April 7, 1:26 P.M. US 101 North

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.

April 6, 2008 2:03 A.M. San Francisco, CA

66° 33′ 0″ N, 18° 0′ 0" W
37° 46′ 0″ N, 122° 26′ 0″ W

April 6, 2008 San Francisco Police Transcipt

Cellphone voice mail belonging to Rick Bentendorf, 415-555-1943

//---- Begin Transcription --- //

Hey Rick, it’s Andrea…fuck, you’re not home…I’m using the satellite phone on the ice breaker and its …(undecipherable)...anyway I think my sister figured out why I’m out here…I think she thinks I’m out of my mind spending $15,000 on this expedition... She left me a long rant about how irresponsible I’m being with ...(undecipherable)...like that bitch should talk……this boat has everything, a heated pool, a small casino, even a movie theater...no cute Russian guys though, hah hah. …wish you were here because…… no flying reindeer to speak of, but we’re still not past Grimsey……. (undecipherable)

// ----- End Transcription --- //

April 3, 2008 6:07 PM St. Louis, Missouri

38° 37′ 38″ N, 90° 11′ 52″



Derek flicked the glowing cigarette butt away at the minivan parked outside the bar. Must belong to some soccer-mom drinking away her sorrows while her kids were at practice. Takes all types.

The flight in from Salt Lake City had been bumpy as hell. He had spent the entire time grabbing the arms of his seat as the plane barrelled through heavy turbulence. It was almost scary enough to make him forget the screaming match with that fucker Hagerman a few days ago. Actually, it was a one-way screaming match where the operations manager had spent two whole hours talking about the missing measurements and “faulty” gauges. Hagerman, true to form, was vehemently upset and had mentioned the word “lawsuit” liberally thoroughout their discussion.

Since Derek worked for Crowley & Simonson, the St. Louis-based engineering services firm that had overseen the design and construction of the water treatment plant, he was first in line to receive Hagerman’s verbal assault. He already dreaded re-examining all of the data with his division vice president and the engineers at the equipment manufacturer. Nine out of ten times these things could never be replicated, and therefore were unexplainable. Hagerman wouldn’t like that one bit.

Strangely enough, when Derek brought up the issue of the missing readings with the executive team at C&S, no one seemed to be surprised. Their stoic response reminded him of the trouble a few years back when the company president (who was also the owner’s son) was caught embezzling funds to feed his coke habit. Seemed like the less emotional the higher-ups got, the more likely that there was a huge shitstorm brewing. And here he stood without his umbrella.

Derek got into his rental car and started off towards the hotel. Tomorrow’s meeting with Todd Macy, his divisional veep, was going to be a real waste of time. He’d probably have to stay in St. Louis and work all through his scheduled vacation. He wasn’t sure how Lucy was going to react to that piece of news.

April 2, 2008 1:08 PM Mailbox of Rick Bentendorf, San Francisco CA

64° 8′ 0″ N, 21° 56′ 0″
37° 46′ 0″ N, 122° 26′ 0″

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