The words were so simple yet so totally unexpected that they caught him off guard. Howard wasn't here? Howard was always here. "Is he sick?" he asked.

"Yes he is. May I help you?"

Doug glared at the man. "Maybe you can. My family and I went on a picnic by Clear Creek yesterday, and we found unopened, undelivered mail strewn along the banks of the creek."

A light smile played across the mailman's lips. " 'Strewn?' "

His mocking intonation was so much like Tritia 's that Doug faltered for a second. But he recovered almost immediately and put the envelopes on the counter. "Here are a few pieces of mail we rescued."

The mailman reached for the envelopes, but Doug drew them back. "I'm going to give these to Howard."

"I'm sorry. It is the duty and responsibility of the postal service to deliver mail. It is against the law for you to retain undelivered items."

Doug could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He was sweating profusely now and again he wiped his forehead. "These all seem to be bills," he said. "And there were hundreds of more bills at the creek. Now, I haven't been getting my regular bills lately. In fact, I don't think I've gotten a bill since your predecessor died. I don't know what's going on, but a large chunk of my mail seems to be disappearing."

"I haven't gotten my bills lately either," the man in back of him said.

Doug watched the mailman's face for a reaction, for a sign that he had hit a nerve. He'd expected the mailman to glare at him, to get angry, to somehow tip his hand and admit that he'd been dumping the mail at the creek, but the mailman's face remained serenely neutral.

"I promise that we will look into these complaints as soon as possible,"

the mailman said. His voice was pleasant, unperturbed, calmly reassuring. "Do you have anything else, Mr.Albin ?"

"Just that someone's been sending letters to the department of water and power telling them to cut off my water and electricity. The same person sent a letter to the phone company telling them to disconnect my phone. I believe that's mail fraud."

"Yes it is, Mr.Albin . And I assure you we will look into it immediately.

I will tell Mr. Crowell of your concerns."

Doug looked into the mailman's eyes and saw in them a blank hardness that bored right through him and made him want to glance away, but he forced himself to hold contact. The sweat felt cold on his body. "Thank you," he said tersely.

The mailman stretched out a thin pale hand. "Now would you please hand over the undelivered mail in your possession?"

Doug shook his head. "Take me to court. I'm giving these to Howard."

"Fine," the mailman said, his voice eminently reasonable. "Now, would you please step aside? There are other people waiting behind you, Mr.Albin ."

Doug turned away from the counter and strode out of the post office to his car. It was not until he was halfway home that he remembered that he had not told the mailman his name.

The mailman had simply known.

12.

Hobiearrived home feeling good. The pool had been crowded today, and not just with kids. A gaggle of women in their early to mid-twenties had arrived in the afternoon and had taken up residence near the deep end of the pool, far away from the children and their mothers. Before their arrival he had been casually scoping out Mrs. Farris, who was trim and fit and wore a pinkish-peach bathing suit that became nearly see-through when it was wet, but his attention shifted as the new group set up their towels and broke out the tanning lotion. They all had the brown smooth bodies of aerobic instructors, and they all had incredibly great tits. One of them, a brunette, was wearing a modified string bikini, and when she bent over, he could see almost up the crack of her perfectly formed ass. The others wore brightly trendy swimsuits cut so close to the crotch that he knew they had to shave.

It had been a damn good day.

He pulled out his keys and opened the door, taking his mail out of the box before walking inside.

AlthoughHobie lived in a large brown-and-white mobile home near the center of town, just down the road from the shopping center in what was admittedly not the best section of Willis, he was comfortable with his place of residence. The houses here were close together and not as nice as those in the rest of town, but that suited him just fine. No one bothered him, no one told him to turn down his stereo, no one told him to clean up his yard or get rid of his automobiles. He knew that his property looked like a miniature junkyard.

There was no lawn to speak of, only flat dirt, and there was a 1974 Vega and a 1979Datsun parked in the front and a 1965 Mustang on blocks in the back. His carport was littered with various auto parts and two old engine blocks. But he didn't mind it, and neither did his neighbors.

The inside of the trailer was nicer. He kept it up, even though he lived alone, and it wasn't bad, if he did say so himself. He tossed his shades on the front table and went into the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge. He popped open the tab, took a swig, and glanced at the return addresses on the envelopes in his hand: his mother, the Classic Mustang Club, his paycheck from the district.

One piece of mail, a long yellowish envelope, had no return address at all, and he turned it over in his hand. Both the front and back were covered with smeared brownish red fingerprints. Frowning, he put down his beer and tore the envelope open. Inside were two photographs paper-clipped together. The top one showed a nude Oriental girl of fifteen or sixteen lying on a flat straw mat.

He stared at the picture. The girl was beautiful, with large almond-shaped eyes and a full sensuous mouth. She was spread-eagled, legs in the air, the dark folds of her vagina clearly visible through her sparse black pubic hair.

He unfastened the paper clip. The bottom photo showed the same teenage Oriental girl on the same straw mat.

But her head had been cut off and placed on top of her stomach.

On the photo were the same smudged brownish red fingerprints as on the envelope.

He felt suddenly sick to his stomach. Against his will, he had been aroused by the first picture of the girl. She was young, but she was gorgeous and her body looked luscious, inviting. But the second photo was like a punch to the gut. He closed his eyes, turning the picture over so he wouldn't have to look at it, but he could still see in his mind the girl's dead staring eyes and round-O mouth, the twisted veins and tubes protruding like spaghetti from her open throat, and the puddle, no, _pool_ of blood spreading outward from her neck across the mat.

Who would have sent him such a thing? Who could have sent him such a thing? And why?

And what about those fingerprints?

He quickly crumpled up the photos and the envelope they'd come in and dropped the whole thing in the trash. He washed his hands off in the sink, scrubbing them with Lava the way he did when trying to get grease off his fingers. The kitchen seemed darker than it had before, although the sun would not set for another two hours, and he flipped on the lights, grabbing another beer after downing the first in three large successive swallows. He sat down at the table, forcing himself to read the other letters, but even the message from his mother could not cheer him up, and when he tried to recapture his earlier good mood, tried to think again of the bathing beauties at the pool, he saw them lying on the hard concrete, decapitated, their heads placed on their tan stomachs and staring at him with dead open eyes.

13.

Hobiecame over just after breakfast, knocking once, perfunctorily, on the doorjamb before pulling open the screen and walking into the living room. He cocked a finger at Billy, sprawled on the couch. "Hey, sport."

Doug was putting away the last of the breakfast dishes, and he glanced at his watch asHobie headed toward the kitchen. "It's only eight-thirty."

"Yeah, well, the meeting starts at ten, and I figured we should get there ahead of time and discuss things, plan what we're going to say. I tried to call yesterday after I finished at the pool, but a voice kept saying your line had been disconnected."

Doug shook his head. "Someone forged a letter from me and sent it to the telephone company, telling them I was moving and wanted my phone service stopped."

Hobielaughed. "Really?"

"They sent a letter to the department of water and power, telling them to cut off my water and electricity too."

Hobie'ssmile faded. "That's a little more serious. One letter might be a joke, but two . . ." He shook his head. "Who do you figure it was?"

The mailman, Doug wanted to say, but he shrugged instead.

"You think it was a student? Who did you flunk this year?"

"No one. Besides, I don't think I had any students who hated me this time.

The closest I can figure is Duke Johnson, but even he didn't dislike me that much."

"And even if he did, he wouldn't be smart enough to think up something like this."

"Exactly."

"Did you call the cops?"

"I told them everything and gave them copies of the letter, but they said there wasn't a whole hell of a lot they could do."

Hobiesnorted. "What else is new?"

Doug wiped the counter and hung up the dishtowel. "You want to head over there now?"

"Yeah. I called Mark Pettigrew, and he's going to meet us there. I tried calling the coach and Donovan, but neither of them was home. I think they're on vacation. I heard Donovan say something about going up to Durango."

"All right, let's get it over with, then." Doug stepped into the hall and knocked on the bathroom door. "Hobie'shere. I'm going."

"Okay," Tritia said through the closed door. "Good luck. I hope you get your books."

"I'm not holding my breath." He returned through the kitchen into the living room.Hobie opened the screen door and stepped outside. Doug turned to his son, still on the couch. "I'll be back around lunch. Mind your mother."

"I always do."

Doug laughed. "That'll be the day." He followedHobie onto the porch and the two of them walked out to the auto teacher's truck.

"Speaking of water and electricity, I didn't get my utilities bill this month,"Hobie said.

"We haven't gotten any bills at all."

"Come to think of it, I haven't either.Ain't that weird? I shouldn't say anything bad about this new guy -- I mean, he's just getting started, just learning the ropes and all -- but I think he's losing a lot of mail. I usually get a ton of mail every day. Lately, though, I've been getting two or three letters at the most, some days nothing at all."

Doug climbed into the cab and slammed the door, digging his safety belt out of the crack of the seat. "Bills and junk mail, right? You're missing bills and junk mail."

"Yeah."Hobie seemed surprised. "You too, huh? Maybe I should go in and talk to Crowell and bitch about this, find out what's going on." He started the truck and backed up the drive, swinging around on the road.

They took off, a spray of gravel shooting up behind them. Doug held on to the dashboard with one hand for support. Although he taught driver'sed ,Hobie himself was a scary driver and Doug needed as much reassurance as possible whenever he went someplace in his friend's truck.

As they drove through the trees toward town, he toldHobie of their picnic at the creek, of the dumped and scattered letters. He reported the facts objectively. He didn't come out and say that he thought the mailman had been stealing and dumping mail, that he thought the mailman had sent the fake letters to the telephone company and department of water and power, but the implication was unmistakable. The other teacher's face became more serious and more set as he spoke.

Hobiewas silent as they drove past the trailer park and turned left onto the highway. "There's a lot of weird things going on," he said finally. "A lot of weird things."

Doug asked him what he meant, if he had experienced anything unusual connected with the mail, but he frowned and shook his head and refused to answer, and they were both silent as they drove through town toward the school.

Willis High was separated from the town proper by an especially large stand of oaks and acacias and ponderosas, and was located next to the Edward G.

Willis Memorial Park. The football field had been constructed at one end of a natural meadow, and the pool, which was shared jointly by the school and the park, was located at the opposite end.

There was a crowd at the school when they arrived, a large group of people standing near the open door of the gym. In the faculty parking lot were two police cars and an ambulance, lights flashing, although neither Doug norHobie had heard a siren all morning. Doug glanced over at his friend, then out the window at the scene before them. A strange feeling had come over him. He was at once surprised and not surprised, tense and numb, as he looked at the crowd. He knew this was going to be bad.

"Something happened," he said simply.

Hobiepulled the truck under a tree for shade, and they got out, hurrying across the dirt to the gym. Several other teachers were there, as well as nearby residents and one of theschoolboard members.

Doug walked up to Jim Maxwell, who taught ninth-grade social studies.

"What is it?"

"Bernie Rogers hung himself in the gym."

Doug looked atHobie , shocked, feeling as if someone had just kicked him in the stomach. He did not know what he' had been expecting, but it had not been this. A senior who had graduated with honors, Bernie Rogers had been one of those rare students who was into both academics and athletics. The basketball team's star forward, he had scored in the top 10 percent nationally on his SATs and was the only senior this year to have passed the Advanced Placement tests for both history and English. He was also the only student Doug could remember who had taken both his American Literature class andHobie's Advanced Auto, and had excelled in each.

"Lemmesee,"Hobie said, pushing his way through the crowd toward the door. Doug followed, jostling past people until he was through the door and inside the gym.

Bernie was naked, his body bluish and bloated, blackened blood dripping in uneven rivulets from where the rope had cut into his neck. It looked as though he had been there for several days. Below him on the smooth wood of the gym floor was a puddle of hardened urine and feces, some of which had run down the inside of his thighs and now hung like stalactites from his feet. The boy's eyes were wide open and staring, focused on nothing, surprisingly white against his darkened skin.

Doug felt sick to his stomach, but he could not look away. A note was pinned onto Bernie's chest, the pins shoved deep into his skin, dried blood dripping down the page in a jagged wave, obscuring whatever words had been written. The boy had obviously put the noose around his neck and leapt from the top of the closed bleachers, and Doug found himself staring into the rafters high above, wondering how Bernie could have possibly tied the end of the rope up there without the aid of a ladder. Two policemen, a photographer, and a medical examiner stood off to the side of the gently swinging body in a tight group, talking among themselves. Two ambulance attendants stood next to the far wall, waiting. Another policeman kept the crowd from getting too close.

"Jesus,"Hobie breathed. The usual bravado, aggressiveness, was gone from his voice, and his face was bleached, pale. He stepped aside as two other policemen, one carrying long-handled shears, the other a retractable stepladder, pressed through the gym door behind him. "I knew Bernie," he said. "He was a good kid."

Doug nodded. He watched silently as the policemen set up the ladder and cut down the body. Apparently, the photographer had taken his pictures before they'd gotten there. Bernie's form was stiff, unmoving, legs and arms still frozen in the position in which they'd been hanging, but the men laid him down as carefully as they could on the floor, on top of a white plastic tarp spread by one of the ambulance attendants. The medical examiner moved forward to have a look, crouching down on one knee and opening his black bag.

"I was just talking to him last week," a man said. "After school got out."

Doug looked to his right, to the source of the voice. It was Ed Montgomery, the coach. The portly man's natural hangdog expression had been intensified and cemented with shock. He shook his head slowly back and forth, talking to no one in particular. "He was saying how he was going to get a part time job at the post office this summer to help pay for his schooling in the fall. His scholarship didn't cover books and rent, only tuition."

Doug's ears pricked up at this, and he felt a familiar chill creeping down his back. He moved next to the coach. "He was going to get a job where?"

Ed looked at him blankly. "At the post office. He'd already okayed it with Howard." He shook his head. "I can't understand why he'd do such a thing. He had everything going for him." The coach stopped shaking his head and looked into Doug's eyes, his troubled gaze focused, as if he'd just thought of an idea. "You think maybe he was murdered?"

"I don't know," Doug said. And he didn't. He suddenly wanted very badly to see what was written on that note pinned to the boy's chest. He took a step forward.

"Stay back please," the policeman warned, holding his hand palm-up in Doug's direction.

"I have to see something. I was his teacher."

"Only official personnel and family members are allowed near the body."

"Just for a second."

"Sorry," the policeman said.