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Back THE MAILMAN
Chapters (57)
  1. DEDICATION
  2. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55

The pit was filled with bodies and parts of bodies, eyes staring upward, hands fallen limply over torsos. In the split second before he shut his eyes against the horror, Billy saw an alternating color scheme of pink flesh, red blood, and white bone, and he thought he saw, somewhere near the top of the pile near his feet, amid a tangle of arms and legs, fingers and toes, the bottom portion of the professor’s face.

Billy awoke from the nightmare drenched with sweat, his mouth dry. For a second, the loft seemed strange, facing the wrong direction, the individual elements of its composition, the furniture and posters, slightly off. Then his brain kicked into its awake mode and everything fell neatly into place.

Well, not everything.

For the images of his dream stayed with him, not as something he had viewed secondhand, like a movie or a regular dream, but as a five-sensory recollection of an actual event, something he had actually experienced, and try as he might to repeat to himself, “It’s only a dream It’s only a dream It’s only a dream,” something inside him told him it was not.

27

“It’s gotten to the point,” Irene said, “where I’m afraid to open the mail.”

Tritia, seated on the antique love seat, nodded. “I know what you mean. The first thing I do these days is check the return address. If it’s unfamiliar, I toss it.”

“I throw away all mail, even letters from people I’ve known for years. The last one I opened was from Bill Simms, accusing me of poisoning his dog. Can you believe that?” The old woman licked her lips nervously, and Tritia realized that her friend was frightened. Badly frightened. She frowned. Irene was not a woman who was easily scared, and Tritia was unnerved by the sight of her in such an uncharacteristic state. Something other than a few hate letters had made her so fearful.

Tritia put down her glass of iced tea. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s the matter? This is more than just Bill Simms.”

Irene shook her head. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, dammit! Tell me.”

Surprised by the vehemence of her reaction, Irene stared at her. Then she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “You want to know what it is? Come here.” Her voice was low, conspiratorial, tinged with more than a hint of fear.