The Messenger (2011 reformat) (3 page)

"Are you
kidding? In the last twenty years, the town's population has quadrupled. The
main post office at the town square just isn't enough anymore. It's progress,
Jane. That's a good thing. More people moving here means more money for the
local economy? Carlton shrugged. "More mail to be delivered. And lemme
tell ya-" He looked up at the sun again, the perfect cloudless sky. At the
same moment, a group of lorikeets flew by. "There are worse places to work
for the post office."

"I know,
we get Florida paradise, and the other chumps get to deliver mail in the South
St. Pete ghettos. Don't worry, I'm not taking things for granted, and I really
am looking forward to this-"

Jane paused to
look at the small but well-designed building. It's mine, she told herself.
Suddenly her discomfort over the grand opening was displaced by pride. I'm the
boss. This little post office annex is my baby. Cool air swept their faces when
the automatic doors parted. They walked inside, ignoring the continued grand
opening formalities over by the gift shop-where the mayor appeared to be
getting drunk on spiked punch-and turned toward the clerk stations.

"So much
for punch and cookies," Carlton said.

Customers were
lining up to buy stamps, send packages, get mail metered.

"Yeah,"
Jane said, "I guess we better get inside and start taking care of these
customers. Jeez, look at them all."

Carlton
scratched his beer belly again. "Aw, don't sweat it. I'll bet half of them
are only here for the newest Elvis stamp."

Jane could
only hope so. No time like the present, she thought. "See ya at the end of
the shift, Carlton, and don't forget to have someone clear all those old
records out of the basement. We don't want the fire department writing us up
for fire hazards the first week we're open." Then she went through the
half door to head into the administrative wing. It was quiet in back, but if
she listened carefully she could hear the trucks pulling up in back at the
loading dock. Her footsteps ticked across the brand-new tile.

In a lost
moment, she caught herself peering at her reflection in an office window. How
do you like that? She asked herself. Thirty-five years old, and I'm still not
half bad looking. The knee-length navy blue skirt and patched sky-blue tunic notwithstanding,
Jane's looks, if anything, had improved as she'd grown older, as if her
desirability had seasoned and maximized. Boobs not sagging yet, stomach's still
flat, even after two kids. I really can't complain. Noon-blue eyes looked back
at her; the uncertain expression changed with a confident smile. Her hair was
too bright to label her a brunette, but it wasn't auburn either-something more
like cinnamon-a little shorter than shoulder length. The bright shine to her
hair was augmented by a rich nut-brown tan, an overall glow of vitality.

Body wise,
Jane was happy to see that all the right curves had remained in all the right
places. Her breasts filled the top of her tunic, ghosts of nipples showing
through the light fabric, and when she cocked her hip and grinned, she even
looked sultry. Somehow that look isn't me, she laughed to herself. Vie Hussy
Mail Chick. Instead, she simply looked like a beautiful, self-assured modern
working woman, still in good shape and still at her peak. I've got a lot to
look forward to, and even better than that- She laughed to herself
again-construction workers still whistle at me!

The good day
had just gotten better, with a positive acknowledgment of herself. It hadn't
always been like that, not since the move ... and the loss of her husband.
Sometimes being a widow with two young children seemed impossible. It was
impossible to do everything right, too many obstacles seemed to have dropped on
her, too many hardships.

She'd felt
very insecure at times, very doubtful.

But she'd
persevered, and now things couldn't be better: the promotion, the new post
office, the kids adjusting better to school and their lives without a father.

And now this
...

Jane's eyes roved up the office
window that framed her reflection, to the words stenciled in black letters near
the top:

jane ryan,
station manager,

danelleton,
west branch.

II

Idyllic wasn't
the word; it didn't suffice. To call the town romantic, picturesque, or quaint
proved trite but at least accurate. Danelleton had grown, yes, but it hadn't
lost any of the traits that made it so unique in this day and age. Once just a
little suburb in central Florida, now it was incorporated, flourishing,
progressing without giving up its honest luster. Perhaps its location kept it
isolated-off a major thoroughfare beyond an old county road that appeared
rural-or perhaps something even spiritual protected it from the corruption that
tended to follow real estate development near tourism hubs. Who knew? It existed
between Tampa and St. Petersburg-big cities with big crime waves-yet Danelleton
boasted almost no crime. Last year, for example, the most serious crimes to be
committed were one stolen bike, some graffiti spray-painted in a Main Street
alley, and a tipped-over Johnny On The Spot at a construction site. No drugs
here, no rapes, no armed robberies.

Just a
ten-minute drive to the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Excellent schools,
superior municipal services, an abundance of community organizations and
charity groups. Real estate costs had miraculously remained reasonable when
they'd skyrocketed in other towns. Plenty of day care, plenty of activities for
kids. Families were close-knit; everyone looked out for everyone else. There
was little riff-raff. There was no "bad" part of town. In essence,
Danelleton proved the model for middle-class Florida life.

And the
beauty.

Palm trees
lined well-groomed streets of plush green lawns, colorful gardens, and humble
but immaculate homes. More plush green served as a backdrop for the east side
of the town: the rise of the forest teeming with fern and Australian pine
trees. To the west spired the tall lemon-yellow water tower emblazoned with
bright pink words: it's a beautiful day. The town square radiated sedate charm
while boats rocked quietly in bayside slips, mooring ropes chiming against
their masts. The sun always seemed brighter in Danelleton, the sky more
expansive, the air more pure.

What more
could anyone ask of a place to live? Who wouldn't want to live here? Danelleton
was as close to perfect as any town could ever strive to be. Beautiful,
civilized, and safe. No drugs, no rapes, no armed robberies, no murd-

Well, there
were some murders once. But that was a long time ago.

In the
basement.

God, what a
mess, Carlton thought. He kneed his way into the dark cubby, clumsily wielding
the flashlight, extricating decades-old boxes with his other hand. The only way
to get to the end was to dig everything out. But Jane had been right about one
thing: This basement is a fire hazard, Carlton realized, dust-covered now. If
the inspectors saw this, they'd make us close down until we got it all cleared
out. The refuse consisted mainly of old boxes of records, antiquated sorting
machines and spare parts, old uniforms, and out-of-date packing items. Carlton
figured if he took all these boxes outside he could build a pyramid out of them
as high as the post office.

I'm
second-in-charge of this place and look at me. I'm hauling junk out of the
basement. Carlton doubted that these tasks were in his government job
description.

He laughed
through it, though, a good sport, even as cobwebs spread and stuck to his face.
It was a dull process: crawl in, grab a box, drag it out, then crawl back in
for the next one. It would take the rest of the day more than likely, but at
least he could look forward to the end of the shift when he could stop by the
bar- covered in dust and cobwebs-and celebrate the first day of his promotion.

Carlton had no
sour grapes that Jane had been named branch station manager instead of him,
even though he had more time and grade. He was better at the dirty work anyway,
keeping the employees on their toes, while Jane could deal with the red tape
and management duties. In truth, he was happy for her, and he was happy that
the town had opened this second postal facility, because it proved that
Danelleton was prospering. More residents meant more homes, hence, more mail
than the main post office could handle on its own anymore. Carlton and Jane, in
fact, had both begun their careers at the main facility at the town square, and
the place didn't exactly bring back good memories. Christ, he thought as an
image from his past swept through his mind. Suddenly he paused at a twinge of
despair.

He took a breath,
counted off a few moments, then grabbed another box and began to drag it out.

The main post
office was where he'd thought he was starting his family life, but in truth it
had been where he'd ended it.

Don't think
about it, he warned himself. It's over. It's done. You got a new life here so
get on with it. The past is the past, good and bad.

He rarely did
think of it lately, even over the past handful of years. He'd gotten over it,
with the help of time, reason, and a good shrink.

Get off that
shit! Grab another box and do your job!

Subconsciously,
he supposed, he'd never be rid of it. How could he be? How could anyone? And
what he couldn't figure, as he dragged yet another box of old post office
records out of the crawlway, was why now? And why here, of all places? He'd
never been in this building before his promotion. The Danelleton west branch
had originally been closed and abandoned for the past twenty years. For that
time period all mail was processed through the main office at the city dock.
This just reopened facility meant nothing to Carlton.

He shook his
head in the musty darkness edged by the flashlight beam.

What was it
about this building that triggered the worst memories of his life? He forcibly
tried to shut his mind off, and dragged another box from the cubby, grunting.
Sweat darkened his collar. His heart was beating faster.

First Mariel,
he thought. Then Belinda.

It had all
happened so fast, sometimes it still seemed like a dream. After eight fine
years of marriage-and with no warning signs-Mariel had lost it. Totally. In
layman's terms, she'd gone off the deep end. In psychiatric terms, she'd
suffered a systemized psychotic break with paranoid ideations, amine-related
mania, and traits of something called Capgras syndrome. In other words,
Carlton's wife had begun to believe that nobody and nothing around her was
genuine. She believed that Carlton, for instance, wasn't really Carlton but an
identical impostor. She believed the same of the neighbors, her friends, and
her parents, anyone close in her life. They were all fakes. She even believed
it about the house, the car, and eventually, the entire neighborhood.

Everything had
been manufactured as part of a plot to fool her. After the fact, Carlton had
read about the syndrome on the Internet. It was rare but very real, spurred by
either an organic brain defect or micro tumors. Untreatable, in other words.
Carlton had lost his wife in the wink of an eye.

And his
daughter, Belinda, too.

Seven years
ago, he realized. Belinda would be going on nineteen now-and then he reminded
himself: Not "would be." She is. She is going on nineteen now.

One thing
Carlton would not give up hope on was the prospect of Belinda still being
alive. Mariel's body had been recovered from the wreck but Belinda's body had
never been found. There was no blood of her type in the wreckage, no forensic
signs that she'd been injured. She'd been eating Cracker Jacks in the car and
the fingerprint people found

Belinda's
prints and traces of corn syrup and sugar on the seat belt buckle and passenger
door handle, so she'd clearly been buckled up.

For whatever
reason pertaining to her illness, the one person Muriel didn't believe was
counterfeit was Belinda. So one night, she'd put her daughter in the family
station wagon and left town-in her mind believing she was saving herself and
her daughter from the "plot." She'd made it as far as Baltimore
before a drunk driver had crashed into them on

Interstate 95.
Muriel had been vaulted through the windshield-she always forgot to wear her seat
belt-and broken her neck on impact. Instant death.

But Belinda's
body was not to be seen.

Don't think
about it, don't think about it, don't think about it. The words kept pounding
in Carlton's mind.

But
something-for some reason-forced him to think about it.

The drunk
driver had been killed too, so there was no living witness directly on the
scene. Maryland state police, however, told Carlton a motorist who'd pulled over
to help had seen another vehicle leaving the shoulder just as he'd stopped. In
the back window the motorist thought he'd seen two adult men and another
shorter figure. "Shorter, sitting lower, like a kid maybe," he'd
reported.

"I know
this is very difficult for you to accept, sir," an FBI agent had later
told Carlton, "but it's our speculation that your daughter was abducted
from the scene by an illicit party."