Jane gulped and shivered out of the recollection. Why would she dream such an awful thing anyway? In a sense, though, it was understandable. Awful dreams often followed awful genuine events, and Danelleton had certainly had its share of that lately. But the final realization made her grit her teeth. She remembered who’d been strangling her in the dream.

  Myself.

  “No, I had a lousy dream, honey. Dreams are weird that way. You can’t figure them out. After you think about them, though, they seem pretty silly.”

  “Well, mine wasn’t silly. It was great. I hope I dream about the unicorn again tonight. I could even smell the flowers in the field…”

  Jane got back to the eggs, or at least she tried to, until a slow-plodding movement snagged her attention at the corner of her eye. She turned toward the kitchen entrance. It was Kevin.

  He looked absolutely morose. He stood there still as a fencepost, something in his cupped hands. A second glance showed Jane that he had tears in his eyes.

  She put the spatula down and rushed to him. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “Oh, no,” Jennifer said when she saw what was in her brother’s hand. “What happened!”

  Jane strained her vision. What is that?

  Now Kevin’s tears bubbled up. “Mel’s dead.”

  That’s Mel? Jane thought.

  What sat still in Kevin’s hands looked like a small hunk of roadkill, but as Jane squinted further, she noticed the horned toad’s overall features. But there was something else—wet and glimmery—that seemed connected to the pet lizard’s head.

  Its innards.

  “Somebody killed him, Mom. Somebody killed Mel.”

  “Well, honey,” Jane began. “I’m sure it was just some kind of accident.”

  “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 free flowing. “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…lizard 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 liked 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 helped out. “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 being dumped down the disposal. Jane grabbed a spade from the garage and helped Kevin bury the lizard in the back yard 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 angst had simmered 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 coffee maker, 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. She wondered what his story was.

  “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 taken 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 lizard 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 lizard. My husband gave it to him when he was about five.”

  “Divorced, huh?”

  Jane’s eyes flicked down. “No, my husband was murdered several 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. He must feel terribly guilty for having accidently raised the subject. “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 of 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.

  What’s bugging him now?

  “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 hedging?”

  “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 that was found at both of the murder scenes?”

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

  His cell phone sounded.

  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, 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…

  In a while she left her office to scout about the station. She made a round through the processing area and its attendant coves, 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 being 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 the job entailed, along with the astonishing fact that the U.S. Post Office 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 unpromotable. Stoop-shouldered, overweight, fifty-ish. 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 an 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 mudslide. “Hello, Martin,” she greeted.

  Martin didn’t answer directly but may have grunted something under his breath. He turned his attention back to 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 personal 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.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. There are plenty of other employees qualified to take the job. I could never get you cleared for delivery supervisor, not with your P.E.R.”

  “Fine. Give it to one of them.”

  I was so hoping this wouldn’t happen…but I knew it would, she thought. “Suit yourself, Martin.”

  He grumbled something further as Jane walked away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  * * *

  (I)

  Martin Parkins felt as though his head would explode. His blood simmered; his temples felt like pins had been driven into them. Where did she get off patronizing him like that? She was playing games with him! Yeah, she’s hot shit now that she’s station manager. Offers me a pissant raise when she knows damn well I should get Carlton’s job.

  He closed his eyes, gritting at his rage. He placed his head down on the table and took deep breaths. His hands were shaking, his eyelids fluttering. Martin was mad all the time, perpetually pissed off at the world and the people who’d given him the shaft, and he was tired of the shaft. He’d been close to the breaking point for years; today, though, was the worst.

  When Jane Ryan walked away from his station, his eyes followed her out with the wildest thoughts: that tight rump in those tight regulation post office shorts. Her shirt was tight, too—probably deliberately. It made her breasts look like they might break out of it. The tease, he thought. Likes to tease old Martin, really get his goat. Wears that shit too tight on purpose.

  When she’d fully left the coves, he smiled. One of these days I’ll tune that bitch up but good. I’ll punch her ticket like it’s never been punched.

  She was good-looking, though. The hot shits always were. Always thought they were a little bit better than everyone else just because they’d happened to be born attractive, and because they had a little more education. Truth was Jane Ryan was no better than anyone, just luckier. And all Martin was getting was more of the shaft.

  He finished the last of his two-foot trays, each containing exactly 460 sorted letters, and decided to take a break. He worked hard, too. The only difference was he got no credit. If Ryan had given him that psycho Carlton’s job, he’d make a lot more money and would finally have the respect he deserved. The bitch had played him, offered him the shit job, instead, knowing that he had too much pride to take it, and now she was probably writing that up in his eval report too.

  Oh, yeah. One of these days, she’ll get hers.

  He slipped out of the cove when most of the processors were cutting out for lunch. Martin didn’t want lunch. He went into the bathroom, took the back stall, and sat down. He slipped out his flask and took a slug. Kessler’s whiskey. Smooth as silk. A couple more hits and he started to feel better—

  —feel better, that is, in the strangest way.

  All he could think about was Jane Ryan, and those thoughts were getting pretty low-down. He wasn’t mad anymore; he was thrilled. He began to feel very much in control. He couldn’t put his finger on the way he felt—it was impossible for him to articulate—but it seemed as though a presence of security had suddenly overwhelmed him. Like a guardian angel had come down upon him.

  A few more hits on the Kessler’s and he knew. It wasn’t just Jane Ryan. It was damn near everyone. The people out there needed guys like Martin to tear down, so that they could feel better themselves. It built them up to trod on low-key mind-his-own-business guys like Martin. Ryan was no different. They were all having a laugh…