He turned off the ignition. There was no sign of Howard's car, but that meant nothing. It could very well be parked in the garage.
He got out of the car and headed up the front walk. The grass, he noticed, was yellowish brown, not green like the lawns in front of the other houses. Not a good sign. Like many older people, Howard had always been a fanatic about maintaining his yard.
He stepped onto the front stoop and rang the bell, listening for the ring.
Nothing. He knocked on the door instead. He waited for a few moments, then pounded again. "Howard!" he called, "are you home?"
There was no sound from within the house, and after three more tries and five more minutes he stepped off the stoop and moved over to the large living room windows. The curtains were closed, but they were sheer and he figured he'd be able to see something inside. No such luck. Through the material he could see nothing. The interior of the house was much too dark and monochromatic for individual elements to be differentiated. He moved around the side of the house to the dining-room window, then to the kitchen, then around to the back bedroom, hoping at least that a drape would be parted, open wide enough for him to see inside, but the curtains were all firmly and carefully shut. He tried the back door, but it was locked.
"Howard!" he called, knocking.
No answer.
There were other houses flanking Howard's, but their owners were either inside or at work, and the entire neighborhood seemed empty and abandoned. It gave Doug the creeps. He felt as though he was in one of those movies where the sun flared or some other pseudo-scientific catastrophe had occurred and he was the last man on earth, left alone to wander through the perfectly preserved artifacts of an otherwise untouched world.
A dog barked a few houses away, and Doug jumped. Jesus, he was getting skittish.
"Howard!" he called again.
No answer.
Either the postmaster wasn't here, or he was so sick he couldn't answer the door, or he was hiding.
No matter what, he would give the front door one more try, and if he didn't get an answer, he would call the post office in Phoenix. He walked back around to the front of the house and was about to knock on the front door one last time when he saw a white envelope on the brown straw mat at his feet. It had not been there before. Of that he was certain.
He picked up the envelope. His name was on the front, written in a shaky, childish scrawl. He tore the envelope open and pulled out the piece of paper inside. On it were written two words in that same shaky hand:
_Stay Away_
He pounded on the door. "Howard!" he called. "Let me in. I know what's happening. Howard!"
But the door remained stubbornly closed, the curtains unmoving, and for all of his effort he heard no sound from inside the house.
He got the number of the main branch of the post office from Directory Assistance and dialed from the bedroom. He closed the door with his foot. Billy was in the kitchen with Tritia , helping her to make bread, and he didn't want the boy to hear the conversation. A woman's voice came on the line. "United States Postal Service Information, how may I direct your call?"
"I want to complain about one of your mailmen."
"Just a moment, sir. Let me transfer you to our Personnel department."
Doug listened to a few seconds' worth of innocuousMuzak before a man's voice came on the line. "Hello, this is Jim. How may I help you?"
"I want to complain about one of your mailmen."
"Could I have your name and zip code?"
"My name's DougAlbin . My zip code is 85432. I live in Willis."
"Willis? I'm sorry, sir, but if you have any complaints you should direct them to the postmaster in your area."
"That's the problem. I can't get a hold of my postmaster. Besides, our mail service has deteriorated so much that I think it's time you knew about it."
"Let me connect you to my supervisor."
"I'd --" Doug began, but there was a click. MoreMuzak .Mantovani Beatle songs.
A minute or so later another man came on the line. "Chris Westwood."
"We're having a lot of problems here with our mail. I want someone to do something about it."
"You're in Willis?"
"That's right."
"What exactly is the trouble?"
"Our mailman is dumping our mail by a creek instead of delivering it."
Westwood's voice became more concerned. "That is a serious charge, Mr. --"
"Albin. DougAlbin ."
"Mr.Albin . That doesn't sound very likely to me --"
"I don't care if it's likely or not," Doug said, an edge of exasperation creeping into his voice. "That's exactly what has happened, and there are many witnesses."
"Well, there's nothing really that I can do, but I can fill out a complaint form for you if you wish. Once the complaint is processed, an investigator will be sent out to look into the problem."
"That's fine," Doug said.
Westwood asked his full name, address, occupation, and other personal information that he supposedly wrote onto the complaint form. "Now do you happen to know the carrier's name and number?"
"His name's John Smith. That's all I know."
"John Smith. John Smith. Let me check." Doug thought he heard the soft clicking of computer keys. "I'm sorry, but we have no John Smith working in Willis. I have listed here Howard Crowell as postmaster, and Robert Ronda, carrier."
"Ronda committed suicide over a month ago."
"I'm sorry. We have no record of that here. It's not listed on our computer."
"Well, he was transferred here from Phoenix. Could you just see if you could find any John Smiths working in the Phoenix area?"
"Just a minute. I'll browse by name instead of zip code." There was a pause. "No, Mr.Albin . There is no John Smith working for the post office anywhere in Arizona."
Doug said nothing.
"Did you hear me, Mr.Albin ?"
He hung up the phone.
25
The town was unusually subdued for the Fourth of July. Fewer than a third of the people who usually came to the annual Picnic in the Park showed up this year, and even the Jaycee's fireworks display was sparsely attended. Doug made Trish and Billy stay for both the daytime celebration and the fireworks, though neither of them wanted to, and while he pretended to have a good time for their sakes, he noticed a definite attitude change among their attending neighbors and acquaintances, and it unnerved him more than he was willing to admit. People he'd known for years, even other teachers and ex-students, seemed cold and distant, almost hostile. No one seemed to be having a good time.
He wasn't feeling that good himself. He'd gone to the police yesterday with his new information about the mailman, but they had treated him as if he was a chronic complainer, someone who consistently came to them with false information based on his own paranoid delusions. He had asked to see Mike but was told that the young policeman was off for the day, and instead he told his story to Jack Shipley, who humored him with the sort of condescending agreement usually reserved for drunks and crazies. As patiently and rationally as he knew how, he explained the facts, told Shipley that he believed impersonating a postal worker was a punishable crime and that everything he said could be verified by calling the main branch of the post office in Phoenix. The officer had said he would follow up on the information Doug had given him, but it was clear that he probably would not.
What could he do when the whole town was going to hell in ahandbasket and the damn police were too blind to see it and too dumb to act on it when it was pointed out to them?
He could not help wondering how the mailman was spending his time today, what he was doing for the Fourth. There was no mail delivery on the holiday, but somehow he just couldn't see the mailman eating hot dogs and apple pie and participating in patriotic celebrations.