"No phone," he reminded her.

She laughed. "It's a conspiracy."

"It's an adventure. We're cut off from the world, all alone. Kind of exciting, don't you think?"

"And romantic," she added, moving next to him. She put a candle on the windowsill.

"I'm still awake!" Billy yelled. "Don't do anything that'll embarrass you later."

They both laughed, and Doug felt Tritia 's arm snake around his waist. She drew him closer, giving him a light kiss that barely missed his mouth. "We'll wait until he's asleep," she whispered, promised.

Tritia woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Doug was asleep next to her, breathing regularly and half-snoring, and she quietly, carefully, pushed the sheet from her body and swung her legs off the bed, glancing at the digital clock on the dresser. The blue liquid quartz numbers said it was three-fifteen. She had put on her panties and nightdress after they'd made love, but she still slipped on a robe before padding across the hall to the bathroom. She'd never felt comfortable walking around the house undressed. The full moon shone through the opaque window above the bathtub like a streetlight, partially illuminating the small room. She pulled up her robe and nightdress, pulled down her panties, and sat down on the toilet to pee. When she was through, she pulled up her panties, flushed the toilet, and went into the kitchen to get a drink.

The night was quiet, but not as quiet as it should have been. Below the melodic chirping cricket music and the occasional cry of a nocturnal bird was another, less natural, noise. A low even rumbling that started and stopped and grew ever closer.

A car engine.

Tritia moved into the living room and bent forward to peek through a slit in the closed curtains. Who would be driving around here at this hour? Certainly not the Nelsons or the Tuckers or any of the other people who lived around them.

She pulled the curtain opening wider.

The red car of the mailman pulled up on the road in front of the house.

Tritia sucked in her breath. She could hear the faint sound of a rock-'n'

roll song from the car's stereo. As she watched, a thin pale hand reached out from the driver's window and pulled open the gate of the mailbox, the other hand depositing several envelopes. The mailman's face appeared at the car window, white against the black background. He looked in her direction, seeming to know right where she was, though he could not possibly have seen the thin crack between the curtain halves in this darkness. He smiled, a slow sly corrupt smile that promised things she did not want to think about, things that made her blood run cold.

She wanted to look away, to move out of his sight, but she was afraid to let him see the curtains fall, and she remained completely still, unmoving.

Although only one eye and a portion of her right cheek was next to the narrow opening, she was acutely aware of the fact that she was almost naked, that her nightdress had ridden up above her panties as she bent forward, and she felt as embarrassed and humiliated, as if she had been caught masturbating.

The mailman waved once, smiling broadly at her, then pulled away, into the darkness, the sound of his engine fading.

She realized only now that she'd been holding her breath, and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply, relaxing, as the car drove down the dirt road.

She let the curtain fall and stood there for a moment, holding on to the table for support, before finally retreating to the bedroom, climbing into bed, and snuggling under the safety of the sheets. Next to her, Doug's body felt warm and strong and reassuring.

The night was completely silent now, even the crickets making no noise, and she lay awake for what seemed like an eternity before finally falling asleep.

She dreamed of the mailman.

He was delivering the mail, but instead of stopping at their mailbox, he pulled into the drive and parked next to the house. Through the window, she saw him getting out of the car. He was smiling. She ran through the house, into the bedroom, the bathroom, the loft, looking for Doug or even Billy, but she was all alone. The house was empty. She tried to escape through the back door, but it would not open. Behind her, she heard the mailman's footsteps crossing the living room and then the kitchen. She ran into the bedroom, intending to shut the door and barricade it, but she discovered that there was no door.

The mailman stepped into the room, grinning hugely.

He was wearing no pants.

And then he was on her and in her, his unnaturally long penis hot and burning, like a curling iron or a soldering gun, and she could feel the cauterizing pain as he pumped away inside her. The agony of it caused her to scream --primally , uncontrollably -- but she was aware with a sickening feeling of revulsion that there was pleasure mixed in with that horrible burning pain, that on some gross physical level a part of her body was enjoying this.

She awoke drenched in sweat, hair and pillow damp, and she cuddled close to Doug to push away the fear, holding him tightly. Outside, far away, she thought she heard the low smooth purring sound of the mailman's car retreating into the forest.

11.

Doug was taking a shower when the water went off; he was washing his hair, the top of his head covered with shampoo lather, as the water disappeared in midspray. "Hey!" he yelled. , "Water's off!" Tritia called from the kitchen.

"Great," he muttered. Eyes still closed, the shampoo beginning to drip onto his nose and cheeks, he drew aside the shower curtain and felt along the wall for the towel rack. His fingers closed around terry cloth. It felt like one of Tritia 's good towels, the ones that hung in the bathroom for decoration and were not to be used, but this was an emergency and he used it to wipe the shampoo off of his face and out of his eyes. The bathroom was dark. The power had not come back on since last night, and the only illumination came from the small window. He quickly toweled off his hair, then stepped out of the tub. He pulled on his underwear and pants and opened the door, walking out to the kitchen, still dripping. "What happened?"

Tritia was standing in the center of the kitchen, hair sticking out at odd sleep angles, staring at the half-filled coffeepot in the sink. She shook her head. "I was filling the pot and the water shut off."

"Did you check under the sink?" He opened the bottom cupboard, but the garbage sack and the boxes of cleanser and detergent were all dry. None of the pipes was dripping.

"I'll go outside," he said, "see if I can find anything."

He went out through the back door. The rocks and pine needles hurt his feet, but he walked across the dirt to the side of the house where the pipes connected with the meter. He looked at the numbers through the yellowed glass.

There was no water pressure at all.

He bent down and opened the runoff faucet but nothing came out.

"What the hell . . . ?" He turned the handle at the junction of the water main and house pipes, but nothing registered on the meter.

"What is it?" Tritia asked as he came back in the house.

"Hell if I know. The water doesn't seem to be turned on." He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the stickiness of the shampoo against his fingers.

"I'll go find out about the water and electricity after breakfast."

"And the phone," Tritia reminded him.

He shook his head disgustedly as he walked back into the bathroom. "And the phone."

The department of water and power was located in a small brown prefab building adjoining Town Hall. Doug drove slowly over the speed bump that separated the parking lot from the street, and pulled into a marked space next to one of the town's three police cars. He got out of the Bronco without bothering to lock it and strode across the asphalt to the glass doors of the front entrance. The top of his head felt strange and he realized that he could still sense the subtle stiffness of dried shampoo in his hair.

The girl behind the counter seemed young enough to be one of his students, but her face didn't look familiar. She was bent over the keyboard of an Apple computer, studiously watching her fingers hunt and peck through the alphabet, not even bothering to look up when he entered the office.

He cleared his throat loudly. "Excuse me."

"Be with you in a sec," the girl said. She examined the screen before her, then pressed a series of keys, intently watching their effect.

Doug looked around the office. It was small and poorly furnished, the walls covered with cheap paneling and framed documents. An empty desk across from the girl's was covered with layers of paperwork. Against one wall was a series of gray metal file cabinets.

The girl pressed another key, then, nodding, stood up and approached the counter. She was pretty and her smile appeared to be genuine, but the expression on her face was terminally vacuous. "How may I help you, sir?"

"Last night, around nine o'clock, our electricity went out. We thought at first that it was just a blackout, but the power never came back on. Then, this morning, our water was shut off. I went out to check the pipes, but there was nothing wrong. The meter said we had no water pressure at all. I want to get both our water and electricity turned back on."

The girl retreated to her computer. "Can I have your name and address?"

"DougAlbin . Lot Four-fifty-three, Trail End Drive."

One key at a time, the girl punched his name and address into the computer. She examined the screen before her. "According to our records, you notified us that you wished to discontinue service."

"Discontinue service? Why the hell would I do that?"

"I don't know, sir." She stood up. "Here, let me check. We should have your letter on file."

"My letter?"

"According to our records, you sent us a letter last Thursday." She walked across the office to the file cabinets. After a few moments of searching through a row of forms' and papers, she pulled out a single sheet of typing paper stapled to a business envelope. "Here it is." She returned, handing him the paper.

He scanned the typed text, reading aloud: " 'Dear Sirs, On June 12, my family will be moving to California, where I have taken a job with the Anaheim Unified School District. Please disconnect my electricity on June 11 and my water on June 12. Thank you.' " He glanced up sharply. "What is this?"

The girl looked confused. "I don't know what you mean, sir. You didn't send us that letter?"

"I most certainly did not. Now I want my electricity and water turned back on, and I want you to find out who did send it."

"Well maybe it was a joke. Maybe one of your friends --"

"It's not a joke, and I don't think it's funny." His hands were shaking, and he put them up on the counter. He realized that he was being unnecessarily harsh with this girl, that he was taking his anger out on her though she obviously knew nothing, but there was a sickening feeling beginning to form in the pit of his stomach, a feeling of helplessness, a feeling that he was being dragged into something he could not hope to fight against, and it made him want to yell at someone. He closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down. "I'm sorry," he said. "Just turn my water and electricity back on."

"It'll be this afternoon before we'll be able to put a man on it," she said. "There's a five-dollar hookup charge --"

"Look," Doug said, keeping his voice intentionally low and even, "you guys screwed up. You turned off my water and electricity without me asking you to, and I'm sure as hell not going to pay for your mistake."

The girl stiffened, her manner suddenly defensive. "It's not technically our mistake. We received a letter --"

"I'm not going to waste my day playing word games," Doug said. "Let me speak to your supervisor."

"The manager's out of the office right now, but I can leave your name and number and have him call you when he returns."

"Do that. And do you think you could have my water and power turned back on? My wife and son would like to take a bath sometime today, and it would be nice if we could cook our dinner tonight."

The girl nodded. "We'll get this straightened out. I'm sorry for any inconvenience." Her voice was conciliatory, with a hint of worry in it, and he realized that she was worried about what he would say to her supervisor.

"It's not your fault," he told her. "I don't mean to take it out on you.

I'm just frustrated right now."

"I understand. And I'll have the manager call you as soon as he returns,"

she promised.

"Thanks." He turned and walked out the door, reaching into his pocket for his car keys.

His hands were still shaking.

His anger grew stronger after his trip to the phone company. Here, again, they had received a letter supposedly from him telling them to discontinue service, but when he asked them to reconnect his phone, they told him there would be a twenty-dollar charge and that the earliest phone service could be reinstated would be Thursday. He went up the office hierarchy, telling his tale to increasingly authoritarian men until he had reached the district manager, who told him, unequivocally, that service would be reinstituted only after he paid the charge and that the earliest possible hookup date would be Wednesday. He could, if he so desired, file a refund request explaining the particulars of his situation. The request would be sent to Mountain Bell headquarters and its merit judged there.

He angrily pulled out of the small parking lot and nearly backed into old Mrs. Buford, who honked her horn at him. She yelled something he could not understand through her closed window. He waved his apology.

Letters.

Who would send letters to the phone company and the water and power company asking them to discontinue his service?

No, not who? Why? He already knew who had sent the letters, or at least had a good idea who'd done it.

The mailman.

John Smith.

It was not logical, and he had no idea why the mailman would do such a thing, but there was no doubt in his mind that it had been he who'd sent the false messages. There was something about the almost perfect calligraphy of the forged signature that reminded him of the professional-caliber speaking voice of the mailman. There was fear mixed in with his anger, but anger definitely had the upper hand, and he drove directly to the post office, intending to voice his opinions, his suspicions, his accusations to Howard.

The parking lot was crowded, but a Jeep was pulling out just as he arrived, and Doug quickly drove into the spot. He picked up the envelopes from the seat next to him. They were still damp, the paper smooth and softly pliable against his fingers. He nodded politely to the old men seated on the bench outside the building, then pushed open the door.

The first thing he noticed was the heat. It was warm outside, but it was absolutely hellish in here. The air was humid and stagnant; nothing came out of the ceiling vents, and the familiar low whistle of the swamp cooler was absent.

The office was crowded anyway, though. Six or seven people stood in line, letters and packages in hand, and he could smell the sickeningly tart odor of women's perfume and men's deodorant mixed with the scent of freshly flowing sweat. He glanced toward the counter, but Howard was not there. Instead, the mailman stood behind the front desk, talking in low patient tones to the elderly female customer before him. There was sincerity in his voice and on the expression of his face, but it was a false smarmy sincerity, the superficial interest shown by a salesman to a mark, and Doug found the mailman's attitude both condescending and offensive.

The mailman was not sweating.

Doug tried to peek behind the paneled partition in back of the mailman to find out if Howard was somewhere in the rear of the post office, but he could not see anything. He was surprised that Howard would let the new man take charge of the front counter, particularly after what the postmaster had revealed to them the other night. He could not remember ever seeing Ronda within the post office unless it was to pick up or drop off a batch of mail, and he had never seen anyone besides Howard working behind the counter.

Somehow that made Doug even angrier.

The old woman accepted the change given to her by the mailman, put it in her purse, and turned to walk away. Doug quickly stepped past the other patrons up to the counter. "Excuse me," he said shortly. "I'd like to talk to Howard."

The mailman looked at him, with a hint of a smile playing about his thin lips. "There were other people in line before you, sir. Please wait your turn."

His eyes rested for a second on the soggy letters in Doug's hand. He said nothing and his eyes betrayed no recognition, but his smile grew broader.

"Could you just call him out here for a moment?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Please wait your turn."

He was about to argue, but when he turned to look at the people behind him, he saw them gazing at him with impatience. "Fine," he said. He moved to the rear of the line.

Ten minutes later he finally moved up to the counter. He had been watching the mailman constantly, studying him, looking for a trace of anything out of the ordinary, but aside from his air of natural superiority there seemed to be nothing amiss. The mailman did not look at him once.

The fear and the anger were in about equal portions now.

He stepped up to the counter, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his palm. "I'd like to talk to Howard."

"Mr. Crowell is not here today."