They drove all the way to town in silence, Tritia worried beside him, Billy, arms folded across his chest, angry in the back seat. Doug drove into the parking lot of the police station, pulling next to a beat-up Buick. He told Billy to remain in the car, and he and Tritia walked into the building. The desk sergeant on duty came immediately to the front counter when he saw the two of them standing there. “May I help you?” he asked.

Doug glanced around the office. “Where’s Mike?”

“Which Mike?”

“Mike Trenton.”

“I’m sorry, but information concerning the shifts and hours of department employees is confidential.”

“Look, I know him, okay?”

“If you knew him well enough, you wouldn’t have to ask. I’m sorry, but for security reasons we do not give out personal information concerning our officers. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”

“I hope so.” Doug told the sergeant about Hobie and Irene. At first, he left out the details, explaining merely that their friends were being harassed through the mail and had reason to believe that the mailman was behind it, wanting to let the police discover for themselves what had happened. But when the sergeant looked doubtful and started to give him a vague “we’ll-look-into-it” answer, Doug decided to tell all.

“Hobie Beecham has been getting letters from his dead brother,” he said. “Irene Hill was sent a severed toe through the mail. Hobie’s dead drunk right now because of it, passed out on the couch where I left him. Irene’s not answering her phone. Now, do you think, possibly, that you could spare a few minutes from your busy schedule to check this out?”

The sergeant’s attitude had changed completely. He was suddenly eager to help, although there was a strange anxious nervousness to his manner. He took down Doug’s and Tritia’s names and address as well as the addresses of Hobie and Irene.

He knows, Doug thought. He’s been getting mail too.

“I’ll have an officer sent out to interview both Mr. Beecham and Ms. Hill,” the sergeant said.

Doug glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly four. The post office would be open for another hour. “What about John Smith? Are you going to send someone over to the post office to talk to him?”

“Of course.”

“I’m going too,” Doug said.

The sergeant shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid the civilians—”

“Fine.” Doug smiled thinly. “Then I will just go to the post office and happen to be there the same time as your man.” He looked at Tritia. “Let’s go.”

The two of them walked out of the police station without looking back. Doug was sweating and his body was charged with adrenaline. Encounters with authority, even on such a minor level, still made him nervous, although he was getting increasingly used to them.