'Uh-oh,' he said.
'What?'
'Mail ain't been picked up.'
The mailman stared across the dusty yard at the house. 'I always hate that. Old folks always get their mail, always, unless something ain't right. I used to deliver on Miami Beach, you know, when I was younger. You always knew what you were going to find when the mail hadn't been picked up.'
'How many days?'
'Looks like a couple. Oh shit. I hate this,' said the postman.
Cowart started to approach the house again. He walked up to a window and peered in. All he could see was cheap furniture arranged in a small sitting area. There was a colored portrait of Jesus on the wall, with light radiating out of his head. 'Can you see anything over there?' he asked the postman, who had joined him at the front of the house and was staring through another window, shading his eyes against the glare.
'Just an empty bedroom.'
Both men stepped back and Cowart called out, 'Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun! Hello!'
There was still no reply. He went to the front door and put his hand on the doorknob. It turned. He looked over at the postman, who nodded. He opened the door and stepped inside.
The smell hit him immediately.
The postman groaned and put his hand on Cowart's shoulder.
I know what that is,' he said. 'First smelled it in Vietnam. Never forget it.' He paused, then added, 'Listen.'
The smell clogged Cowart's throat and he wanted to choke, as if he was standing in smoke. Then he heard a buzzing noise coming from the back of the house.
The postman stepped back, retreating. 'I'm gonna go call the cops.'
'I'm gonna check,' Cowart said.
'Don't,' the postman said. 'There's no need.'
Cowart shook his head. He stepped forward, the smell and the buzzing noise seeming to gather him in, drawing him toward it. He was aware that the postman had left and he glanced back over his shoulder and saw the man hurrying toward a neighbor's house. Cowart took several more steps into the home. His eyes searched about, grasping at detail, gathering sights that could later be described, taking in the threadbare furnishings, the religious artifacts, and the thick sense that this was the last place on earth. The heat built about him inexorably, joining with the smell, which permeated his clothes, his nostrils, slid into his pores, and tugged firmly at the edges of nausea within him. He moved ahead into the kitchen.
The old man and woman were there.
They had each been tied to a chair, at either end of a linoleum-topped breakfast table. Their arms were pulled back sharply. The woman was naked, the man clothed. They were sitting across from each other, just as if they were sitting down to a meal.
Their throats had been cut.
Black blood was pooled about the base of each chair.
Flies covered each face, beneath tangles of gray hair.
Their heads were bent back, so that lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling.
In the center of the table, a Bible had been opened.
Cowart choked, battling unconsciousness, fear, and fighting to keep his stomach from heaving.
The heat in the room seemed to increase, washing over him in waves of thick, cloying warmth. The sound from the flies filled his ears. He took a single step and craned forward to read the words on the open page. A blood smear marked a single passage.
There be of them, that have left a name behind them, that their praises might be reported. And some there be, which have no memorial; who are perished, as though they had never been; and are become as though they had never been born; and their children after them.
He stepped back, eyes wildly searching the room.
He saw a corner door, leading to the outside backyard, with a single chain lock that had been forced. The lock hung uselessly from splintered old wood. His eyes swept back to the old couple in front of him. The woman's flaccid breasts were streaked with brown-black blood. He stepped back fast, first one step, then another, and finally turned and rushed out the front door. He caught his breath, hands on knees, and saw the postman returning from across the street. Cowart felt a dizziness that threatened to drop him to the ground, so he sat abruptly on the front stoop.
The postman called out as he hurried toward Cowart, 'Are they?'
He nodded.
'Jesus,' the man said. 'Is it bad?'
Cowart nodded again.
'Police are on their way.'
'They were killed,' Cowart said quietly.
'Murdered? No shit?'
He bent his head again.
'Jesus,' the postman repeated. 'Why?'
He didn't reply, only shook his head. But inwardly, his mind reeled.
I know, Cowart thought. I know.
I know who they are and I know why they died.
They were the people Blair Sullivan had told him he always wanted to kill. Always. And he'd finally done it, reaching out from behind the bars, past the gates and fences, past the prison walls and barbed wire, just as he promised he could.
Matthew Cowart just did not know how.
10. An Arrangement Reached Upon The Road To Hell
It was late in the morning on the seventh day before Cowart was able to get back to the prison. Time had been trapped by the murder investigation.
He and the postman had waited quietly on the front stoop of the house for a patrol car to arrive. 'This is a helluva thing,' the postman had said. 'And, dammit, I wanted to catch the afternoon tide, pick up some snapper for dinner. Won't get out on the boat now.' He shook his head.
After a few moments, they heard a car come crunching down Tarpon Drive and they looked up to see a single policeman. He parked in front, slowly got out of his green-and-white cruiser, and approached lifter's muscles and dark aviator shades hiding his eyes.
I did,' the postman said. 'But he went inside.' The man jerked a finger toward Cowart.
'Who are you?'
'A reporter for the Miami Journal,' Cowart replied sadly.
'Uh-huh. So what've we got?'
'Two dead people. Murdered.'
The policeman's voice quickened. 'How do you know that?'
'Go look for yourself.'
'Neither of you two move.' The policeman maneuvered past them.
'Where do you think we'd go?' the postman asked quietly. 'Hell, I've been through this a whole lot more times than he has. Hey!' he called after the cop. 'It's just like in the damn movies. Don't touch anything.'
'I know that,' the young policeman said. 'Christ.'
They watched him as he walked carefully into the house.
'I think he's in for the shock of his young career,' Cowart said.
The postman grinned. 'He probably thinks that all there is to this job is chasing speeders heading toward Key West.'
Before Cowart could reply, they heard the cop say, 'Holy shit!' The exclamation had a sudden high pitch to it, like the sound of a surprised gull, cartwheeling into the sky.
There was a momentary pause, then the young policeman came pounding fast through the house. He made it past Cowart and the postman, into the front yard, before he threw up.
'Hey,' the postman said quietly, 'I'll be damned.' He tugged at his ponytail and smiled. 'You said it was bad. Guess you know what the hell you're talking about.'
'Must have been the smell,' Cowart said, watching the young policeman heave.
After a moment, the policeman straightened. His hair was slightly out of place, his face pale. Cowart tossed him a handkerchief. The policeman nodded. 'But, who, why, Jesus
'Who, is Blair Sullivan's mother and stepfather, Cowart said. 'Why, is a whole different question. Now, don't you think you better call this in?'
'No shit?' said the postman. 'Are you kidding me? But isn't he supposed to fry?'
'You got it.'
'Christ. But how come you're here?'
That's a good question, Cowart thought but out loud replied, 'I'm just looking for a story.'
'Guess you got one, the postman said under his breath.