Hadn’t he already closed it? He turned, ran briskly to the front of the house, and opened the door.

The sprinklers were on full blast. In the half-light, he saw watery prints of bare feet on the dry stone pathway. He followed the footprints as they led off his property, to the center of the street, where they . . . vanished.

It appeared that the intruder had made a beeline for Kate Ireland’s house across the street. He thought of ringing Kate’s doorbell to warn her, then decided against it. He didn’t want to sound like a crazy old coot, showing up at her door, sweat rings under his arms. Not that she seemed completely sound herself. He’d run into her several times at the liquor store, hunching along the whisky aisle with her many bottles, as if anyone in a liquor store would judge. No, as long as the housebreaker was gone, he wouldn’t bother. It didn’t look like anything was missing. Of course, the next time they showed up, he’d teach the punk a lesson with his knives—plural.

The phone was ringing when Raymond got to his porch and set down the stake.

“I can’t talk now, Dad,” Raymond said to the master of impeccable timing.

“Why not?”

“I’m really tired. I’ll call you Sunday.”

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” the old man said.

“You wanted to hear my voice?”

“Yes, son. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Remember that DVD I sent you of the movie they made out of my book Black Grave?”

“Black Grape, did you say?”

“Black. Grave.” His dad had never read any of his books, citing moral objections.

“Oh, yes.”

“If you put on the DVD, and anyone working at Dartmoor would be able to do that for you, you can hear my voice on the commentary track.”

“I’m not so sure. They aren’t so bright, the girls who work here.”

“What’re you talking about? Students from Yale intern there.” Raymond sighed. “Look, I really have to go now. Somebody just broke into my house.”

“Good Lord! Are they still there? Have you called the police?”

“I can’t, can I, Dad? Not when you’re keeping me on the phone with you.”

“Raymond, why are you being so mean?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! What do you want from me?”

“I’m your father.”

“Yes, and as my father, I’d expect you to have the maturity and decency to realize that I, your son, am a fully grown, fully realized adult and that I have my own life. And with that, my own problems that I need to solve.” Raymond took another deep breath. “I have to call the police now.”

“Please call sometime, won’t you?” That plaintive voice again. It was the kind of thing that led to patricide. “You won’t forget, will you?”