He was almost relieved. Almost. But his satisfaction in discovering that he had forced the mailman to dump the mail elsewhere, to find another spot in which to deposit the town’s real correspondence, was offset by the knowledge that the mailman had been so frighteningly thorough that he had cleaned up the mail he had already dropped there, that, one by one, he had meticulously picked the thousands of envelopes from the water, from the ground, from the trees, from the bushes, and had taken them all away.

Billy was upstairs when Doug arrived home, watching his own TV because Tritia had on Donahue in the living room. The electricity, apparently, had finally been restored. Tritia was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, but Doug made her quit and dragged her into the living room, sitting her down on the couch. He told her what had happened to Hobie, and as she sat silently listening to his story, she grew increasingly pale.

“He’s doing the same thing to Irene,” she said when he was finished.

“What happened?”

She hesitated for only a second. Although she had promised Irene she would tell neither Doug nor the police what had occurred, that promise was no longer valid. Her friend might be in trouble, in danger, and it was more important to help her out than to remain true to some ridiculous promise.

Tritia told him of the toe and of Irene’s husband’s accident, explaining also that she had tried calling four or five times this afternoon but that no one had answered the phone.

“Jesus! Why didn’t you call the police?”

“I didn’t think—”

“That’s right. You didn’t think.” Doug strode across the living room to the phone and picked up the receiver.

The phone was dead.

He slammed it down angrily. “Shit!” He looked over at Tritia. “Come on, get ready. We’re going to talk to the police.” He walked upstairs. Billy was lying in bed, watching Bewitched. “We’re going into town,” Doug told his son. “Put your shoes on.”

Billy did not even look at him. “I want to watch this show.”

“Now!”

“Why can’t I stay here?”

“Because I said you can’t. Now, get your shoes on or that TV goes off permanently.” He clomped back down the stairs, checked the back door to make sure it was locked. Tritia emerged from the bedroom, patting down her hair, a purse slung over her shoulder. Billy’s angry sullen footsteps could be heard on the stairs.

“Let’s go,” Doug said.