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that it mattered, he thought savagely. After a night in the garage, he’d be ready to kill the father and toss in both kids as a bonus. And the wife, if she showed her face. No one was safe, not even the goddam dog.
    Seriously, he thought, suppose it did play out that way, with the boys still at their game when the man arrived. He couldn’t do anything in front of the boys, let alone make it look like an accident. And he couldn’t see himself hanging around all night, either.
    What did that leave? Could he break into the house while everybody was asleep? Hold off and sandbag Hirschhorn during the dog’s morning constitutional?
    What he’d probably do, he decided, was go back to the Super 8 and work on Plan B. Which might not be better than Plan A, but couldn’t be much worse. And if that didn’t work he had the whole rest of the alphabet, and . . .
    They’d stopped dribbling.
    Stopped shooting baskets, too. Stopped talking. While he’d been building ruined castles in the air, the boys had finally called it a day.
    Back to Plan A.
    Waiting wasn’t all that easy, with or without the sounds of basketball for company. At first he just stood there in the dark, but eventually he found ways to make himself more comfortable. There was a Peg Board on one wall, he discovered, with tools hanging on it, and among them he found a flashlight. He flicked it rapidly on and off and found other tools he could envision a use for, including a pair of thin cotton gloves to keep what he touched free of fingerprints. Duct tape, pruning shears, garden hose—Hirschhorn had it all. And there were a couple of folding patio chairs, aluminum frames and nylon webbing, and he unfolded one of them and parked himself in it.
    He was bored and edgy. The job still didn’t feel right, hadn’t felt right since he got off the plane. But at least he was sitting in a comfortable chair. That was something.
    Day or night, Winding Acres Drive didn’t get a lot of traffic. He could hear what there was of it from where he sat, and his ears would perk up when a car approached. Then it would drive on by and his ears would do whatever it was they did. Unperk? Whatever.
    He checked his watch from time to time. At 7:20 he decided Hirschhorn wasn’t going to make it home in time for dinner. At 8:14 he started wondering if the man might have left town on a business trip. He was weighing the possibility, and then a car approached, and he drew a short breath. The car kept on going and he let it out.
    He thought about the stamps he’d bought the previous day. When he got back to New York, whenever that might be, he could look forward to several hours at his desk, mounting them in his albums. It was curiously satisfying, adding the first stamp to a hitherto blank page, then watching the spaces fill in over the months. Schaffner’s stock had been spotty, strong in some areas and weak in others, but Keller had been particularly interested in Portugal, that was the first thing he’d asked to see, and he’d done well in that area. Funny how you were drawn to some countries and not to others. It didn’t have anything to do with the nations themselves, as political or geographic entities. It was just something about their stamps, and how you responded to them.
    Another car. He perked up, and prepared to perk down. But no, it was turning into the driveway, and the garage door was on its way up.
    By the time the headlights were filling the garage with light, Keller was hunkered down behind the Jeep. The Subaru pulled into the garage. Hirschhorn, alone in the car, cut the engine, doused the headlights. The garage went dark, and then the dome light came on as Hirschhorn opened the car door.
    When he stepped out, Keller was waiting for him.
    There was an outdoor pay phone at the strip mall where he’d left the car, but the mall stores had all closed for the night, and the Olds was the only car still parked there. Keller felt too visible, and too close to Winding Acres