It meant nothing.

He looked around his workshop and nearly wept with despair. None of it meant anything. He'd lost what mattered, and she'd lost nothing. Now he was reduced to leaving dead animals on her doorstep.

He should've killed the crazy old woman and her dog, he decided. Coulda, shoulda. That would've made a statement.

He took out one of the little black pills, studied it. Just one, he thought. Just one to give him back some juice.

Because it was time to make a statement. Time to stop screwing around and kick it all up a notch.

Johnson hadn't put a hitch in her step. Something else-or somebody else-would.

"Twenty-two caliber." The criminalist, a skinny guy named Ottis, held the slug up with gloved fingers. "You gonna kill da wabbit, this is plenty hot enough."

"Single shot?"

"Yeah." Ottis frowned at Phoebe. "Do you want me to run it through ballistics? Ah, do any trace on the… vie?"

"Actually, I would. If someone's playing a prank, I'm not laughing. And I think it's more than that. So anything you can tell me about the bunny or the bullet would be helpful."

"Sure, no problem. I'll get back to you."

She went back to her office and wrote up an official incident report. Then she took a copy out to Sykes's desk, filled him in.

"Do you want me to go have a conversation with Arnie?"

"No, at least not yet. I'd like you to pull a few lines, if you can. Find out how he's handling the security job, get a sense of his routine. See if you can find out if he's been spending any time in my neighborhood. He's got a mouth," Phoebe added. "If he's messing with me, he's probably bragged about it to someone. Someone he drinks with or works with."

"I'll poke around."

"Thanks. Thank you, Bull."

Best she could do, Phoebe decided. But not all she could do. Back in her office, she wrote up a log, listing the times and dates, the incidents she believed were connected. To these she added her own speculations.

Rat-symbol-snitch, turncoat, deserting sinking ship. Snake-symbol-evil, sneaky, bringer of ruin to Paradise. Rabbit-symbol-cowardly, running away.

Might be taking it all too far, psychologically, she mused, but it was better to err on the side of caution than to just err.

Whistling keeps the voice disguised, anonymous. What does the song mean? Do not forsake me. Who was forsaken? Who did or might do the forsaking?

. One man standing up against corruption and cowardice

(rabbit as cowardice?). Rat as desertion of townspeople. Snake as corruption. Cooper as sheriff (wasn't he? Rent the damn movie), standing alone in the final showdown.

Was it about the movie or just the song? she wondered. She did a search, found the lyrics and printed them out for the file she would make.

was a kind of deadline, wasn't it? Do this by this time or pay the price.

She sat back. And if it was Arnie Meeks harassing her, he wouldn't be thinking about symbols and hidden meanings. It just wasn't his style.

Still, she'd make up the file. And on the way home, she'd hunt up a copy of.

TERMINATION PHASE

I do not know what fate awaits me.

– 

Chapter 21

Screaming kids and the lightning-flash mood swings of little girls didn't appear to ruffle Duncan's feathers. In fact, his easy slide through kid world had Phoebe wondering if the man had any feathers to ruffle.

What he did, she noted, was play like a maniac. Whatever it wasvideo arcade, miniature golf, whack-a-mole, he was into it. She liked games as much as the next person, and God knew she'd done her stints at fun centers. But she'd never come out of one, in her memory, without a vague headache, a stomach uneasy from strange combinations of food, and feet that ached like a tooth headed for a root canal.

She had a touch of all three results, and sat herself down on a bench while Duncan took on all challengers in what he called the Champion Round of mini-golf.

Carly was having the time of her life, and the other kids who'd packed along were flocked around him like he was the Pied Piper. And how, Phoebe wondered, did spending hours racing virtual cars or hit ting a red ball through the rotating fans of a plastic windmill equal researching an investment possibility?

Loo dropped down beside her. "I should've gotten a manicure. These places wear me out and I knew that man would talk me into coming."

"Phin's looking a little worn himself."

"Not Phin." Loo sucked diet soda through a straw. "I know all his tricks by now. Duncan. I know all his, too, but damn that man always gets around me."

From her vantage point, Phoebe studied him. He'd sat through an elementary school production of Cinderella with every appearance of being thoroughly entertained. And had capped that off by insisting on buying the redheaded stepsister an ice cream cone. Naturally, Carly was crazy about him.

And now he was giving every appearance of being thoroughly entertained by playing mini-golf with a platoon of overexcited children.

"Duncan doesn't look worn at all," Phoebe observed.

"Probably live here if he could." Loo slipped her own aching feet out of her sandals. "Look at him, crouched down on that old green carpet eyeballing the hole like he's Tiger Woods in the Playland Open. Kids eating it right up like ice cream sundaes, which I warn you, he'll insist on after this is over."

Phoebe pressed a hand to her stomach. "Oh God."

"Won't play real golf. Phin's dragged him out several times, and tells me Duncan says stuff like: 'Where's the windmill?' or 'When do we get to the troll bridge?'" She let out her big laugh. "Bruises our Phin's dignity, which is exactly Dune's purpose."

Because she could hear Duncan say it, Phoebe smiled. "So he just wanted to come out and play. This investment business is a ruse."

"Oh no, he's given it serious thought. He'll be working out the pros and cons now."

Lips pursed, Phoebe studied Duncan as he argued the count of strokes on a hole with Phin. "Yes, I can see that."

"I mean it." Loo gave Phoebe a poke. "He's going to have a good ballpark idea how many kids and adults came through the turnstiles today, which areas got the most play, which didn't. You can bet he's asked the kids we brought, and those of complete strangers, what they like. He'll have himself a baseline before we're sick off ice cream sundaes, then he'll go-or won't go-from there."

"I can't quite fit him into the businessman mold."

Loo's smile was lit with affection. "He's his own mold."

"Apparently."

"Got a nice ass on him, too."

"Unquestionably."

"He's got what my mother calls the calfs eyes for you."

"Does he? It's hard for me to see clearly with all these hearts circling in front of mine. I just wanted a hot affair." She shifted toward Loo, kept her voice low. "I figured, hell, I deserve one."

"Who doesn't?" Loo shifted in turn. "How about some salient details?"

"Maybe some other time. The thing is, I don't know if I can manage what's going on in here." She pressed a hand to her heart. "I don't know if I have the tools or the room or-"

"Why? You're-"

"Wait." Phoebe turned her hand palm out now. "You're married, and happily by every sign. You have a pretty little girl and an ugly dog.

You have a big family, dual careers that complement each other and exceptional taste in shoes."

"I do." Loo pursed her lips at the stacked-heel, copper-toned sandals. "The shoes are the kicker."

"I'm divorced with a career that pulls me in conflicting directions constantly, and a family I love, but that does the same. My foundation is shaky at best, and what I've built on it takes a lot of time and effort to tend. It's never been just me for a lot of reasons. It can never be just me."