The chief eyed him coolly. “The law is not ‘piddly-ass bullshit,’ Mr. Albin. I am well aware of your opinions on this subject, and I’ll be honest and tell you that we are pursuing all avenues in our investigations.”

Mike Trenton, next to the chief, stared silently down at the table.

“Don’t patronize me with that Jack Webb crap. You know as well as I do that something strange is going on here.”

“I don’t tell you how to teach; don’t you tell me how to do my job.” The chief stood up. “I would appreciate it if you would stay out of police business. We are fully capable of handling—”

“ ‘Fully capable?’”

“That is all, Mr. Albin.” The chief put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “I’ve wasted enough of my morning talking to you and listening to your theories. Please do not harass this department again or you’ll find yourself charged with obstruction of justice. Do I make myself understood?”

Doug looked across at Mike, but the young cop was still looking down at the table, refusing to meet his gaze. “Perfectly,” he said.

Doug spent the rest of the day the way he’d wanted to spend the entire summer—sitting on the porch, reading. But try as he might, he could not relax and enjoy himself. He knew he had screwed things up royally at the police station, and the knowledge that he might have lent the mailman legitimacy in the eyes of the police gnawed at him. He should have known better. He should have been more cautious, should have at least maintained the appearance of calm rationality. Instead, he had ranted and raved like a fanatic.

He put down his book and stared out at the trees. Was it possible that he was reading into events interpretations that weren’t there? That he really was suffering from some sort of obsessive delusion?

No.

He had seen the proof with his own eyes.

A bluebird flitted from tree to tree, searching for food, and he watched it impassively. Many of his fellow teachers, he knew, lived in little academic worlds of their own, completely disassociated from the life around them. He could not do that. It would be nice if he could, but fortunately, or unfortunately, he lived in the real world. He was affected by politics, by economics, by the weather.

By the mailman.

That was one thing he’d learned the past two weeks: how much he was affected by the mail, how much the mail intruded on all aspects of his life.

“Doug!”

He looked up. Trish was standing in the doorway, holding open the screen.

“You want to have lunch on the porch or inside?”

He shrugged noncommittally and picked up the book from his lap.