The Messenger (2011 reformat) (2 page)

As he did so,
part of his mind drifted. He thought of the woman who'd invited him to the
beach. He did not think about kissing her now, he thought about killing her.
About holding her down on the floor by her throat and cutting off that
rose-pink top and the white shorts. No, he didn't want to make love to her
anymore, he just wanted to slit open her belly and haul out her guts while her
legs kicked and her body bucked.  That's what Dodd wanted to do to that fussy
big-tit bitch with the shiny chocolate-brown hair and white shorts. He wanted
to turn those shorts red. He wanted to scalp that shiny brown hair right off
her head.

Dodd opened
the box and looked inside.

Jimmy O'Brady
was fourteen years old and had lived in Danelleton for all fourteen of them. He
delivered papers in the morning and mowed lawns most days after school-an
industrious kid. Better yet, school was out for the summer, so he could work
even more. Florida sunlight bathed the long street-the street he lived on-and
right now he was briskly pedaling his bike to the next block, where another
lawn waited to be mowed. Money was what made the world go around; Jimmy knew
that even at his young age. He couldn't wait to turn sixteen and get his work
permit. Then he could get a job as a busboy at one of the beach restaurants,
really haul in some cash. Another thing he couldn't wait for was adulthood.
Jimmy already knew what he wanted to be when he grew up: He wanted to work for
the post office.

And there was
the mailman now. Mr. Dexter was cool; he delivered the mail on this street
every day, and he'd always stop and talk to Jimmy. He'd tell Jimmy all about
working for the post office.

Mr. Dexter was
walking away from the front door of the neighboring house. That's when Jimmy
smiled, stopped his bike, and waved. "Hi, Mr. Dexter!"

The postman
turned at the sidewalk, smiled back, and began to walk toward Jimmy.

That's when
Jimmy noticed that it wasn't Mr. Dexter.

Dodd
approached the kid on the bike. No, no, not in broad daylight, he was wise
enough to decide. Kids needed adults to look up to, they needed role
models-just like President Reagan said. Dodd almost laughed out loud. Yeah, I
guess if I cut the kid's head off, he wouldn't have anything to look up to!

"Hi,
there, Jimmy. How are you today?"

"Fine,
sir." The tow-headed kid gave Dodd a scrinched-up look. "How did you
know my name?"

"I'm the
mailman. You're Jimmy O'Brady, and you live at 12404 Gatesman Lane." Dodd
pointed to the house at the corner. "Right there. See, when you're the
mailman, you know everybody's name."

The kid
squinted against the sun. "But you're not the regular mailman. Mr. Dexter
is our regular mailman. Do you know him?"

"I sure
do, Jimmy. I'm filling in for him because he's sick today." You ain't
kidding he's sick. I strangled the fat son of a bitch with the strap on his
mail pouch and put his body in the Dumpster before the first shift came on.
"I usually don't deliver the mail myself, haven't in years. I'm a package
handler. But it's fun to take a walking shift every now and then. I just
delivered mail to your house."

"Really?
Was there anything for me?"

"As a
matter of fact, there was. You got a big surprise waiting for you when you get
back home."

Now the kid
was really beaming. Dodd felt wonderful. Indeed, there'd be a big surprise for
the kid.

"What is
it?"

"You'll
see when you get home. It's great being a mailman. You get to deliver nice
surprises to people every day. And you know something, Jimmy? I've got a funny
feeling that you want to be a mailman someday too."

"How did
you know that?" the kid asked, impressed.

I know a lot
of things now. "Um, Mr. Dexter told me."

"It's
true. I really wanna be a mailman when I grow up." But the kid was impatient.
He looked at his watch. "I'm supposed to mow a lawn right now, but-"

"Can't it
wait a few minutes?" Dodd suggested. "You could ride back to your
house right now and see the surprise first. Your mother's home. She'll show it
to you."

The kid tapped
his sneakered foot. "Yeah, I think I will. Thanks, sir! Hope to see you
soon!"

"Me, too,
Jimmy. Have a great day."

But just
before the kid pulled away on his bike, he paused for a last squint at Dodd.
"How come you're wearing that? Aren't you hot?"

Dodd was
wearing his long-tailed official post office raincoat. "Me? No, I like the
heat, Jimmy. And there's supposed to be a thunderstorm in a little while."

Jimmy looked
up at the cloudless sky, then shrugged. "If you say so. 'Bye!"

"See ya
later, Jimmy," Dodd said and turned for the next house. He started
walking. He'd only gotten five houses on the street so far, but he was
determined to get all of them before the police came. The hubbies were all at
work, leaving only their wives, and the wives were easy and the most fun. Hell,
with any luck, Dodd thought, I could take out a couple blocks before I get
caught.

At the very
least he'd give it his best.

He walked up
to the next house, the McNamaras, at 12408. He rang the doorbell, and when the
door opened an inch, a pretty face peered out.

"Hi, Mrs.
McNamara. It's just me, the mailman. I've got an Express Mail delivery for you
to sign for."

"Oh,
okay. Here. Come on in," the woman said and opened the door the rest of
the way.

Dodd smiled,
thanked her, and entered. He was just inside the foyer, out of the view of the
street, when he took out the machete he'd been hiding under the raincoat.

Several
seconds after Jimmy O'Brady rushed into his three-bedroom colonial on Gatesman
Lane, he couldn't move, he couldn't scream, he couldn't blink. He could only
stare and shiver. He was suffering from what a clinician would call reactive
psychogenic adrenaline shock. In layman's terms, however, he was suffering from
being scared shitless.

Red liquid
glazed the fieldstone foyer. Subconsciously, he knew it was blood. Consciously,
his brain would not acknowledge that, especially because the only other person
in the house, he knew, was his mother. Therefore, that's whose blood it must
be.

It was a lot
of blood. It looked like the time his father had accidentally tipped over a
gallon of Sherwin-Williams’s No. 10 Cinnabar-Red enamel in the garage. It was a
veritable pond of red.

His mother's
decapitated body lay on the stairs, neck stump hanging off the bottom step so
that gravity helped exsanguinate her more completely. By now Jimmy's body was
going haywire in a mode of metabolic opposites: heart hammering but blood
pressure dropping, adrenaline dumping but knees weakening, brain screaming to
get out while his body threatened to faint. Defense mechanisms pitted against a
psychological overload that wanted to shut him down.

In spite of
his age, after another minute or so, some aspect of reason returned. He began
to blink; then his brain started firing again. He realized:

My mother's
been murdered.

And it had to be
that mailman 'cos he told me he'd just been here.

The house was
silent. He blinked some more, began to think some more, and then:

I have to
call the police.

He ran to the
phone in the kitchen, saw what was there, and screamed. Yes, the mailman had
left a package for him, all right. His mother's head was neatly propped up on the
kitchen counter, right next to the phone. Her eyes were open, and she was
looking at him. It almost seemed as though she were smiling.

Jimmy stared.

His mother was
smiling. Her lips turned up and her eyes widened further when he looked at her.

"Jimmy,"
she said in the softest, kindest, sweetest voice. "How are you, honey?
Aren't you supposed to be cutting someone's lawn?"

"Muh-Muh-Mom?"
Jimmy stammered.

"Such a
fine, fine boy" his mother said. "Did you know that your father and I
weren't going to have children? He didn't even want to marry me. So I stopped
taking my birth control pills so I'd get pregnant. I knew that if I got
pregnant, he'd marry me. He makes a lot of money and I didn't want to work
anymore-he was the perfect sucker. Shit, I didn't want kids, I hate kids. But I
hate working more, so I figured one rug rat wouldn't be too bad."

Jimmy
continued to stare.

"But
you're a good boy, Jimmy. I guess you got that from your father 'cos I sure as
shit ain't a good person. Don't worry, you'll grow up to be just like your
father. A perfect dupe, a sucker."

Jimmy began to
feel dizzy.

"I
cheated on your father every chance I got-"

Jimmy ran to
the next house, the Norahees. His shock and his horror dazed him; he couldn't
really think now. It was just instinct driving him. The front door was open an
inch, so he barged in-

The foyer was
full of blood, just like his. Mrs. Norahee lay decapitated on the stairs, and
when he ran to the kitchen-

"Your
mother's in hell now," Mrs. Norahee's head told him. "I ought to know.
I'm right there with her."

Close to
psychotic now, Jimmy checked every house on Gatesman Lane, and found the same
thing.

He collapsed
in the last yard. His brain felt on the verge of shutting down. Part of him
heard a quick scream from the house across the street at the corner. Then a
moment later saw the new mailman walk out the front door and head casually to
the next address. Before he knocked on the next door, the mailman turned
slowly, smiled at Jimmy, and waved.

I

Twenty years later.

The scissors
snipped! as the brand-new stainless steel blades sliced through the yellow
ribbon. When the ribbon parted and fell, the small crowd that had gathered
began to cheer.

That was
simple, Jane thought. She handed the scissors back to the mayor. Flashbulbs
popped and the applause grew loud. There were even some writers and
photographers from the local papers in the crowd. It wasn't that big a deal but
it looked like it. All this hoopla, Jane thought, and all for what? We're
opening a new post office, for God's sake. In a small town, however, even
something like this was an event. Jane didn't go for cameras and publicity-she
was all business. She was almost ill at ease.

Yeah, she
thought again. This was simple. Now the hard part starts.

"Thank
you, Jane," the mayor said into a microphone. It was possible that he'd
had a vodka tonic or two before the opening ceremony. "And now that the
ribbon is cut... let's go inside for cookies and punch!"

"Jesus,"
Carlton Spence said under his breath. "Cookies and punch. Is this corny or
what?"

Jane whispered
back, "Don't be too sure. You haven't tried the punch."

Jane smiled
and nodded, shaking hands with the people in the crowd as they filed into the
post office. I am so bad at this game, she told herself. When most of the crowd
had filed in, Carlton sighed. Carlton was Jane's assistant now, amiable, early
forties, often quick with some good-natured sarcasm. He was as good at his job
as Jane was at hers, and that's why she knew they'd make a great team. He was
also very perceptive sometimes.

"Either
your dog shit in your shoes this morning," he said, "or this whole
grand opening thing is making you very uncomfortable."

"I don't
have a dog."

"I
know."

She made a
weary smile. "I just want to get on with it. Get all this foolishness over
with and get on with the job."

Carlton
scratched the beer belly he'd been working hard on for the last twenty years.
"Small-town politics and all that. Opening a new post office in a little
burg like Danelleton is like opening a skyscraper in a big city." A
photographer snapped a quick picture of the two of them, then hustled inside.
Carlton frowned. "Besides, we gotta give the local papers something to write
about, don't we?"

Jane was
grateful for the implication. Danelleton had one of the lowest per-capita crime
rates in the state. I guess I should be happy this is the big story of the week
instead of a drive-by shooting or crack cocaine bust.

"Oh, and
one other thing," Carlton said, "congratulations on the promotion,
Jane. You'll do a kick-butt job running this place."

"We'll do
a kick-butt job, Mr. Deputy Assistant Postmaster."

"Isn't
that kind of like the assistant to the assistant to the assistant of the
assistant secretary of state?"

"Sure.
You're the one who makes the coffee, and I'm the one who delivers it."

They both
laughed but they knew it wasn't that bad.

Carlton looked
up at the sun. "Things will be great, just you watch."

"I hope
so," she said. "But I still don't quite understand why Danelleton
needs a second post office."