He wasn’t feeling that good himself. He’d gone to the police yesterday with his new information about the mailman, but they had treated him as if he was a chronic complainer, someone who consistently came to them with false information based on his own paranoid delusions. He had asked to see Mike but was told that the young policeman was off for the day, and instead he told his story to Jack Shipley, who humored him with the sort of condescending agreement usually reserved for drunks and crazies. As patiently and rationally as he knew how, he explained the facts, told Shipley that he believed impersonating a postal worker was a punishable crime and that everything he said could be verified by calling the main branch of the post office in Phoenix. The officer had said he would follow up on the information Doug had given him, but it was clear that he probably would not.

What could he do when the whole town was going to hell in a handbasket and the damn police were too blind to see it and too dumb to act on it when it was pointed out to them?

He could not help wondering how the mailman was spending his time today, what he was doing for the Fourth. There was no mail delivery on the holiday, but somehow he just couldn’t see the mailman eating hot dogs and apple pie and participating in patriotic celebrations.

The day was hot and at the afternoon softball game the mood was ugly. There were barely enough men for two teams, and it was clear that most of those who had volunteered to play had done so out of obligation. The game was hard and dirty, with balls thrown intentionally at batters, hits aimed purposefully at pitchers. The spectators seemed to thrive on the nastiness and were soon yelling for blood. In the past, the competition had been light and friendly, with neighbors and families good-naturedly cheering on their teams. But today it was a cutthroat crowd, bent on violence. A fistfight broke out among two of the players, another among members of the audience. No one moved to stop either brawl.

Doug, Tritia, and Billy stayed for only a while, then moved on to the barbecue. The food was bad: hot dogs and hamburgers dry and burnt, Cokes flat and warm. The familiar sight of Ben Stockley, intruding on family get-togethers with his camera, bothering the town officials with detailed questions they could not answer, conspicuously doing his job on a day when all others were having a holiday, was also missed; it contributed to the rather grim atmosphere that prevailed over this Fourth.