It is night, of course.

The windows of Cross’s Town Car are down as he approaches the Sacramento city limits, fast, the smell of burnt hair and flesh carried off as the wind whips through the car’s interior.

There’s a song blaring from the speakers. He doesn’t know the artist. He’d found the CD in the car of a Breather he met at a rest stop outside LA. That man doesn’t need music anymore, but Cross had been curious. Taken the disc for whatever reason.

The song is fitting somehow, even if it’s not his usual fare. It makes him think of Her. That’s why he keeps playing it, again and again. And that’s why he’s going back: Alice. The Blind Doll. Her. Of all the unfinished business he has in Sacramento, it’s Her that calls him to return.

Come to me now / like you did then.

And what will he do when he finds Her? What if she turns away from him? What if she says No before he can even begin to explain? What if she doesn’t accept his explanation should she listen?

There are other What Ifs. Like the question of punishment when it comes to his dereliction of duty. But there’s no reason considering that now. The Prince will do what he sees fit and there’s no way Cross can see to stop him. Besides, watching the sun rise would be worth it, if Alice might grant her forgiveness before Asa gets to him.

Where do you go / boy when you die? / Is it pretty and slow? / Is it up real high?

A verse from the Testament comes to him unbidden: “Our will must be subsumed beneath the will of God. He has a divine purpose for each of us which we must follow without fear and without doubt.”

For Cross, his departure from Sacramento had truly been the Will of God. Only His Will could’ve pulled the Burned Man away from Her. Even if Cross had gone about leaving all wrong. Which he had.

Where do you go / when you go out at night? / When will you come home? / What did you find?

As Cross had once said to Kenneth Gilroy: No one had ever accused him of being smart.

And he wants to believe that his return to the city, to Her, is likewise God’s Will. But he’d be a fool not to acknowledge the doubt, the fear, the terror that makes his beast snarl, smolder under the scarred map of his flesh.

“Without fear and without doubt.” Ideally. But no one’s perfect. Especially Cross.

Nothing for it now, though. As always. Nothing to be done. Nothing to do but drive.