“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 would pull 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 hit 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 considered, 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’, 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 stare and shiver. He was now suffering from what a clinician would call reactive psychogenic adrenalin 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 who the blood must belong to.

  It was a lot of blood. It looked like the time Dad had accidently tipped over that gallon of Sherwin-Williams 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, adrenalin 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.

  But in spite of his age, in 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 totally 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, then ran screaming out of the house. 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. 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 rugrat 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 cheat on your father every chance I get…”

  Jimmy ran to the next house, the Norahees’. His shock and 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; a moment later he saw that 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.

  CHAPTER ONE

  TWENTY YEARS LATER

  * * *

  (I)

  The scissors snipped! as their brand-new stainless-steel blades sliced through the yellow ribbon. When the ribbon parted and fell, the small crowd that had gathered out front 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 attending. It wasn’t that big of 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. That 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 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, 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 reminded. “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’ll be great, just you watch.”

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

  “Are you kidding? In the last twenty years, the town 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 than 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 did indeed appear 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 at the loading dock. Her footsteps ticked across the brand-new tile, and next, 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 gotten 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 the hair was only augmented by a rich nutbrown tan, an overall glow of vitality. Bodywise, Jane was happy to see that all the right curves had remained in all the right places. Her bosom 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. The 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 be dropped on her on purpose, 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 position, 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 the lowest per capita crime rate of any township in Florida. Last year, for example, the most serious crimes 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 daycare, plenty of activities for kids. Families were close-knit; everyone looked out for everyone else. There was very little riffraff. There was no “bad” part of town. In essence, Danelleton proved the model for middle-class Florida life.

  And the beauty.

  Palms 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 shined 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 purer.

  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.

  (III)

  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 he 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 till 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 adhered to his face. It was a perfunctory process: crawl in, grab a box, drag it out, then crawl back in for the next. 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 that the Main Post Office couldn’t 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.