“But we gotta do something about that fucker, you know?” Hobie’s voice was serious, intense. He looked directly into Doug’s eyes, and what Doug saw there as he looked back frightened him. He glanced quickly away.

“You’re with me on this, right? I mean, you’re the one who first found out about him.”

“Yes,” Doug said. “But…”

“But what?”

“Just don’t do anything stupid, okay? We’ll get him, but just don’t do anything dangerous. Be careful.”

Hobie stood up. “I have to go. I have to get back to the pool.”

“The pool’s closed today,” Doug reminded him gently.

“Yeah,” Hobie said. He shook his head absentmindedly as he walked across the porch and down the steps. “I been forgetting a lot of things lately.”

“Be careful,” Doug said again as his friend got into the truck. Tritia came out on the porch and stood next to him, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Both of them waved as Hobie backed up and swung onto the road.

Hobie did not wave back.

24

Doug and Tritia walked out to the mailbox together.

It was strange how such a benign object, an inanimate hunk of hollow metal, could within such a short time have taken on such a malevolent, threatening quality. They walked across the crunching gravel slowly, solemnly, with trepidation, as if approaching a gallows or guillotine. They said nothing, not speaking, almost afraid to speak.

The morning was overcast, unusual for late June, and Doug wondered if perhaps the rains would come early this year. The thought disturbed him somehow. It was not unheard of, not even that unusual, but the fact that all of this strangeness was accompanied by a shift in traditional weather patterns gave the entire situation a broader, more cosmic quality. Ordinarily, he would have dismissed such an obviously ludicrous idea, but these were not ordinary times. Both Trish and Billy had been withdrawn and uncommunicative the past few days, Billy downright sullen, and he suspected that each of them had seen something, though neither would admit it.

That was scary, Doug thought. They had always been a close family, had always shared everything, but now they were drifting apart, becoming more private, more closed with one another. And he didn’t know what to do about it.

They reached the mailbox. As if it was a ritual they had performed before or an act they had practiced and worked out ahead of time, Doug opened the box and Tritia withdrew the envelopes.

There were two of them, one for each.

Tritia looked at him questioningly, handing him his envelope.

In answer, Doug tore it open. The envelope was empty.

Tritia’s face was pinched, tense, as she opened hers. There was a letter inside and she took it out, unfolding it. She scanned the page, face blank, unreadable, then looked up at him. “Who,” she asked, “is Michelle?”

Doug was puzzled. “Michelle?”