He stared at the picture. The girl was beautiful, with large almond-shaped eyes and a full sensuous mouth. She was spread-eagled, legs in the air, the dark folds of her vagina clearly visible through her sparse black pubic hair.
He unfastened the paper clip. The bottom photo showed the same teenage Oriental girl on the same straw mat.
But her head had been cut off and placed on top of her stomach.
On the photo were the same smudged brownish red fingerprints as on the envelope.
He felt suddenly sick to his stomach. Against his will, he had been aroused by the first picture of the girl. She was young, but she was gorgeous and her body looked luscious, inviting. But the second photo was like a punch to the gut. He closed his eyes, turning the picture over so he wouldn't have to look at it, but he could still see in his mind the girl's dead staring eyes and round-O mouth, the twisted veins and tubes protruding like spaghetti from her open throat, and the puddle, no, _pool_ of blood spreading outward from her neck across the mat.
Who would have sent him such a thing? Who could have sent him such a thing? And why?
And what about those fingerprints?
He quickly crumpled up the photos and the envelope they'd come in and dropped the whole thing in the trash. He washed his hands off in the sink, scrubbing them with Lava the way he did when trying to get grease off his fingers. The kitchen seemed darker than it had before, although the sun would not set for another two hours, and he flipped on the lights, grabbing another beer after downing the first in three large successive swallows. He sat down at the table, forcing himself to read the other letters, but even the message from his mother could not cheer him up, and when he tried to recapture his earlier good mood, tried to think again of the bathing beauties at the pool, he saw them lying on the hard concrete, decapitated, their heads placed on their tan stomachs and staring at him with dead open eyes.
13
Hobiecame over just after breakfast, knocking once, perfunctorily, on the doorjamb before pulling open the screen and walking into the living room. He cocked a finger at Billy, sprawled on the couch. "Hey, sport."
Doug was putting away the last of the breakfast dishes, and he glanced at his watch asHobie headed toward the kitchen. "It's only eight-thirty."
"Yeah, well, the meeting starts at ten, and I figured we should get there ahead of time and discuss things, plan what we're going to say. I tried to call yesterday after I finished at the pool, but a voice kept saying your line had been disconnected."
Doug shook his head. "Someone forged a letter from me and sent it to the telephone company, telling them I was moving and wanted my phone service stopped."
Hobielaughed. "Really?"
"They sent a letter to the department of water and power, telling them to cut off my water and electricity too."
Hobie'ssmile faded. "That's a little more serious. One letter might be a joke, but two . . ." He shook his head. "Who do you figure it was?"
The mailman, Doug wanted to say, but he shrugged instead.
"You think it was a student? Who did you flunk this year?"
"No one. Besides, I don't think I had any students who hated me this time.
The closest I can figure is Duke Johnson, but even he didn't dislike me that much."
"And even if he did, he wouldn't be smart enough to think up something like this."
"Exactly."
"Did you call the cops?"
"I told them everything and gave them copies of the letter, but they said there wasn't a whole hell of a lot they could do."
Hobiesnorted. "What else is new?"
Doug wiped the counter and hung up the dishtowel. "You want to head over there now?"
"Yeah. I called Mark Pettigrew, and he's going to meet us there. I tried calling the coach and Donovan, but neither of them was home. I think they're on vacation. I heard Donovan say something about going up to Durango."
"All right, let's get it over with, then." Doug stepped into the hall and knocked on the bathroom door. "Hobie'shere. I'm going."
"Okay," Tritia said through the closed door. "Good luck. I hope you get your books."
"I'm not holding my breath." He returned through the kitchen into the living room.Hobie opened the screen door and stepped outside. Doug turned to his son, still on the couch. "I'll be back around lunch. Mind your mother."
"I always do."
Doug laughed. "That'll be the day." He followedHobie onto the porch and the two of them walked out to the auto teacher's truck.
"Speaking of water and electricity, I didn't get my utilities bill this month,"Hobie said.
"We haven't gotten any bills at all."
"Come to think of it, I haven't either.Ain't that weird? I shouldn't say anything bad about this new guy -- I mean, he's just getting started, just learning the ropes and all -- but I think he's losing a lot of mail. I usually get a ton of mail every day. Lately, though, I've been getting two or three letters at the most, some days nothing at all."
Doug climbed into the cab and slammed the door, digging his safety belt out of the crack of the seat. "Bills and junk mail, right? You're missing bills and junk mail."
"Yeah."Hobie seemed surprised. "You too, huh? Maybe I should go in and talk to Crowell and bitch about this, find out what's going on." He started the truck and backed up the drive, swinging around on the road.
They took off, a spray of gravel shooting up behind them. Doug held on to the dashboard with one hand for support. Although he taught driver'sed ,Hobie himself was a scary driver and Doug needed as much reassurance as possible whenever he went someplace in his friend's truck.
As they drove through the trees toward town, he toldHobie of their picnic at the creek, of the dumped and scattered letters. He reported the facts objectively. He didn't come out and say that he thought the mailman had been stealing and dumping mail, that he thought the mailman had sent the fake letters to the telephone company and department of water and power, but the implication was unmistakable. The other teacher's face became more serious and more set as he spoke.
Hobiewas silent as they drove past the trailer park and turned left onto the highway. "There's a lot of weird things going on," he said finally. "A lot of weird things."
Doug asked him what he meant, if he had experienced anything unusual connected with the mail, but he frowned and shook his head and refused to answer, and they were both silent as they drove through town toward the school.
Willis High was separated from the town proper by an especially large stand of oaks and acacias and ponderosas, and was located next to the Edward G.
Willis Memorial Park. The football field had been constructed at one end of a natural meadow, and the pool, which was shared jointly by the school and the park, was located at the opposite end.
There was a crowd at the school when they arrived, a large group of people standing near the open door of the gym. In the faculty parking lot were two police cars and an ambulance, lights flashing, although neither Doug norHobie had heard a siren all morning. Doug glanced over at his friend, then out the window at the scene before them. A strange feeling had come over him. He was at once surprised and not surprised, tense and numb, as he looked at the crowd. He knew this was going to be bad.
"Something happened," he said simply.
Hobiepulled the truck under a tree for shade, and they got out, hurrying across the dirt to the gym. Several other teachers were there, as well as nearby residents and one of theschoolboard members.
Doug walked up to Jim Maxwell, who taught ninth-grade social studies.
"What is it?"
"Bernie Rogers hung himself in the gym."
Doug looked atHobie , shocked, feeling as if someone had just kicked him in the stomach. He did not know what he' had been expecting, but it had not been this. A senior who had graduated with honors, Bernie Rogers had been one of those rare students who was into both academics and athletics. The basketball team's star forward, he had scored in the top 10 percent nationally on his SATs and was the only senior this year to have passed the Advanced Placement tests for both history and English. He was also the only student Doug could remember who had taken both his American Literature class andHobie's Advanced Auto, and had excelled in each.