Would that sort of thing go on the for or against list?

“You know I’m not going to be attacked crossing the road at six-thirty in the morning.”

“Odds are against it.” He smiled, ate.

“And I know you worked late last night, and find it unnatural to be up at this hour of the morning.”

“Had a good run, too. You know, I’m finding that I can get a lot done by round-about noon most days with this routine. A habit which I intend to shed like a bad suit in what I hope is the near future. But right now?”

He paused to shovel in more Tony the Tiger. “It’s working. I should have ten chapters fully inked by the end of today and have time to put a couple of new teaser panels up on my website.”

“Happy to help, but-”

“You’re looking for the negative. I like that about you because it pushes me to look on the brighter side of things-sides I might’ve missed or taken for granted otherwise. You remind me I love what I do. And loving what I do, it’s interesting to do more of it than usual for a space of time. And to pay us both back for all this industry, I’ll be taking us to the Caymans-a favorite place of mine-right about the middle of January, where we’ll soak up sea and sand while our neighbors are shoveling snow.”

“I’ll be finishing up two flips. I-”

“You’ll have to make time in your schedule. We can always bump sun and sea to February. I’m easy.”

“Not nearly as much as you pretend to be.” She opened the dishwasher to load in her bowl, spoon, mug. “You’re a slow leak, Ford.”

His eyes continued to smile as he scooped up cereal. “Is that what I am?”

“A slow leak, unchecked, eventually eats through just about anything. Stone, metal, wood. It doesn’t make much noise, and it’s a long way from the big gushing flood. But it gets the job done.”

He shook his spoon at her. “I’m going to take that as a compliment. Kitchen counter’s coming in today, right?”

“This morning. Then Buddy’s on for the finish plumbing this afternoon. ”

He tucked his breakfast dishes in with hers. “Big day. Let’s get started. Walk!” he said, lifting his voice, and Spock raced in to run in circles.

She walked out with them, then stopped just to look at the Little Farm. Summer thrived over the grounds, lushly green. The big red barn stood, its practical lines softened by the curve of the stone wall, the textures of the plantings. She could see a hint of the pond, with the last vapors of dawn still rising, with the graceful bow of a young willow dipping. Back to the fields, wild with thistle and goldenrod, back to the mountains stretched across the morning sky.

And the house, the centerpiece, rambling and sturdy, with its white veranda, and its front wall half painted in warm and dignified blue.

“I’m glad my father talked me into painting the exterior ahead of schedule. I had no idea how much satisfaction it would give me to see it. When the painting’s finished, it’ll be like a strong old character actress after a really good face-lift.”

She laughed, the mood lightened, and she took his hand as they walked. “One that allows her to maintain her dignity and personal style.”

“I guess that’s apt enough, considering all the cutting and stitching that went into it so far. But I don’t get the whole face-lift thing.”

“It’s just another kind of maintenance.”

Alarm literally vibrated out of him. “You wouldn’t ever…”

“Who knows?” She shrugged. “I’m vain enough to want things to stay put, or have them shored up when they sag. My mother’s had two already, in addition to other work.” Amused by the stunned horror in his eyes, she gave him a nudge. “A lot of men have work done, too.”

“You can put that one away. Deeply buried in a remote location. Are you mailing something out?” He nodded toward her mailbox and the raised red flag.

“No. That’s funny. I didn’t stick anything in there after yesterday’s delivery. Maybe one of the guys did.”

“Or someone put something in it for you. Not supposed to. Mail carrier doesn’t like it.” He veered over, reached for the lid.

“Wait! Don’t!” She grabbed his hand while her heart leaped up to pound in her throat. Beside them, Spock quivered and growled at the alarm in her tone. “Rattlesnake in the mailbox. It’s shorthand for the unexpected-an unpleasant, dangerous surprise.”

“I know what it is. Code name for the season-three finale of Lost. Well… keep back some.”

“Wait until I-”

But he didn’t wait. Instead, he shifted his body, putting it between Cilla and the box, then yanked the lid down.

No snake coiled and hissed inside. None struck out and slithered down the pole. The doll sat, her arms lifted as if in defense. The bright blue eyes were open, and the smile frozen on Cilla’s young face. The bullet left a small, scorched hole in the center of the forehead.

Enough was enough, Ford decided. The cops had the doll; the cops would investigate. And so far, the cops hadn’t been able to do dick-all about stopping the threats against Cilla.

They weren’t pranks, they weren’t harassment. They were threats. Dusting the damn doll and the mailbox, asking questions, even determining-if they could-what caliber of bullet had been used wasn’t going to solve the problem. None of those things would prevent that look of shocked horror from covering Cilla’s face the next time.

Everyone knew there’d be a next time. And the next time, at any time, it could be Cilla instead of a doll.

Yeah, enough was more than enough.

He pulled up in front of the Hennessy place. It was somewhere to start, he thought. Maybe it was somewhere to finish. He walked up, banged on the door.

“Wasting your time.” A woman under an enormous straw gardening hat walked over to stand at the picket fence that formed the boundary between houses. “Nobody’s in there.”

“Do you know where they are?”

“Everybody knows where he is. Locked up.” She tapped her temple under the brim of the hat, then circled it. “Tried to kill a woman over on Meadowbrook Road a couple months back. Janet Hardy’s granddaughter-theone who was the little girl in that TV show? You want to talk to him, you’ll have to try Central State Hospital, down in Petersburg. ”

“What about Mrs. Hennessy?”

“Haven’t seen a sign of her the last couple weeks. Selling the place, as you can see there.” She pointed to the Century 21 sign, then slipped a small pair of clippers into a pocket of her gardening belt. Settling in, Ford knew, for a little over-the-fence chat.

“She’s had a hard life. Her boy was crippled back when he was a teenager. Died a year or so ago. That husband of hers never had a good word to say to anybody around here. Shouting or shaking his fist at kids for playing too loud, or telling people to mind their own if they offered a helping hand. Me, I’d’ve left him after the boy died, but she stuck. Could be she’s taken off now he’s locked up, but more likely, she’s gone down to Petersburg. Don’t know if anybody’s looked at the house yet. I’m going to hope somebody buys it who knows how to be neighborly.”

It was a haul to Petersburg and back, Ford considered. “I guess you’d have noticed if she moved out. I mean, furniture, luggage.”

“Might have, if I was home.” She gave Ford a harder measure from under the wide brim of her hat. “You’re not kin to them, are you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, I can tell you I haven’t seen her or heard a peep out of the house for days now. In fact, I’ve taken to watering what flowers she put in. I can’t stand to watch something die of neglect.”

CILLA TRIED to take a page out of Ford’s book and look at the bright side. The bright side could be that a defaced doll in the mailbox did no damage to her property. It cost her nothing but time and stress.

A bright side could be the police took the whole ugly business very seriously. True, they’d had no luck tracing any of the dolls so far, not when they were sold regularly on eBay or in secondhand and specialty shops, or could have been taken out of someone’s personal collection. But it brought her a measure of comfort to know the police were doing whatever the hell the police did.