There was something even more frightening about that, for just as it was said that everyone had a price, everyone probably also had a breaking point.
Maybe he'd been wrong before. Maybe the mailman hadn't killed Ronda and Bernie Rogers. Maybe they'd killed themselves because the mailman had known exactly what to do to set them off, to push them over the edge. Maybe the mailman knew what that point was for all of them, for everyone in Willis. For himself.
For Tritia .
For Billy.
It was long after midnight when Doug finally fell asleep, and his dreams were filled with white faces and red hair and envelopes.
The next day was hotter than usual; the sky clear, without a trace of cloud to offer the earth temporary shade from the hellish sun.Hobie dropped by just before lunch, dressed in his lifeguard uniform, though it was Wednesday and the pool was closed for cleaning. He came up on the porch, accepted Doug's offer of iced tea. He seemed distracted and ill at ease, unable to concentrate. Doug talked to him about the murders, but though his friend nodded in all the right places, even volunteering an occasional comment or opinion, he seemed not to be listening, the conversation going in one ear and out the other.
FacingHobie , Doug noticed food stains on the black swimming trunks, and this close he saw that his friend's T-shirt was wrinkled and not as white as it should have been, as though he had been wearing it for days, sleeping in it.
Even Tritia must have noticed something odd aboutHobie , for she was not as hostile to him as she usually was. Indeed, as the three of them ate Italian sandwiches on the porch, she seemed downright sympathetic toward him, going out of her way to bring him into the conversation, and for the first time that day he relaxed a little, though he was by no means his usual talkative overbearing self. After lunch, Tritia returned indoors, and the two men remained on the porch. "So, whatever happened with your books?"Hobie asked, belching loudly.
"Ever get an official no from the district?"
Doug nodded. "I sent them a letter back, though, complaining."
"What'd they say?"
"Nothing." Doug smiled wryly. "I guess their reply got lost in the mail."
"Willard Young. Shit, he's nothing but a dick with feet."
"Wrong side of the body. I'd call him an asshole."
"That too."
They were silent for a moment. From inside came the muffled clink of china as Tritia washed their plates.
"Something's happening in this town,"Hobie said finally. His voice was low, serious, totally unlike his usual loud bluster, and Doug realized that for the first time he was hearing the sound of fear in his friend's voice.
The emotion had to be transferable, he thought, for he could feel the cold prickling of peach-fuzz hair on his own arms and neck. "What is it?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.
"You know damn well what it is."Hobie looked at him. "The mailman."
Doug leaned back in his chair. "I just wanted to hear you say it."
Hobielicked his lips, ran a hand through his already tousled hair. "I've been getting letters from my brother," he said.
"You never told me you had a brother."
"He was killed in Vietnam when he was nineteen."Hobie took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was filled with an uncharacteristic bitterness. "He was only nineteen years old. Richard Nixon's going to burn in hell for that one. He'll join Lyndon Johnson, who's already down there." He looked at Doug. "But the point is, these are letters Dan wrote when he was over there. Letters we never got. Letters that somehow got lost."
Doug didn't know what to say. He cleared his throat. "They might not be real letters," he said. "We've been getting . . . fake letters, letters supposedly from friends but written by the mailman himself. I don't know how he does it or why he does it, but --"
"They're real. They're from Dan."Hobie stared silently out at the trees, as if watching something. Doug followed his friend's gaze, but could see nothing there. When he turned back, he saw thatHobie was on the verge of tears. "I
don't know where the mailman found those letters, but they're in Dan's handwriting and they have things in them that only he could know. The only thing is . . . I mean, I'm not a religious guy, you know? But I keep wondering if maybe those letters were supposed to be lost, if we weren't supposed to get them because . . ." He shook his head, wiping his eyes. "I'm learning things about my brother that I didn't want to know. He's a completely different person than I
thought he was, than my parents thought he was. Maybe he changed in Vietnam, or maybe . . ." He looked at Doug. "You know, I wish I'd never seen those letters, but now that I got them, now that I'm getting them, I have to keep reading. It's like I don't want to know, but I have to know. Does that make any sense to you?"
Doug nodded. "How many have you gotten?"
"I get one a day."Hobie attempted a halfhearted smile. "Or one a night.
They come at night."
The two of them were silent for a moment.
"The mailman's responsible forStockley ," Doug said quietly. "I don't know what he did or why or how he did it, but he did it. He drove him to murder. He somehow got him to go into that bank and start shooting. It sounds crazy, I
know. But it's true."
Hobiesaid nothing.
"I'm not sure if Bernie Rogers killed himself, but I do know that if he did, he was pushed into it. The same goes for Ronda." He reached over and put his hand onHobie's shoulder. The gesture felt strange, uncomfortable, but not unnatural. He realized that, in all the years he had known him, this was the first time he had ever touched his friend. "I'm worried about you," he said. "I
want you to be careful. I don't know what's happening here, but it seems like the mailman's picking on you for some reason, that --"
"That what? I'll be next?"Hobie snorted derisively, and for a moment he seemed like his old self. "You think I'd actually kill myself? Shit. You got another think coming."
Doug smiled. "I'm glad to hear you say that."
"I'll admit, this thing's got me a little worked up, but I'm still playing with a full deck here. I'm not about to let a little mail drive me over the edge."
"Okay."
"But wegotta do something about that fucker, you know?"Hobie's voice was serious, intense. He looked directly into Doug's eyes, and what Doug saw there as he looked back frightened him. He glanced quickly away.
"You're with me on this, right? I mean, you're the one who first found out about him."
"Yes," Doug said. "But. . ."
"But what?"
"Just don't do anything stupid, okay? We'll get him, but just don't do anything dangerous. Be careful."
Hobiestood up. "I have to go. I have to get back to the pool."
"The pool's closed today," Doug reminded him gently.
"Yeah,"Hobie said. He shook his head absentmindedly as he walked across the porch and down the steps. "I been forgetting a lot of things lately."
"Be careful," Doug said again as his friend got into the truck. Tritia came out on the porch and stood next to him, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
Both of them waved asHobie backed up and swung onto the road.
Hobiedid not wave back.
24
Doug and Tritia walked out to the mailbox together.
It was strange how such a benign object, an inanimate hunk of hollow metal, could within such a short time have taken onsuoh a malevolent, threatening quality. They walked across the crunching gravel slowly, solemnly, with trepidation, as if approaching a gallows or guillotine. They said nothing, not speaking, almost afraid to speak.