The Messenger (2011 reformat) Read online

  MESSENGER

  Edward Lee

  (2011 edition)

  About this eBook

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  EPILOGUE

  About this eBook

  I created this custom eBook from a very poorly formatted rich-text file. I did not have a hard-copy of the original book to provide a “master” or guide as I re-formatted and cleaned-up the rich-text file.

  The source file contained an enormous amount of spelling and punctuation errors, unlabeled main and sub-chapters; and even missing words. As a result of not having an original copy, and because this .rtf was so poorly created, I had to make a small amount of interpretations of the text of the original book.

  I would like to assure you that those interpretations were kept to a bare minimum. Mostly, I had to interpret where the author used a “-“ and/or “...” at the end of speech, line breaks and/or paragraph ends. I also had to determine where two sub-chapters began in two main chapters.

  In the end, my version of Edward Lee’s “The Messenger” is by far more readable than the original rich-text file. I hope you find it an improved version as well.

  In the end, I sincerely hope you have an enjoyable reading experience of this outstanding novel.

  Flyboy707

  September, 2011.

  PROLOGUE

  Death was in the package. Of course, it would've been impossible for Dodd to know that, unless he'd been psychic-which he wasn't-but either way it scarcely mattered. He never would've been able to guess. Why would he? It was a simple fact that he would discover soon enough: The odd box he'd just picked up off the belt contained his death.

  Dodd sorted packages. That was his job. He was a package handler. It wasn't a bad job, as far as jobs went. Great benefits, good pay and retirement, paid vacation, plenty of available overtime when he needed some extra money, and the location, of course. When he picked up the package in question, there wasn't a whole lot on his mind. By now, his tasks had become so ingrained, most of his mind switched off; he became an automaton, sorting all these packages.

  Day in, day out, in this same place. The same scenery, the same noises, the same tasks. He paused by the belt, and thought: I've still got nine more years of this before I can retire. That truth often overwhelmed him, even though, for the most part, he didn't mind his job. He didn't want to try to guess how many packages he'd picked up and moved in his career. Enough to circle Earth? Enough to reach the Moon? Abstractions were of little value on the line. It was easier to just throw the packages into the proper zone bin and move on to the next one.

  Day in, day out.

  Sometimes his mind would stray, though, usually to some image that involved sex. Dodd was married to a loving and rather drab wife. She was not attractive, nor unattractive, just... drab, as drab as Dodd's package handling life. On the rare occasions when his mind strayed, he never thought of her. He'd think fleetingly, in freeze-frames of local women he'd see on the street; living this close to a beach town, there was much to fill his mind when he became bored or anxious. Yesterday, for example, he'd stopped by the drugstore for cigarettes and saw a beautiful woman-thirty, perhaps- buying a beach towel and a tube of suntan lotion. Dodd got tunnel vision standing behind her in line. Her hair shined, chocolate brown, shoulder length, fragrant. She was wearing white shorts and a stunning rose-pink bikini top. The top was a bit small on her; it buoyed her breasts like blushing satchels. Her skin wasn't tan at all, though; like Dodd, perhaps she had a job that kept her out of the sun. But her beauty seemed focused, very compact. To see her standing there, voluptuous yet nonchalant, felt like an impact to Dodd. The vision was a lovely punch in the eye.

  Did she sense him looking at her?

  She turned and smiled at him.

  More impact.

  "Hi," she said.

  "Hi," Dodd replied, nearly faltering. "Hitting the beach, I see."

  "Yeah." She sheepishly held up the towel. "Can you believe it? I've lived here almost a year now, and I don't even own a beach towel, haven't even been out to the beach. Well, today I fix that. I'm pale as a ghost."

  "I don't get out much, either," Dodd replied.

  "A postman?" she said, noticing his work uniform. "All that walking around, delivering mail?"

  "I'm not a carrier. I work inside." I'm a package handler...and you are one package I'd like to handle.

  "Oh, that's too bad."

  "Not really. I get to stay inside in the air-conditioning while everyone else gets the heat."

  "Good old Florida." She was turning the tube of lotion around in her fingers. "But that's one thing that doesn't bother me. I love the heat. I love it when it's hot."

  She smiled at him again, very discreetly.

  "Me too," Dodd said.

  The tunnel vision intensified. She was radiant in curves, long legs, and fresh white skin that shined. He imagined what her nipples were like-large and dark, the kind that pucker a little, he decided. He imagined kissing her. He imagined being pressed up against her, both of them naked, sharing each other's body heat, arms entwined. Her hands ranging across his body.

  "Would you like to go?"

  The impact of the vision fractured. He blinked. "Go?" he muttered.

  "To the beach, with me," she said, still smiling. "We could go to one of those beach bars by the hotels. I've never been."

  "I..." His hand tightened around his wallet. "I'd really like to, but-"

  Then she saw his wedding band; however, the smile didn't abate. "Oh, I see. Don't feel that bad about it." She held up her hand. "I've got one of those too."

  Dodd's breath shortened. Go, he thought. Just go... But he said, "I...I'm sorry. I wish I could, but I can't."

  Her lashes batted. "I understand. You're a good man."

  He couldn't stop looking at her as she paid for her towel and lotion. I could be putting that lotion on her, he reminded himself. Her buttocks in the tight white shorts couldn't have been more perfect. He wanted to spread the lotion over that, too, and everywhere else. They could go to the nude beach out past the campgrounds. He'd spread the lotion all down her legs, up her back, then turn her around. All up her perfect stomach and breasts, up the insides of her thighs.

  Everywhere.

  " 'Bye," she said. A final smile, which seemed sad now, as sad as Dodd's life.

  " 'Bye. Have fun."

  She walked out, calves flexing as her flip-flops snapped.

  God...

  The vision was gone. Dodd was back at the post office, sorting his interminable packages.

  That's when he picked up the package that would be his death.

  He hit the stop button on the conveyor. He didn't know why. He didn't think, Why did I do that? or I'm going to stop the belt. He just did it. He stood there. He looked at the package.

  It was an oddly shaped box, oblong. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, like the paper grocery bags are made of. There was no return address, and the postmark appeared smeared; Dodd couldn't make out the city, state, or zip code it had been ma
iled from. He looked at the top again. The box read:

  DANELLETON POST OFFICE, DANELLETON, FLORIDA

  It had been written by hand with a red felt-tip, marker in an erratic scrawl.

  Due to its nature-no return address, shoddily wrapped-a package like this was an instant red flag to the original handler. But it wasn't a bomb. It contained no anthrax, no poison gas nor germ warfare agents. It had already been x-rayed and bomb scanned at the central distribution depot in Orlando. Even in this day, before the Unabomber and before the anthrax scare of 2002, a package this suspicious would be vigorously scrutinized. This one had been and it was cleared. Nevertheless it still contained his death. But it wasn't anything from a terrorist or psychopath.

  Since the box wasn't addressed to a resident or business, Dodd's next job was to deliver the package to the branch manager, who wouldn't be in until later.

  Instead Dodd did something that he was clearly not authorized to do.

  He opened the package.

  More crinkling as he peeled the paper off. Did the box feel hot? No, that was ridiculous. He opened it slowly, not in fear or hesitation but in some undecipherable adoration. His eyes were wide and unfocused. He wasn't really even looking at the box, he was adoring it in his hands.

  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.

&nbs
p; 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.