He moved next to the window, peeking out. Through the blurred drizzle outside the glass, he could see an indistinct form standing near the end of the drive by the road. A figure with a blue uniform, white face, and red hair.

Come out and play.

He backed quickly away from the window, closing the drapes. The second the curtains closed, he knew that it had been a stupid thing to do. Now he was trapped in here, helpless, blinded, unable to see what was going on outside. He almost opened the drapes again, but immediately dropped the cord. What if the mailman had sneaked up onto the porch and was standing right in front of the window waiting for him, grinning at him? What would he do? What could he do? He had seen the mailman move in the direction of the house the second before the curtains closed. Or had he? He couldn't remember.

His eyes darted toward the back of the house, toward his parents' bedroom.

The drapes there were open, but the windows faced the forest. He would not be able to see anything other than trees.

And the mailman, if he sneaked around from that direction.

Billy ran upstairs. There was no door on the loft stairs, they simply came up through the floor, but his baseball bat was there and he could use that to protect himself if he had to. He picked up the bat and searched for something he could drop on the mailman's head if it came to that. He found several heavy old toys that he hadn't touched in years, and brought them with him to the bed. He gripped the bat tightly, waiting, ready to swing, listening for the sound of anything unfamiliar within the house.

But the only sound was the constant rain and he heard nothing else until his parents pulled into the drive an hour later.

34.

Doug walked out to the mailbox. It had been quite a while since he'd actually looked at the mail, and he was more than a little curious to see what sort of letter the mailman was sending these days. For the past week or so, he had gotten up before Trish or Billy awoke and had dumped the mail directly into the outside garbage cans, making sure he buried them deep under the kitchen sacks and bathroom trash so they wouldn't be accidentally taken out of the can by a hungry dog or rambunctious skunk or raccoon.

Still, he was curious. It felt good to know that he was resisting the mailman's constant temptation, that whatever Postal Service pranks had been planned for he and his family had been successfully thwarted, but he could not deny that there was something inside him, that same stubborn something that had always made him do exactly what authority told him not to do, which made him now want to open up the mail and see what was inside, though he knew it was the dumbest move he could make under the circumstances.

He thought ofHobie and Irene, who had both stopped answering their doors or their phones.

His feet crunched in the gravel. He reached the foot of the drive and opened the mailbox. Inside was a single envelope addressed by computerized mailing label to "Occupant." Doug removed the envelope and slammed shut the box.

He was still debating with himself whether to throw it away or look at it when his hands ripped open the sealed paper. He withdrew the contents of the envelope -- a professionally typeset brochure and two photographs.

Nude photographs.

Of Tritia .

His mouth felt suddenly dry, his legs weak. He turned over the brochure and began to read. "Hi," it said. "My name's Tritia , and I want to be your very special friend. As an introduction to the Ranch Club, I am sending you two photos of myself, to show you what you get by taking advantage of our introductory offer. By night I am a wife and mother, but by day I am anything you want me to be. Your hot slut. Your love slave . . ."

He couldn't read any more. Breathing heavily with anger, revulsion, and trembling fear, he looked at the two photos. In one, a rear view, Tritia was bent over the back of a couch, offering to the camera a perfect shot of her whiteuntanned ass.

Only . . .

Only it wasn't Tritia . The cheeks were too firm, and too round, the buttocks of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties. He looked closer.

The small birthmark she had on her lower back was missing as well, and the fingers were too short and stubby. He looked at the other photograph, this one of Trish seated in a wicker chair, legs spread, eyes closed as she fingered herself. The breasts were wrong, he noticed. The size was about right, but Trish's nipples were much darker, much more prominent.

He tore up the photographs, tore up the brochure, tore up the envelope.

The mailman had obviously pasted photographs of Trish's head onto someone else's body, although he did not know how or where the mailman could have gotten a hold of pictures of Trish. The photos were done well, flawlessly executed, with no visible seams, and would probably fool anyone else but him. But what was the point? Why go to so much trouble?

Maybe it wasn't just for him. Maybe the mailman had sent the same brochure, the same photos, to other people in town. Maybe other men were right now staring at the false body of his wife, reading the mailman's fake words, fantasizing, planning.

He pushed the thought from his mind as he walked back toward the house.

He threw the torn scraps of paper into the garbage before going inside.

The town had seemed nearly abandoned the other day when they'd gone to the store, with very few cars on the street, very few people visible anywhere, so Doug was more than a little surprised to see a crowd gathered in the parking lot in front of the deli. He had been planning to go to the hardware store, to pick up some more flashlight and radio batteries before they were all sold out, but he pulled into theBayless parking lot when he saw the crowd. He parked next to a gray Jeep Cherokee and got out. The group of people standing in front of the deli was fairly quiet and fairly still, but there was something threatening about them as they stood in a rough semicircle around Todd Gold's station wagon.

Doug moved forward. He recognized the faces of several students and several adults. They appeared to be waiting for something, and although there was nothing unusual in either their individual expressions or stances, merely being part of the crowd made them seem menacing.

Todd came out of his store, carrying a large white box. He put the box into the open rear of the station wagon, next to a score of others that had already been packed. He slammed shut the hatch. Doug pressed through the group of people to the front as the deli owner angrily waved the onlookers away. "Get the hell out of here. Haven't you done enough already?"

The crowd stood dumbly, silently watching as he went into the store, emerged carrying several sacks, then closed and locked the now empty deli. "Get out of here," he yelled again. He dropped one of the sacks on the ground as he took out his car keys.

Doug reached him just before he opened the front door. "What is it, Todd?

What happened? What are you doing?"