Long flanking rows of pine trees ended where the modern public road met this private one of ancient cobblestones. Though there was no proper name on any map, the townspeople called it the Christmas tree lane. Hidden beyond the west bank of evergreens lay all the brown dead leaves of a bare-branched forest. The dry carcass of an eyeless sparrow was crushed under the man’s shoe as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The day had turned chilly and mean. Wisps of fog hung low where the denuded woodland was protected by the windbreak of tall pines. The highest boughs of a nearby oak disappeared in the haze, and the trees behind it were only ghosts of birch and elm. The man glanced at his watch. Any moment now. His fingers splayed wide and then balled into fists. The surrounding air was dead still; the brittle leaves and low-lying clouds of the woods never stirred as a clean breeze whipped down the Christmas tree lane. He took great pride in this art of selecting the time and the place.
