On an impulse, Doug pulled to a stop on the side of the road just after the crossing. It was midafternoon and the cicadas were out in force, their airplane humming the only counterpoint to the muted splash-babble of the stream. Near the road, the banks of the creek were narrow and rocky, with saplings creating a maze out of any attempted walkway. He was wearing his good tennis shoes and he knew he should stick to the bank no matter how awkward it was, but he stepped into the middle of the stream itself, waiting for a moment for his feet to acclimatize themselves to the coldness of the water before heading upstream.

He began wading purposefully upstream, toward the spot where Billy had discovered the mail. He had not been here since the day of the picnic, though he had thought of it often. Somehow, he had never heard whether the police had checked out the creek. They had taken his soggy samples, and Mike had confronted the mailman with them, but he did not recall hearing that the creek had been investigated.

Maybe he’d just forgotten.

Maybe not.

He was acutely aware of the loneliness of this place, of its relative inaccessibility. High cliffs rose up on both sides of the creek, and the sounds of man were nonexistent. Geographically, this area was not really remote; it was a mile or so from town, and fairly close to their settled section of the forest. But the lay of the land ensured that the creek remained as removed from civilization as the most out-of-the-way corner of the Tonto.

He moved forward. It was stupid of him to have come here by himself without telling anyone where he was going. He should have at least called Trish. If something happened to him…

He passed the spot near the path where they’d had their picnic and continued wading through the water. The bend was just ahead. How much mail would be there now? he wondered. Maybe it would not have been just dumped randomly. Maybe the mailman was now using the discarded mail for a purpose. He saw in his mind a mail city, small shacks constructed next to the creek from millions of dumped envelopes, letters meticulously arranged into foundations and floors, walls and roofs.

But that was crazy.

What wasn’t crazy these days?

He stood just before the final turn, listening for any unnatural sounds, but could hear only the water and the cicadas. He moved slowly forward and peeked around the bend.

There was nothing there.

The mail was gone.