There was no need for him to be nervous or worried or intimidated, he told himself. He was taking control in this crisis because he had to, because he was the only one who knew what had to be done. He had to think positively. There was no room for doubt. Not now. There was too much at stake. This was no time for indecision. They had to fight the mailman with everything they had, with their combined faith and belief. They had to do it or die.

The crowd was silenced immediately; he did not even have to raise his hand. The talking died down, and parents hushed the crying of their children. Only the wailing of a few small babies disturbed the stillness.

“You all know why you’re here,” Doug began. “Why we’re here. We’re here to free our town from the tyranny of the mailman. He has held us captive all summer, has used the mails to pit brother against brother, friend against friend. He has stopped our utilities, disrupted our lives, ruined our relationships. He has killed directly or indirectly, and he has brought our town to this.” He gestured before him, toward the world outside the walls. The people were silent. He had their attention. “Many of you may not know it, but we found Howard Crowell yesterday in his home. Dead.”

A wave of words passed through the crowd.

“He killed my Darla too!” David Adams called out. His voice was frightened, close to hysteria. “He promised her things! He lied about me and he made her… he made her…” David’s voice trailed off.

“My business is ruined because of that son of a bitch!” Hunt James announced. “And so is Dr. Elliott’s! He spread rumors about us and these assholes believed it!” He motioned toward the people surrounding him.

And now a lot of voices were speaking at once, people standing, yelling, screaming, competing for attention.

“—knew my mother had a heart condition!”

“—We’ve always paid our bills on time! Always!”

“—never hurt an animal in my life!”

“—illegal to send those kinds of things through the mail! Those videotapes! And those rubber—”

Doug held up his hands for silence. It took a few moments, but when the crowd quieted down, he continued. “We have to get him out of our town,” he said. “We have to exorcise him.”

“Let him do the rope exercise!” someone called out.

Doug shook his head. “Lynching won’t work.”

In the front row of the bleachers right before him, Tril Allison, the owner of Allison’s Lumber, stood up. He was not used to public speaking, and he shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Next to him on the bleachers sat his sons, Dennis and Tad, both of whom had been in Doug’s English classes last semester. Tril cleared his throat. “What is the mailman?” he asked.