"Really? Do you have real guns, too?"

Torn ignored me and continued his briefing.

I interrupted and asked, "Have you evacuated the neighborhood?"

He replied, "We went through a lot of debate about that, but Washington agrees that to try to evacuate the neighborhood could be a problem."

"For whom?"

He explained, "First of all, there's the obvious problem of agents being seen making the notifications. Some people aren't home, and may come home later, so this could take all night. And the residents would be inconvenienced if they had to leave their homes for an indefinite period." He added, "We did, however, evacuate the houses on both sides and the back of this one, and there are agents in place at those houses."

The subtext here was that it was more important to capture Asad Khalil than it was to worry about taxpayers getting caught in a crossfire. I couldn't honestly say I disagreed with this.

Ms. Rhee added, "The stakeout people are instructed not to try to apprehend the suspect on the street, unless he senses danger and attempts to flee. Most likely, the apprehension will take place in or near this house. The suspect is most probably alone, and most probably armed with only two handguns. So, we don't expect there to be a large exchange of gunfire-or any gunfire-if we play it right." She looked at Kate and me and said, "The block will be sealed off to traffic if we determine that the suspect is approaching."

I personally thought the neighbors wouldn't even notice if there was a wild shoot-out on the front lawn if they had their TVs and stereos turned up loud enough. I said, "I agree, for what it's worth." But I had this mental image of a kid riding by on a bicycle at the worst possible moment. It happens. Boy, does it happen.

Kate said, "I assume the stakeout people have night vision devices."

"Of course."

So, we chatted awhile, and Kate made sure to tell Tom and Kim that she was once a California girl herself, and everyone agreed that we all had our acts together, except perhaps me, who felt a bit like the odd man out here.

Tom mentioned that Wiggins' former house in Burbank was also occupied and staked out by the FBI, and he informed us that the local police here and in Burbank were alerted but not asked for direct assistance.

At some point, I got tired of hearing how everything was covered nine ways from Sunday, and I asked, "Where's your sixth person?"

"In the garage. The garage is very cluttered, so Wiggins can't pull his car in there, but the door has an automatic opener, so Wiggins may enter that way on foot and come into the kitchen through the connecting door. That's probably what he'll do, since it's closest to where he'll pull his car into the driveway."

I yawned. I was a little jet-lagged, I guess, and I hadn't had much sleep in the last few days. What time was it in New York? Later? Earlier?

Tom also assured us that every effort was being made to locate Elwood Wiggins before he headed back to this house. He said, "For all we know, Khalil could try to take him while he's driving home. Wiggins drives a purple Jeep Grand Cherokee, which is not here, so we're alert for that vehicle."

I asked, "What does the girlfriend drive?"

Tom replied, "A white Ford Windstar, which is still at the girlfriend's house in Oxnard, which is also under surveillance."

Oxnard? Anyway, what could I say? These people had their act together, professionally speaking. Personally, I still thought they were dweebs.

I said, "I'm sure you've been briefed about Khalil's prior visits to Wiggins' now-deceased squadron mates. This indicates to me that Khalil may have more information about Chip Wiggins than we do. He's been looking for Wiggins a lot longer than we have." I added, for the record, "There's a strong possibility that Mr. Wiggins and Mr. Khalil have already met."

No one commented on that for a few seconds, then Tom said, "That doesn't change our job here. We wait and see if anyone shows up." He added, "There's an area-wide alert for Khalil and for Wiggins, of course, so we may get a happy call from the police telling us that one or the other or both have been found. Wiggins alive, and Khalil in cuffs."

I didn't want to be the bearer of further bad karma, but I couldn't picture Asad Khalil in cuffs.

Tom sat back at Wiggins' PC and said, "I'm trying to get a clue as to where Wiggins might be from his computer. I've checked his e-mail to see if he corresponded with a state or national park, or reserved a camping space, something like that. We think he's camping…" he said, I guess to me, "… that's where you go out into the woods with a tent or a camper."

I concluded that Ms. Lopez and Tom had spoken.

I asked Ron, "Have you checked out Wiggins' underwear?"

He looked at me from his computer. "Excuse me?"

"If he wears medium boxers, I'd like to borrow a pair."

Tom thought about this a moment, then replied, "We've all brought changes of clothing, Mr. Corey. Perhaps someone-one of the men, I mean-can loan you a pair of shorts." He added, "You can't use Mr. Wiggins' underwear."

"Well, I'll ask him directly if he shows up."

"Good idea."

Kate, to her credit, wasn't trying to pretend she didn't know me. She said to Kim Rhee, "We'd like to see the garage and the rest of the house."

Ms. Rhee led us into the foyer and opened the door of a room that faced the backyard. The room, formerly a bedroom probably, was now an entertainment center that held a huge television, audio equipment, and enough speakers to start another earthquake. On the floor, I noticed six overnight bags. Ms. Rhee said, "You can use this room later. The couch pulls out into a bed." She added, "We'll all take turns getting some sleep if this goes through the night."

I used to think that my worst nightmare was Thanksgiving dinner with my family, but being trapped in a small house with FBI agents just took first place.

Ms. Rhee also showed us the small bathroom, leading me to wonder if she'd once been a Realtor. One thing I noticed that was missing from this house was any military memorabilia, which indicated to me that Elwood Wiggins did not want to be reminded of his service. Or maybe he just lost everything, which would be consistent with the profile we'd developed on him. Or, maybe we had the wrong house. It wouldn't be the first time the Feds got the address wrong. I thought about mentioning this last possibility to Ms. Rhee, but this is a touchy subject with them.

Anyway, we went back to the kitchen, and Ms. Rhee opened a door that revealed a cluttered garage. Sitting in a lawn chair behind some stacked cardboard boxes was a suntanned, blond-haired young man, obviously the junior agent, reading a newspaper by the light of the overhead fluorescent bulb. He stood and Ms. Rhee motioned him back in his seat, so that he was out of sight if the garage door suddenly opened electronically. She said to Kate and me, "This is Scott, who volunteered for garage duty." She actually smiled.

Scott, who looked like he'd just stepped off a surfboard, flashed his capped teeth and waved.

I said, "Like, yeah, dude, hang in there-you know?" Of course I didn't say that, but I really wanted to. Scott was my size, but he didn't look like the boxer shorts-type.

Ms. Rhee closed the door, and we stood in the kitchen with Edie and Juan. Ms. Rhee said, "We've stocked some frozen and canned food here so that no one has to come or go, if this lasts awhile." She added, pointedly, "We have six days of food for six people."

I had a sudden image of FBI agents turning cannibal when the food ran out, but I didn't share this thought. I was already on thin ice, or the California equivalent.

Juan said, "Now that we have two more mouths to feed, let's order pizza. I need my pizza."

Juan was okay, I decided. Unfortunately, he was a lot heftier than me, and also not the boxer shorts-type.