As they moved back toward the tree line and angled up toward the house, Win explained that Billings and Blakely would approach the house from the front. “The twins have made it to the house several times before,” Win said, “but they’ve never made it inside. They’ve rung the bell. They’ve tried the windows. Eventually a security guard chases them. The boys claim that there is only one guard at the house at night, while a second guard covers the gate on the road.”

“But they can’t know that for sure.”

“No, so neither do we.”

Myron thought about it. “But they make it all the way to the house before the guard sees them. That means there are probably no motion detectors.”

“Motion detectors rarely work on large open estates,” Win said. “Too many animals set off false alarms. There will probably be alarms or some kind of chime on the doors and windows, but that shouldn’t concern us.”

Burglar alarms, Myron knew, kept out the amateur or run-of-the-mill robber. They did not keep out Win and his satchel of tools.

“So the only big risk,” Myron said, “is how many guards are in the actual house.”

Win smiled. His eyes had that funny glaze. “What’s life without a few risks?”

Still in the trees, Win and Myron reached a spot about twenty yards from the house. Win signaled for Myron to duck down. He pointed to the side door and whispered, “Servants’ entrance. That’s how we will make our approach.”

He took out his cell phone and again flashed it. In the distance, Billings and Blakely started climbing up the hill toward the estate’s archway gate. The wind picked up speed, whipping the boys on their ascent. They kept their heads lowered and came closer.

Win nodded at Myron. Both men got on their bellies and commando-crawled toward the servant’s entrance. Myron could see that the door led to a kitchen or pantry or something like that, but the lights were off inside. The ground was sopping wet from the rain, making their crawl feel snail-like. The mud oozed beneath them, friction free.

When Win and Myron reached the side door, they remained on their bellies and waited. Myron turned his head to the side and rested his chin on the wet ground. He could see the ocean. Lightning ripped the sky in two. Thunder crackled. They stayed there for one minute, then two. Myron started getting antsy.

A few moments later, through the wind and rain, he heard a shout: “Your music sucks!”

It was Billings or Blakely. The other—the one who hadn’t yelled first—came back with, “It’s horrendous!”

“Dreadful!”

“Ghastly!”

“Appalling!”

“An offensive audible assault!”

“A ghastly ear crime!”