“We caught you on the monitors,” the man in the wheelchair said. From his cardigan he produced a thick black remote control and clicked in the direction of the bookcases.

With a grinding of gears, one section spun to reveal a bank of nine bulbous, 1970s-era televisions, stacked in a grid of three per shelf. The eight outer sets displayed a single dotted white line against a black background—it ran along near the top of the uppermost three screens, down the left and right sides of the TVs on the left and right of the second shelf, and along the bottom of the trio at ground level. In the center screen on the middle shelf, a large, pale, rectangular block flickered. Alex stared incredulously at the archaic assemblage, vaguely reminded of clips he’d seen of the earliest computer games. Pong. The name pinged oddly into his head.

“My father’s work,” the man said with a hint of pride. “This alarm system monitors the estate’s entire perimeter.”

“That’s fiendishly clever.” Alex’s grandfather sounded genuinely impressed. “And that’s the house in the center, there, is it? Isn’t that marvelous, Alex?”

“Yes. It’s. Amazing.” Alex ground his teeth. The dog nearest him growled reproachfully.

“It’s how we spotted Morecambe, the first night he tried to get in,” the woman said, watching the old man closely. “We went out with the dogs. And the guns. They ran. Left in two separate cars. We followed Morecambe. He lost us, but not before I got his number plate. It took me a couple of days and several favors to track him down, and then we thought we’d repay him the visit, to find out what he was up to. Which is when we first met you. We searched Morecambe’s place to try to discover how much he knew. But, as you know, we were interrupted.”

“And you say you were attacked here again just last night?” Alex’s grandfather asked.

“Enough. Who are you?” the man snapped. He aimed his pistol at Alex’s grandfather. The gun shook. The man wetted his lips and swallowed. “Who is this Morecambe? How did you learn the secret?”

“Secret?” Alex’s grandfather wrinkled his nose as though trying to think. “Do we know any secrets, Alex?”

“Please don’t waste any more of our time,” the woman said. Despite the lightness of her tone and the steadiness of her hands, she shared her companion’s anxiety. She directed the shotgun at Alex’s grandfather. “And please don’t think I won’t use this. I saw you looking at the painting as you came in.”