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Back THE MAILMAN Save as PDF
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
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  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
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  39. 37
  40. 38
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  42. 40
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  54. 52
  55. 53
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  57. 55

“You leave him alone, damn you.” Tritia glared at him.

The mailman chuckled.

Doug noticed Giselle backing away from the mailman behind the counter. She looked confused.

“I’m afraid you gentlemen”—the mailman smiled at Tritia—“and ladies will have to excuse me. I have work to do.”

“I haven’t finished talking to you,” Tim said.

“I’m finished talking to you,” the mailman replied, and there was something in his voice that made the rest of them fall silent. They watched him retreat back into the rear of the building.

Giselle tried to smile apologetically, but the smile did not quite work.

“Tell Howard to call me,” Doug told her. “If you ever see him.”

She glanced behind her to make sure she wasn’t being watched, then shook her head slightly from side to side.

“To hell with the search warrant,” Tim said angrily. “I’m going to get an arrest warrant. Let’s get out of here.”

They walked out of the hot dark building and into the fresh outside air. Behind them, from somewhere deep within the post office, they heard the mailman laugh.

32

The next day the telephones went out again, and Doug had to drive into town to discover that the police had questioned Hobie and Irene and that both of them had denied receiving anything unusual in the mail.

He talked to the desk sergeant since neither Mike nor Tim was in the office.

When he drove out to see Hobie afterward, his friend refused to answer the door, pretending not to be home.

Irene did exactly the same thing.

33

Billy awoke early, his nose stuffed, his eyes itchy and watery, the nightmare from which he had awoken all but forgotten in the face of his overwhelming physical discomfort. He sneezed, then sneezed again, wiping his nose on the sheet, since there was no handkerchief handy. It was going to be one of those allergy days. He could feel it. He lay back on the pillow, eyes open. More than once, his parents had talked about taking him up to Flagstaff for tests, to find out exactly what he was allergic to, but when he’d learned that the tests involved needles, he promptly vetoed that idea. There was nothing he hated worse than needles. The allergy was horrible but bearable, usually not lasting more than a day or two at a time, and was infinitely preferable to being poked and scratched and jabbed.