Tribute

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.

TWENTY-EIGHT
    E nough 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