He’d spent the morning completing a circuit of the safe houses he kept in the Greater Los Angeles Area, testing his load-out gear, checking the oil on his alternate vehicles, changing up the automated lighting. At his Westchester place, a crappy single-story beneath LAX’s flight path, he’d switched out his usual rig for a mud-spattered 4Runner with a scuba flag sticker in the back window.

On the side street now, Evan sat behind the wheel and watched the road for a while. Finally he dropped the transmission back into drive. Backtracking to the FedEx office, he entered, signed a series of customs forms, and left with an elongated cardboard box.

His new katana. This blade had been forged relatively recently, in 1653, by Heike Norihisa, last smith of the five-layered smelt. The katana was decorative, as Evan had intended the last one to be, and he was eager to mount it on the empty hooks in his hall.

But he had another location to check first. He’d spent hour after excruciating hour parsing the data from Contrell’s GPS, checking the man’s frequent stops, searching for the location where he stored the girls before shipping them out. With every passing day, more sand trickled through the hourglass.

Evan drove to Fullerton. A sheaf of papers rested in his lap, much of the data on them already crossed out with red pen.

The next place on the list proved to be a humble residence, semi-isolated behind a stretch of soccer fields gone to dirt. Detached garage, new shingles, fresh paint, curtains drawn. A security gate guarded a concrete front walk hemmed in by flower beds. A Stepford house writ small.

Evan parked several blocks away and doubled back. He vaulted the fence, put his ear to the door, heard nothing. The lock gleamed, a shiny Medeco. He raked it with a triple mountain pick, feeling for the rhythm of the wafers inside as they lifted to different heights. At last he felt the pleasing click of the release.

The well-greased door swung in on silent hinges. He drew his Wilson from his Kydex high-guard hip holster and eased inside. The interior, dim from the drawn curtains, stank of cleaning solution and unventilated air. Though he sensed that the place was empty, he moved silently from room to room. It was cheaply constructed and surprisingly clean. Dishes neatly stacked on a spotless counter. Sparkling linoleum floors. IKEA-looking slipcovered couch and chairs, calming taupes, distressed blues. In the living room, he parted the curtains with a hand.

The windows were nailed shut.

He ran his fingers over the heads of the nails, the metal cool against his prints. His heart rate ticked up with anticipation.

He moved on.

The master bedroom featured two double beds, sheets neatly made. Men’s clothes in the wardrobe. Big men’s clothes. One of the jackets looked like it could cover a deck chair.

Evan stopped, breathed, listened.