38° 26′ 55″ N, 122° 42′ 16.73″ W
The girl was stirring again in the back of the cargo van, her weeping muffled by the duct tape on her mouth. The Instrument looked into his rear view mirror and for a second, his eyes locked with hers. Her mascara had smeared across her face and the jagged cut on her cheek was starting to bleed again. He might have to make a quick stop and check if the cords around her wrists and ankles were still tight. It probably wouldn't hurt to shut her up a bit because they still had a whole lot of ground to cover and he needed to concentrate.
A few hours ago the Instrument had encountered a close shave and the tension was only now leaving his body like a breaking fever. A police car had pulled up behind him right after he crossed the bridge and turned on it lights, cherries-all-a-poppin'. For a minute he thought he'd have to reach down for his gun, but it turned out that a sixteen-wheeler ahead of him was driving too slowly. Passing by the patrolman as he was pulling over the truck driver had filled him with an intense exhilaration that reminded him of that other time with the security guard at the Keys Hotel.
Now, trying not to stare at the girl's scuffed up leather boots and torn corset, he headed off towards North. The Instrument knew what the score was and there was a deadline to meet - no time to waste, not if he wanted to keep his spot open.
Well, at least he still had the card in his shirt pocket. That charlatan witch from across the sea had said that it would offer protection and guidance in times like these. Didn't do her much good last Spring when the Instrument had cut off her head with the engraven knife and mounted it onto an oaken pole facing East, encircled with freshly cut flowers and vines. He had found her desperate thrashing and screaming to have been quite undignified. Some people simply had no appreciation for the old ways.
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