To be safe, Hideo began reviewing at a point ninety minutes before their arrival at the apartment. He showed Kenji how to fast-forward, then leaned back and concentrated on the screen. The entrance was not terribly busy, so he did not have to stop Kenji often.

    The onscreen clock read 19:52 when he saw a man step out of the entrance carrying an oblong object.

    "Stop."

    Kenji did so and Hideo took over the controls. He enhanced and enlarged the image. The object under the man's arm appeared to be a rolle-dup rug. He estimated its length at approximately ninety to one hundred centimeters. Long enough to hide the katana they sought.

    The man was moving north. If he walked any faster he would have been trotting. One might even think he was escaping from something. A murder scene, perhaps?

    Unfortunately he kept his face straight ahead, providing only a high-angle profile that Hideo doubted would provide sufficient mapping points for the facial recognition program.

    Hideo called up the map of traffic cams in Jamaica and found one two blocks north. He prayed again to his ancestors, begging them to go back in time and guide this man on a straight path to this intersection. Then he accessed the new cam and began his review at 19:52. He did not fast-forward but waited patiently, praying for the man to appear. If he had turned left or right at the preceding intersection, Hideo might never find him again.

    Finally, miraculously, he appeared. Hideo closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief and thanks, then focused on the man with the rug. He crossed the intersection heading north, then turned west and waited for the green.

    "Look up," Hideo said aloud, earning a puzzled look from Kenji. "Look up and check the traffic signal. Look up!"

    And then, almost as if he'd heard him, the man looked up, almost directly into the camera. Hideo froze the frame, enlarged, enhanced, and saved. He would enter it into the facial recognition program later. But first…

    He returned to the view of the entrance to Gerrish's apartment building and watched until he saw himself and the three yakuza exit. He let the recording run even longer, but no sign of Yoshio's ronin.

    He sighed. He didn't see any way of finding him. But he should be grateful. At least he'd secured a picture of the current owner of Sasaki-san's katana. That was the important thing. Of course it would all come to nothing if he had never been arrested and entered into the system. But Hideo had a feeling that a man who would slit another's throat to acquire a sword would have to have been arrested at some point during his adult life. And if he had, Hideo would find him.

    The ronin, however… the odds were high against his ever having another chance at that man.

    But Hideo had a feeling that, with the help of his ancestors, he might beat those odds.

    Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

    Someone had seen her. She totally knew it.

    All right, she didn't know it, but how could someone not have seen her? She'd got on the C without knowing where she was going, but that had been okay. What had counted was being off the street. Then she'd looked around the subway car and seen her face on half a dozen flyers.

    She'd kept her head down, her mind screaming for a solution. Finally it hit her: tourists.

    Totally.

    Native New Yorkers would have her face burned on their brains by now, but tourists came and went. And tourists usually spent their time gawking at the sights and gazing up at the skyscrapers and such, not studying posters. So where could she find the most tourists? In the Times Square/theater district, of course.

    Tons of tourists.

    She'd ducked out of the C at 42nd Street. The Port Authority had tempted her—hop a bus to New Jersey where Jerry would never find her. But she knew nothing about Jersey, and figured she'd probably need a car there. She didn't know if they even did abortions in Jersey.

    No, better to stay where she knew her way around. At least for now. Lots of abortion clinics in the city. Once that was over she could think about relocating.

    She'd wound through the crowds on Eighth toward the theaters. When she saw a bunch of men wearing John Deere caps and string ties come out of the Milford Plaza, she knew that was the place for her.

    But checking in hadn't been easy. They'd been totally suspicious about her wanting to pay cash, but she had no choice. She couldn't use a credit card—someone watching her account would know exactly where she was. They'd wanted ID and she had to show her driver's license. That put her real name on the register.

    And then the room. A single. Dawn could so not believe how small it was. A postage stamp with like four feet between the walls and the king-size bed. Even the mirrored wall couldn't make it look bigger. Plus the bathroom had fixtures that looked fifty years old.

    All for the bargain price of $326 a night.

    She guessed she could have chosen a better grade, but that meant more money and she wanted to conserve as much of her cash as possible. She had no idea of how long it would last.

    So for the time being this would be home.

    Gross.

    She went to the window and looked out at the night. She couldn't see the street, only rooftops and the glow from all the lighted marquees on 45th Street directly below. Was someone down there in the crowds, watching the hotel, waiting for her to come out? Waiting so he could collect his reward?

    She couldn't leave, couldn't even risk going to the hotel restaurant. She'd have to order room service and hope the delivery guy didn't recognize her.

    She felt just as trapped as she had at Mr. Osala's, but at least there she'd been safe. Here…

    This was a nightmare.

    Why not just call Henry and have him pick her up? But then she'd be back where she started.

    She couldn't take it. She'd been ready to end it all before but had let Mr. Osala talk her out of it. Why not finish the job now? Get it done this time.

    She tried to open the window but it wouldn't budge. She picked up the room's one chair and slammed it against the glass. It bounced back. She tried it again with the same result. Some sort of safety glass.

    She dropped onto the bed and began to cry.

    She had to find a way out of this. She'd formed the beginnings of a plan on the subway. Maybe she should go with that.

    She pulled herself together, grabbed the bag of stuff she'd bought at the drugstore, and headed for the bathroom.

    Using his flashlight sparingly, Shiro rushed back through the dark woods to his teacher, praying the news he brought would not cause him to abort the test.

    "Sensei, there are people in the little cabin there!"

    Akechi-sensei, a faintly limned shadow in the starlight, nodded. "All the better. Proceed."

    "But what if they interfere?"

    "They will not." He pointed back toward the woods. "Go. Hurry."

    Shiro obeyed, returning to where Tadasu waited with the shoten. The chosen site lay half a mile north of a golf course and barely more than half a mile from any dwelling, yet here among the silent trees, civilization could have been a thousand miles away.

    That changed as he neared the rotting cabin in a tiny forgotten clearing.

    Not completely forgotten, obviously. Four teenagers—two couples—had driven a battered Jeep to the cabin and begun an impromptu party. They had beer and were playing loud music.