On the ridge, he had hitched a ride back with Jeff Brickman, the officer who had volunteered to return to the station and coordinate communication while the other men figured out how to bring up the bodies. Jeff was going to try to get through to the county sheriff’s office or the state police, and Doug seriously hoped he succeeded. For now, the policemen were following Mike, but he could already see them falling into disarray with the regular chain of command broken. When he had left, they were almost to the drawing-straws level of assigning responsibilities. It frightened Doug to see how easily such a trained group of individuals, such a structured organization, could fall apart, and he was glad when he was once again in the Bronco and driving.

He wondered now what the police were doing.

He thought of calling, but decided against it.

He finished off the last swallow of his fifth beer and stared up at the stars. Far above, one of the lighter heavenly bodies was traveling west to east in a steady line. A satellite. Lower, he saw the blinking lights of an airplane pass by, though the airplane made no sound.

Outside Willis, the world continued on.

He had called Tritia every half-hour, but she kept telling him there was no change, Billy was still sleeping. The last call had obviously woken her up, and she had irritably told him to stop calling, she would tell him when something happened.

Stop calling.

He wondered if she blamed him for what had happened.

He lay back in the soft seat, unmoving, unthinking, ready himself to drift drowsily into sleep, when he realized suddenly that the atmosphere had changed. Something was not quite right. He sat up, alert and awake. The crickets were silent, he noticed. There was no sound, no noise at all.

Yes, there was a noise.

From up the road, from the direction of the Nelsons’, he heard the low purr of an engine drawing closer.

He froze, unable to react, unable to do anything.

The sound approached, growing louder in the stillness. He wanted to run and hide, to get into the house and lock the door and shut the curtains, but he remained in place.

And there it was, at the far end of the drive, the red car of the mailman, pulling in front of the mailbox.

He was dead. Doug had seen him shot, had seen him fall over the edge of the ridge. He was dead.

Doug stared at the red car. The driver’s window rolled partially down and a white hand emerged from the dark interior, placed a letter in the box, then waved tauntingly good-bye as the car pulled away.

It was several moments later before the crickets started up again.