The Amateur

On Sunday, I drove around Montgomery Avenue. Trees lined the east side of the street; the west side was commercial.

Across from 666 was a large parking lot. Too close. Farther down the street was another parking lot, more private, a few cars, easy exits. Moreover, it was upwind, the gentle ocean breeze would not affect a bullet's flight.

I found a parking place where I could watch Lindstrom's car arrive when she came home from church. I could see her front door, and I could watch for approaching cars up and down the street, and in the adjacent parking lots.

I settled in for a long vigil, stretched out in the back of the station wagon, watching every car that went by, studying the drivers.

The street was quiet. I could hear birds chattering in the trees. A car drove by, slowing, scanning the parking lot, and then driving on.

The car was getting warm, even with all the windows down. Another car drove by.

I waited.