Darkness came later and later to Tempe as the Spring turned into Summer. Jerry Markham almost fell asleep as he waited for the stroke of midnight. The moon was dark in the sky, but he could see well enough using the streetlight outside the entrance to the former Gamesmen warehouse.

How stupid could he have been? They weren't in the building; they were outside the building all along. He checked himself out, satisfied that he was wearing black from head to toe. This was simply a scouting run, to figure out exactly how those four assholes got inside and back out again. He knew that the Gamesmen offices had been moved, but he was more curious than anything, and there was always an outside chance that they had abandoned some of their older crap. Markham had been checking the dumpster every day, in case that were true, but when no interesting things turned up, he began to entertain the notion that they may still be inside.

The German security guard drove slowly by, singing, "Beeg ceetay, beeg ceetay nights," as loud as he could. As soon as the tan car had cleared the entrance, Markham leapt out of his car and ran, ninja-quick, across the street. He pressed himself up against the wall, underneath the covered entrance to the building, and tried to make himself a shadow as he crept quickly to the back fence and gate.

The tan car drove by again, going the opposite direction. Markham halted, waited for it to go back the other way. As soon as the back bumper vanished, Markham turned to the gate. It was locked, of course, with a huge new padlock and chain. Never mind that, he said to himself with bravado, and he scaled the chain link fence with moderate effort. He barely made it down off the fence and back up against the wall before the security guard drove back by. Doesn't that foreign bastard ever sleep, Markham thought.

Once it was safe to move, Markham dashed quickly around to the back and perused the wall. Nothing. No doors, no window, nothing. Maybe there was access further up, he thought. Markham walked backward, straining to see up near the roof.

Without warning, he went tumbling backwards, knocking the wind out of himself and twisting his ankle in the process. He had fallen, he saw, into a shallow pit dug in the ground. What the hell, he thought, getting gingerly to his feet.

That's when the security lights came on, bathing the field in hot white light.

There was no place to run; all darkness had been removed. Markham panicked and made a limping dash to the left, just as the boxy tan car came screeching to a stop in front of the gate. He dimly heard, "I got you now, you thieving sonofabitch!" and then he took off at a full run, pain coursing up through his leg.

Hours later, Jerry Markham looked up from his cell as the door opened. Officer Compton was staring pointedly at him. "Let's go have a chat," he said.

Markham moved slowly, favoring his bandaged leg. He had difficulty with the ice pack on his eye, but Compton took it from him and helped him navigate the narrow corridor.

They sat down at a work desk. On the other side of the room, Evans was typing up a report, nodding as the handcuffed Dale told his side of the story.

Markham glanced over at his attacker, shook his head, and said, "Damn. I could have sworn he was German."

Compton looked at Markham sharply. "What was that? That wasn't more of that D and D nonsense, is it?"

"Huh? No, I just thought that he...forget it," he said, sniffing through his battered and swollen nose.

"Okay, here's the deal," said Markham. "We talked to the guy that owns the property, Mister Cavender, and he's pressing trespassing charges." Markham opened his mouth to speak, but Compton silenced him with a look. "That's a class C misdemeanor. It carries a fine of up to three hundred and fifty dollars."

Markham blanched.

"Plus fees, seeing the judge, and well, it could get as high as seven-fifty or so."

Markham slumped down in his chair.

"Do you have someone who can post that for you? Can you do it?"

Markham sniffed. "I think my parents can cover it," he said. "I don't know how to explain it to them."

Compton nodded. "If you need to make your phone call, you can do it right here, then."

"What about my charge? Against him?"

"That's what I'm filling out right now," said Compton, typing on the computer keyboard slowly. "I have a bunch of shit to type out first, so you can start dialing."

Markham picked up the phone. "Does he have to pay a fine?"

"Why don't you worry about yourself and not him? You'll get your day in court, Mister Markham. You've been charged, he's been arrested. Now it's up to the judge."

"Wait. Why is the owner pressing charges? I didn't break in. Nothing was stolen."

"Well, there was some excitement last week, some kids digging up the back lot. The owner said he was going to level it back there and build a stand-alone office."

Pieces fell together in Markham's head like pachinko balls. "Oh no! When?"

"Uh, he said something about doing it in a week or so. Chatty little bastard," said Compton. "Mister Markham, I don't see you dialing that phone."

Markham stabbed in his parent's number, one deliberate thrust at a time. Larry Croft, he swore, I'm going to get you back if it's the last thing I ever do.