Fire And Ice

Ruby grumbled. "I thought neither snow nor sleet nor dark of night stayed the mailman from his appointed rounds."

"That oath doesn't say anything about bullets, now, does it?" Jim Earl demanded. Ruby subsided, but not graciously.

Jim Earl led Liam through a door behind the counter. The room was an office, containing a desk, two chairs for visitors, and a row of filing cabinets. There were two people already in the room. The one window looked out on the work space of the post office, and Liam peered through it with interest.

The i

The rear wall had garage doors, and one of them was open to reveal the maw of a freight igloo sitting on a trailer hitched to a semi, into which the man in the post office uniform shirt, now operating a forklift, hoisted a pallet with packages strapped to it. The sun shone so brightly through the gap formed between the igloo's end and the garage door that man, forklift, and pallet seemed to vanish into outer darkness once they had rumbled across the knobby steel ru

The most interesting thing about the window Liam was looking through was the bullet hole in it. Two of them, in fact, neat holes that had left equally neat starbursts behind in the thick glass pane. He bent to look more closely. "Thirty-caliber, I'd guess," he said, straightening.

"Well now," Jim Earl said, "You don't have to sound so awful goddamn cheerful about it, do you?"

Developing a habit where you showed up after all the shooting was done was definitely something to cheer about, in Liam's opinion, but he kept it to himself.

"This here's the postmaster," Jim Earl said, indicating the man behind the desk. "Name's Richard Gilbert." He failed to identify the woman standing off to the side.

Richard Gilbert was a thin, short man wearing a white uniform shirt, a pair of dark blue uniform pants, and thick-soled black loafers. There was a not very bloody crease across his upper left arm, and his long, narrow face was contorted with rage.

"Mr. Gilbert," Liam said. "I'm Sergeant-I'm Trooper Liam Campbell. Do you know who shot you?"

"Of course he knows who shot him, you damn fool," Jim Earl barked.

Liam looked at Jim Earl, and back at the postmaster. "Might this person have a name?"

"Of course he's got a name-everybody's got a name," Jim Earl said.

Still patient, Liam said, "And this name might be?"

"Oh," Jim Earl said. "That'd be Kelly McCormick."

The mayor looked at Liam expectantly. To the postmaster Liam said, "Mr. Gilbert, did you see Mr. McCormick shooting at you?"

"Of course he did!" Jim Earl's bark was back. "Shot at him right through that loading door there."

Liam looked at the loading door blocked by the igloo on the trailer backed up to it. The man in postal uniform was piloting another palletful of mail on board. "Was the van there at the time?"

For once, Jim Earl seemed stumped. He looked at the postmaster for reference. The woman behind Gilbert, wearing a white uniform shirt and blue pants identical to Gilbert's, was now uttering little cries of solace as she tried ineffectually to sponge the wound with a polka dot scarf that looked as if it had recently been tied around her hair. The postmaster slapped her hands away. "Knock it off, Rebecca, you're only making it worse."

"Mr. Gilbert," Liam said, producing a pad and pencil. For some reason a pad and pencil always helped to focus people's attention, and this time was no exception. Gilbert fended off Rebecca once more and she retreated obediently back into a corner. He straightened in his chair and looked at Liam through thick-rimmed, thick-lensed glasses. "Mr. Gilbert," Liam repeated, "could you please tell me exactly what happened here this morning?"

Then an odd thing occurred. Like crumpled cotton under the heat of an iron, the rage smoothed out of the postmaster's face. Gilbert stiffened his spine and folded his hands on the desk before him, and when he spoke his voice was calm and his words were measured, studied, almost pontifical. The effect was somewhat ruined by the voice itself; it was thin and high-pitched, erring occasionally to a raspy squeak. "How do you do, officer," he said formally. "This is Rebecca."

The woman, short, stubby, and dark-haired, made a sort of curtsy in Liam's direction and offered him a timid smile. "Ma'am," Liam said, and inclined his head in lieu of touching the brim of his hat, which was back in his bag at the office. He'd responded to three calls in twenty-four hours, and not one of them in uniform. He was liable to be fined for it if his boss ever found out.

"Precisely what is it that you wish to know, officer?" the postmaster said.

Equally formal, in trooper mode at least endlessly patient, Liam repeated, "Could you please tell me exactly what happened here this morning?"

The postmaster frowned at his folded hands, formed them into a steeple, and looked to the ceiling for guidance. Next to Liam the mayor shifted, and the trooper said quickly, "Jim Earl, do me a favor? Call dispatch and see if there have been any other incidents of shooting this morning? Be a good idea to see if this guy's been practicing on more than one target." Jim Earl made a move toward the phone on the desk, and Liam said even more quickly, "Mr. Gilbert, is there a phone in the other office the mayor can use while we talk in here?"

The woman in the corner positively leapt forward to be of assistance, and with reluctance Jim Earl followed her from the room, casting a doubtful look over his shoulder on his way out the door. Liam closed it firmly behind him and turned once again to the postmaster, who had lowered his gaze from the ceiling and was regarding Liam over the tips of his steepled fingers, the thick lenses of his glasses enlarging his eyes to the point that they seemed to be protruding from his head. Exactly like a goldfish in a bowl, Liam thought.

"Now then, Mr. Gilbert, please tell me exactly what happened this morning."

"Certainly, officer," Gilbert replied. "I was sitting right here, at my desk. I had-"

"What time was this?"

"Oh. A few minutes after eight-we'd just opened. I was settling down to work on some of the month-end reports when I heard shouting out in the shop." He gestured behind him. "I turned to look and I saw Greg-that's Greg on the forklift-ru

"The semi with the freight igloos in it wasn't backed up there at that time?"

"Almost. You see, Greg had been backing it in, in preparation for loading it. The plane leaves-"

"So Greg must have jumped down from the cab when he saw Kelly McCormick."

Gilbert didn't look as if he was accustomed to being interrupted. "Yes."

"And he ran because-?"

The postmaster's lips thi

Liam looked out into the freight bay. It faced directly east. The door of the building was larger than the back of the igloo, and the morning sun poured in through the open space and formed a blinding frame of light. "You say you saw Mr. McCormick."

"Yes. Standing in the door of the freight bay."