The Messenger (2011 reformat) (18 page)

"No!"
the boy insisted. "Somebody did it to him!"

"Kevin,
are you sure you didn't step on him?" Jennifer looked at the mess and made
an appropriate face. "It looks like his guts came out. You must've stepped
on him or dropped something on him."

"No, I
didn't!" Kevin pouted. Now the tears were flowing freely. "He was inside
the terrarium-I couldn't have stepped on him! And nothing could've fallen on
him either. The lid was on! Somebody must've snuck into my room and squashed
him in their hand!"

"Kevin,
you're letting your imagination get away from you," Jane told him.
"No one snuck into the house. The doors are locked. Mel just-" She didn't
know what to say to console him. "He just had an accident, or maybe he got
sick, some ... toad disease."

"Yeah,
and he upchucked his guts," Jennifer added.

"No!"
Kevin was almost shouting now. "I know it was somebody who did this-they
did it on purpose!"

"Kevin,
who would do a sick thing like that?" Jennifer asked.

"A sick
person, that's who! There's sick people all over the place. Like Marlene and
Carlton-they were sick in the head but nobody knew. Like the guy who killed
Dad!"

Oh, jeez, Jane
thought. There was no reasoning with him. Poor kid. Father killed by a psycho.
Two mass murders in the same week. Now this. He doesn't know which end is up.
"Kevin, calm down. Nobody did this deliberately. It's impossible."

"Kevin,
really," Jennifer said, trying to help. "No one broke into the house
just to kill Mel. Mom's right. He must've gotten some disease in his
stomach."

"Somebody
killed him!" the boy shrieked, then stormed out.

Jane sighed.
So much for a perfectly normal day.

Breakfast was
shot, most of it being dumped down the disposal. Jane grabbed a spade from the
garage and helped Kevin bury the toad in the backyard near the rose bushes. A
small Tupperware container sufficed for a coffin; when they were done, Kevin
placed a makeshift cross in the earth, made from popsicle sticks. By now the
boy's anguish had simmered

down to quiet
sobbing. Later, she drove to work, making starting time by just a few minutes.
Already the day was in the wrong gear, and it had just started. The twisted
images of her nightmare-the erotic fused with the revolting-haunted her for the
first hour of her shift. Where did that all come from?, she kept wondering. She
didn't like getting off on the wrong foot-it would taint the rest of her
shift-but what could she do? Her little west branch post office was now double-timing
until the main branch could be reopened. Get your mind back on your job, Jane, she
told herself. You wanted to be station manager-well, now you are. Don't screw
it up.

Her office
door stood open a few inches; she could hear several carriers talking in front
of the coffeemaker, but it was disconcerting talk. More of the same, she
thought. They were rehashing the murders, speculating about Marlene and
Carlton, and the like. When something bad happens in a town, people can't stop
talking about it. But never when something good happens. A sad trust. She was
just about to start working on the routing

reports when a
rapping caught her attention.

"Good
morning, Ms. Ryan. May I come in?"

Steve could be
seen in the gap in the door. God, I wish he'd stop calling me Ms. Ryan, she
thought. It sounded stilted. "Have a seat," she offered. Seeing him
made her instantly feel better.

She wondered
about that.

"I hope
I'm not bothering you," he said and took the chair next to her desk. His
blond hair looked damp- he'd probably just gotten out of the shower. Today he
wore no jacket and no gun holster, just slacks and a light short sleeve shirt,
but when he sat down and crossed his legs, his ankle holster could be seen.
He's a good-looking man, no two ways about that, Jane thought.

"I know
you're busy. I was in the area so I thought I'd stop by to see how you're
feeling."

Jane relaxed.
"I'm good, thank you, and thank you again for all your help yesterday.
Would you like some coffee? I'll warn you though-post office coffee is bad
coffee."

"The only
thing worse is police coffee, and I've already had my morning cup,
thanks."

Jane was
slightly taken aback. He stopped by just to see how I was doing. How sweet.
"I'm actually trying to give up coffee. Sometimes it works, sometimes it
doesn't." When the phone rang, she frowned. It was Kevin.

"Yes, I
know, honey," she said into the phone. The boy was still distressed about
the horned toad. "But you've got to understand that these things happen
sometimes. Like we talked about this morning. Sometimes pets get sick,
sometimes accidents happen. I know you're still upset but you'll feel better
soon, just wait and see. Mind your sister now, okay? I'll try to be home early
tonight. You and Jennifer can make pizza like you did last time. How's that
sound? 'Bye, honey. I love you." Then she hung up, flustered.

Steve could
sense her unease. "What was that about pets?"

"Oh, my
son's pet toad died this morning-"

"Aw no,
not Mel. He showed it to me yesterday when I brought him and Jennifer back to
the house. What happened?"

"We're
not sure. It just died; it looked squashed. Kevin's still really upset about
it; he loved that little toad. My husband gave it to him."

"Divorced,
huh?"

Jane's eyes
flicked down. "No, my husband was murdered a few years ago."

"Jesus,
I'm sorry," Steve said, totally taken off guard.

"Some nut
escaped from a psych ward," she said, not even really hearing the words.

"I'm
really sorry to hear it." Steve tried to shift through his discomfort.
"It must be tough, you know, running the post office and raising two kids
on your own."

"Not
really. Jennifer's really good about keeping an eye on Kevin. She's very mature
for her age."

"Yeah,
they're both great kids."

"Do you
have children?"

Steve chuckled.
"Me? Nope. No wife, either."

"How come
you're not married?" she asked but immediately regretted it. The tone was
too personal.

"I was a
couple times," he lazily answered, "but it just never worked out.
Divorce lawyers love me. Got no one to blame but myself."

"Why do
you say that?"

"It's
like the old cliché, like on some cop show you'd see on TV. I wound up being
married more to my job than to my wives. They couldn't hack it-can't say that I
blame them. It actually happens all the time with cops, part of the
territory."

It was sad the
way he'd compartmentalized it. And Jane felt guilty at the secret pang of
interest in knowing now that he wasn't married. "I guess we all have our
territory," she said. Now, though, she noticed a different discomfort
about him. It wasn't the tragic topic of her husband's murder, nor was it his
failed domestic life.

"Something
else on your mind?" she asked.

"Yeah, I
guess, er...well, no."

"Chief
Higgins, you're really giving yourself away. What's wrong?"

"The
first thing that's wrong is you calling me Chief Higgins. Call me Steve."

"Sure,
but only if you lose the 'Ms. Ryan' and call me Jane."

"Deal."
He scratched his nose. "Well, there is something. You don't need to know
all the details, but-"

"Why
not?" she almost snapped back. "Why don't I need to know the details?
I've got two employees who just went on double murder sprees, and a whole lot
of other employees dead as victims, but I don't have a right to know whatever
it is you're hiding?"

"The rest
doesn't really have anything to do with your employees," he said.

"What,
more stuff about cults? More stuff about that bell-shaped symbol found at both
murder scenes?"

He sighed, was
about to say something, but then-

His pager went
off.

Jane smiled.
"You're right, it's like the old cliché, like something on a cop
show."

"Tell me
about it." He just shook his head. "Can't sit down, can't talk, and
can’t even blink without this thing going off. Most days I don't even have time
to eat. We'll talk later, okay?"

"Okay."
Jane had to repress herself. More and more, even within the last few minutes,
her attraction to him was growing. "And if you don't have time to eat,
feel free to come to the house tonight after work. Kevin and Jennifer make
excellent pizza."

Steve stood
up, grabbed his keys, and smiled again. "I just might take you up on that.
See ya."

I wonder, she
thought when he left. Had she put him on the spot? Probably doesn't even have
time to think about it. But at least she'd opened the invitation and perhaps
broken some professional ice. Sometimes I amaze myself.

After a while,
she left her office to scout about the station. She made a round through the
processing area, speaking briefly to the handlers and making sure everything
was running properly. Delivery-point-sequence machines clattered in their factory
like racket, launching letters automatically into separate piles. More busy
staff nodded and smiled when they passed her, pushing hoppers full of mail
sacks. In the open loading dock bays, their contents were rolled off ramps by
more staff, only to be refilled with outgoing mail to the central processing
and distribution centers in Jacksonville and Miami. A typical day at the post
office, Jane thought. It was second nature to her. It seemed strange that other
people's mail was such a large part of her life. The average person could never
realize all that the job entails, along with the astonishing fact that the US.
Postal Service delivered more mail in one month than the rest of the world
delivered in a year.

She turned
down an aisle and immediately soured. Martin Parkins was the senior handler,
which was sort of a polite way of saying he was practically unpromoteable.
Stoop shouldered, overweight, around fifty. He'd dyed his hair almost jet
black, which didn't work at all with the aged face. Big callused hands jacked
letters into two-foot trays.

Martin
regularly made his disgruntlement known; Jane simply put up with it. Whenever
he was up for a level promotion he wound up blowing the interview with his bad
attitude, to the extent that Jane didn't know what to do with him. She'd
written him up in the past several times but as a federal employee, it was
nearly impossible to fire him. She couldn't even fire him for drinking. Each
time he was reprimanded, he'd simply enter a alcohol-abuse program for seven
days, get out, and start all over again. This time, though, Jane thought she
might try a new approach.

Martin glanced
up at Jane's approach; the anger-wrought wrinkles in his face reminded her of a
mud slide.

"Hello,
Martin," she said.

Martin didn't
answer directly but grunted something under his breath. He focused his
attention back down on his station, hauling out more two-foot trays.

"Look,
Martin. I know you and I have never particularly liked each other."

"Oh, we
haven't?" he said back very quickly. "Gee, all this time I thought I
was your best friend. You know, since you suspended me last year, and filled my
P.E.R. with a bunch of crap and reprimands."

"You were
coming to work with alcohol on your breath every other day, Martin. The reason
your personnel evaluation report is full of reprimands is because you weren't
doing your job properly, and it just made your attitude worse. That was all
your own doing and you know it."

Martin still
didn't respond. Instead he ignored her, loading up more trays.

"And
believe it or not, Martin," she went on, "now that Carlton's gone, you're
the senior staff member. You've got more time in grade than anyone."

Martin snorted
under his breath. "Uh-huh. And I guess that means you're going to promote
me, right?"

"That's
right, Martin."

The older
man's eyes narrowed. For the sparsest moment, she thought she saw a flash of
happiness in his eyes, but the flash faded, overwhelmed by all that angst.

"I'm
promoting you to DPS foreman, and giving you a one-level raise," Jane
said. Then she thought, Now, let's just see.

Martin
hesitated, then looked back down at his work. "I don't want it," he
said, more to the trays than to her.

"Come on,
Martin. Don't be obstinate. You've wanted a promotion for five years and now
I'm handing you one."

"I don't
want nothin' from you. I just want to do my job, get my paycheck, and mind my
own business."

"You're
being juvenile. You're letting a grudge against me affect your professional
life. That's not going to do you or me any good at all."

Finally the
man's eyes snapped up at Jane. "Listen, Ms. Ryan. I don't bother no one,
and I don't want no one to bother me. You act like you're doing poor Martin a
big favor, but the truth is you ain't got no one else in this joint qualified
to take Carlton's position."