Chapter 15

It had been a thrill to hear his lovely wife’s voice again. It had been four years since he’d spoken to her, and her fear of him was as profound as ever. By the time he ended their call, he had a huge erection.

Aroused, he turned his attention to Aunt Betty, and finished his business with her. Perhaps due to his excitement, he got a bit carried away, actually. But the smug, meddling old bitch deserved everything he gave her.

He exited the house via the back door. His wife would phone the police and give them his name and description, and he saw no purpose in making himself an easy target.

Snowflakes continued to spiral out of the sky. He walked through tall drifts of snow in the backyard, climbed the chain-link fence, and dropped into the narrow alley. Ahead, the alley emptied into a street that intersected the one on which Aunt Betty lived.

He thrust his hands into his pockets and crossed from the alley to the street, whistling to himself like a man out for a lunch time stroll. He made a left at the corner. His Chevy sat about a hundred yards ahead.

But the mail man was coming his way; a tall, ruddy-faced white guy walking nimbly across the snowy sidewalk.

Dexter calculated the high risk of his situation: a terrible crime has been committed in a quiet community. Someone phones the cops and gives the perpetrator’s name and a description. The cops jump into action, and in their frantic search for leads, talk to anyone who might have been in the neighborhood at the time the crime was committed, in the hopes of getting an eyewitness . . . such as a mail carrier out on his daily rounds.

Dexter wasn’t worried that the Chevy would be traced to him, since he’d purchased it without supplying ID. But it wouldn’t do if some peckerwood mailman saw him getting in the car.

Keep walking. Act as if I have every right to be in this neighborhood, act as if nothing at all is wrong. Act as if I’m invisible.

When the thought slipped through his mind, the phenomenon he’d experienced that morning and yesterday started anew: the darting movement in the corner of his eye. The serpent-hissing noises.

Dexter spun, found nothing behind him. Dammit, what is that?

The mail carrier was drawing near. Crunching through snow. Whistling.

The dancing movements in his peripheral vision faded, and the reptilian hissing ceased, too. Warmth settled over Dexter, as though he were wrapped in a wool blanket.

What’s happening to me?

Although it was a curious sensation, he felt a surprising peace. Whatever this was, it was a good thing. It felt too pleasurable to be harmful to him.

The mail man was at the house ahead. High-stepping through snow.

Dexter nodded and waved, like a friendly neighbor.

The mail carrier did not return the greeting. He didn’t appear to see Dexter.

Well, you know most black folk are invisible to white people, anyway.

But then the mail man strode down the sidewalk on which Dexter stood, and walked toward him and then swept right past him, looking in Dexter’s direction but never registering Dexter’s presence, as if Dexter were merely a tree growing along the edge of the sidewalk.

Dexter stared after the guy.

He had the feeling that something significant had occurred, but he couldn’t grasp what it might be. Or perhaps he did understand, and was unwilling to accept it, for it fell outside the boundaries of what he believed was possible.

The mail carrier had walked past as if Dexter was invisible.