“Do you want me to call the sheriff’s department now and arrange a patrol along the south fence?” Patricia asked.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Kurt doesn’t know Brad lied to him.

I need to show him the paper myself.”

The sun was already sinking behind the oak ridge when I turned into the farm driveway at six thirty.

The air had gone bitter cold, the kind of dry Wisconsin freeze that locks the ground solid ahead of the first real snow.

I walked down the drive to the south boundary gate where Dale had put up the heavy yellow steel posted sign two days earlier.