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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
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  57. 55

The doctor, orderly, and nurses worked busily next to Billy.

Doug squeezed Tritia tightly. “Watch him,” he said. “Take care of him.”

She shivered as he pulled away, rubbing her arms. “Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

“I’ll meet them at the police station. Then we’ll go to the post office.”

They both followed the hospital team as they wheeled the now sleeping and silent Billy into his room, a large private room with a raised color television and two adjoining beds. Doug gave Tritia the pertinent insurance information from his wallet, and she promised to take care of everything.

She followed him out to the waiting room. “Be careful!” she called after him as he walked between the sliding glass doors.

45

Doug ran into the police station. He noticed the difference immediately. No one was working or talking. The room was still and silent. The policemen were standing around the front office, visibly nervous, unsure of what to do. Mike seemed to have taken charge, though there were one or two officers above him in rank, and he alone appeared to be thinking clearly and rationally. He was on the phone, apparently talking to someone important in Phoenix.

There were piles of unopened letters on each of the desks, Doug noticed. The letters were untouched, as if everyone was afraid to go near them.

Mike got off the phone, saw Doug, and hurried over. “Finally,” he said. “How’s your boy?”

Doug nodded. “He’ll be okay.”

“Your wife?”

“All right.”

“Good.” He was holding a letter in his hand, and he handed it to Doug. “Read this.”

Doug looked down at the paper. Scrawled in smeared pencil was a simple sentence:

Your services are no longer needed.

It was not dated, it was not signed.

“We found this in the chief’s hand.”

“Where—?” Doug began.

“Come on.” Mike led him quickly into the hall and down to the closed office at the far end. “Brace yourself.” He opened the door.

Catfield was in his desk chair, facing the door. He had been thrown back against the wall behind the desk and was staring at them. Or would have been staring at them had he had a face. For the shotgun propped on the desk before him had taken off half of his head, including his nose and eyes, leaving only a twisted bloody mess of bone and tissue. Five or six remaining teeth grinned out of the grotesquely misshapen hole that had been a mouth. The diplomas and certificates on the wall were splattered with a Rorschach of blood and brains.

“Jesus,” Doug breathed. He looked at Mike. “You waited to call me?”

“No,” the policeman admitted. “But I didn’t want to argue. We went over to the post office, found nothing. I have five men and six volunteers combing the town right now.”

“Have you tried Howard’s house? That’s where he lives.”