SERGEANT HERB BENEDICT gives his sleeping wife a pat on the rump and climbs out of bed. It’s a hair past midnight, and midnight is the perfect time to have a midnight snack.

He creeps to the door – the house is old and the wooden floors creak like the shrieks of the damned. Bernice is a light sleeper. She made a wonderful rib roast for dinner, and there’s very little left. If he wakes her, he’ll have to share.

Herb takes the stairs slowly, as if stepping on eggshells. He doesn’t put on any lights. He doesn’t need to. He’s lived in this house for decades, and can navigate entirely by feel.

The kitchen floor is slippery under his bare feet. Bernice waxes the tile once a week, and Herb’s soles are dry and calloused. More than once he’s almost taken a dive during a late-night refrigerator raid.

He manages to keep his balance this time, pulling the Tupperware bowl of meat and potatoes from the fridge, deciding whether the microwave is necessary, or if straight from the container will suffice.

The kitchen is cold, so he goes with the microwave. He sets it for a minute – just enough to get the chill out of the food – and opens the utensil drawer, feeling for a fork.

A creaking sound comes from the living room.

Herb freezes. Instantly he knows the noise came from a person, and that person can’t be Bernice because he would have heard her coming down the stairs. The lights are off, but there’s illumination coming through the small window of the microwave. Herb squints across the kitchen and into the dining room, where he sees the drapes ruffling.

The window is open, the wind blowing in. That’s why the kitchen is cold. That’s how someone got into his house.

Benedict’s gun is upstairs, next to the bed. He keeps it there on the off chance someone ever tried to break in. He’s aware of the irony. Who knew he should have armed himself to go eat leftovers?

Another squeak. Closer. The person is right around the corner, less than ten feet away. Herb considers his options. Most burglars don’t want to be confronted. They run at the very thought of the house being occupied. A loud shout will scare this type of criminal away.

But this might not be a burglar. It might be someone with a grudge. Someone Herb arrested in the past, looking to settle a score.

Or someone else. Someone planning on making a new videotape to give to Jack.

He chances a quick glance at the microwave. Thirty seconds left. Then there will be a loud beep to signal the food is ready. Herb had planned to open the microwave door a few seconds early, so the sound didn’t wake Bernice. Now he decides to use the beep to his advantage. When the microwave beeps, the light will go off. Maybe the combination will mask Herb’s movement, giving him a chance to strike first.

Silently, Herb reaches back into the utensil drawer and finds a paring knife. Long-bladed weapons aren’t good in a fight. They get caught on clothing. The large blade makes penetration more difficult, and easier to defend against. A short blade is easier to control and wield, and can do more than enough damage.

Herb takes one for each hand.

The microwave reaches 15 seconds left… 14… 13…

Benedict spreads his feet apart, widening his stance.

12… 11… 10…

The kitchen is dark, but he knows every inch of it. He imagines the three steps he’ll have to take before the quick right turn into the living room.

9… 8… 7…

He bends his knees and crouches down. He’ll hit low, use his weight to knock the person over.

6… 5… 4…

Herb takes a deep breath, holds it, clenching the knives as hard as he can.

3… 2… 1…

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

Benedict is already two steps into his run. Before he can make the turn into the living room he bumps straight into the man standing next to the refrigerator.

Momentum takes Herb forward, but the shock of hitting someone sooner than expected, plus the slippery floor, makes him lose his balance. He falls facefirst, trying to break his fall with his knuckles, realizing at the last possible moment that falling on two paring knives is a bad idea.

Herb manages to stretch one knife in front of him.

The other penetrates his chest and slips between two ribs, puncturing his right lung.

The pain is instant and intense. A sharp, searing pain, accompanied by a sudden urge to cough.

Ahead of Herb, the intruder also hits the floor. It’s followed by a clanging sound, something metal hitting the tile. A crowbar? A gun?

“Herb?”

Bernice. She heard the sound. Herb tries to warn her, but he can’t take a breath. Nothing comes out, only painful wheezing. He pulls at the knife in his chest, and it comes out with a wet sucking sound.

A foot catches Herb in the face. Herb lashes out with the knife, finding a calf, digging the blade in.

There’s a scream, low and loud, and the leg is pulled away. Herb hears limping footsteps heading into the living room. And then he hears something that almost stops his heart: the stairs creaking.

Bernice is coming down.

Herb tries to get up. He’s struggling to breathe, and there’s a wet hissing sound coming from the hole in his chest. He presses his palm to it, pain be damned, and manages to get to his knees.

The light goes on in the hallway.

“Herb!”

Bernice’s voice, panicked. There’s a grunting sound. Something breaks, sounds like glass.

Not Bernice please God please not my wife…

Herb crawls across the tile, desperate. Another light goes on, in the living room. He sees what the intruder dropped. A hunting knife, the blade over ten inches long.

Footsteps, getting closer. Herb raises the paring knife, ready to fight.

Bernice walks into the kitchen. She’s holding Herb’s gun.

“Oh my God, Herbert!”

Herb tries to speak. Can’t. Bernice reads the question on his face.

“He’s gone. He saw the gun and broke through the living room window.”

Herb coughs, blood bubbling from his lips. He collapses onto the floor and is conscious long enough to notice the note on the floor, next to the hunting knife.

FOR THE SECOND time in twelve hours, the phone woke me up. I squinted at the clock in the darkness. One a.m. I’d been asleep for almost an hour.

The phone rang again. I slapped it to my cheek.

“Daniels.”

“Jack? It’s Bernice Benedict. Someone just broke into our house.”

I went from groggy to alert in record time.

“Are you okay? Where’s Herb?”

“He’s been stabbed in the chest.”

She sounded scared, but in control. Cops’ wives were tough.

“Have you called 911?”

“An ambulance is on the way. The man who broke in, he left a handwritten note. It says ‘All shall be punished.’ ”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. If you’re already on your way to the hospital, leave the back door open.”

I threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt and made it to Herb’s place in nine minutes. Scores of squad cars jammed the side streets; cops took care of their own.

I parked on his lawn and caught Benedict being shoved into the rear of an ambulance. His pajama top was open, and an EMT pressed a large piece of gauze to his bloody chest. Herb’s face was literally gray, but he was awake.

“How you doing, partner?”

He rolled his eyes, which buoyed me with relief. The dying don’t bother with sarcasm. He whispered something, more a gargle than a whisper. I leaned over, my ear to his lips.

“… stabbed the guy… leg…”

“Description?”

“… dark… Bernice…”

“She saw him?

His eyes said yes.

“I’m going to check out the scene. I’ll visit you later.”

I patted his cheek, and he whispered something again.

“… crow wave.”

“What?”

“… microwave… don’t touch my rib roast.”