The Planck Factor

Chapter 6

Jessica

I drained the last of my coffee, got up and rinsed the cup. Am I stretching this bit out too long? Alexis has to insist at some point on knowing what's going on. Did I choose the right way to convince Swede to tell her? Maybe I'd find the answers while taking a walk. The sun was rising and it looked like another beautiful day in Boulder. A nice day to work outdoors even.

I backed up my files, grabbed my shoulder bag and laptop, a nice lightweight model my parents had bought me, and headed out the door.

Before leaving, I stopped to retrieve the previous day's mail. Probably nothing but bills, so I'd put it off. Looked like nothing but junk—a blessing in its own small way.

As I sorted through the various fliers for stores where I wouldn't shop, coupon booklets for things I didn't need, catalogs for clothes I couldn't afford and notifications of qualifying for major credit cards I never wanted, I came across a plain white envelope with no return address.

When I opened it, a sheet of white paper, folded in half, slid out. I unfolded it and read the printed message:

Be careful. You may be in danger.

A concerned friend.

* * *

"And this person on the phone. You didn't recognize the voice?"

I nearly wept with frustration. How many times was the cop going to ask that?

"No! I didn't recognize the voice. Couldn't even tell you if it was male or female. They mentioned a van. It was there, then it was gone. Now, I've got this creepy anonymous note."

I paused, trying to calm down. The cop, a tall, skinny guy who looked about sixteen, gazed at me with eyes like blue glass, as devoid of expression as the rest of his face. A nameplate above his left breast pocket read "A.J. Montgomery."

"I wish I could help you," he said, waving the letter. "But this isn't a threat."

"But that phone call—"

"Yes, I understand. That is strange." His eyebrows rose, and the side of his mouth turned up in seeming acknowledgment. "I'm afraid I don't know what to tell you. Except keep a record of your calls and hang onto any other notes you get."

"Could you dust for fingerprints or something? Figure out if this guy—gal—whatever is in your system?"

"I'm sorry. We can't ask the forensic lab to do that without some indication of a crime." He looked solemn. "Unless there's evidence of a genuine threat, we can't do anything."

My shoulders slumped. "So I'm right back where I started. Nowhere."

"Not really," Officer Montgomery said. "I'll file a report. Maybe we can't act on it now, but as I said, if you get more phone calls or notes like this, it might—and I want to emphasize might—establish a case for stalking."

"So I have to wait for something else to happen."

The cop nodded solemnly.

I sighed. "Goody."

* * *

Instead of the park, I decided to head to The Cup on East Pearl Street, where I could work on the novel and drink socially-responsible coffee at the same time. While I was at it, I'd treat myself to a turkey club sandwich. I could already taste the bacon, avocado and Swiss cheese. Maybe I was being stalked by some loonie, but I wasn't going to deny myself life's small pleasures.

I pondered the situation as I drove. Who could've written that note, and why? Then a bizarre scenario suggested itself. Could it have something to do with Fred's failure to return my phone calls? Or the thing he wanted to talk to me about? No way, I thought. It has to be a coincidence. Just my overactive imagination, running away with me. So was the note written by the anonymous caller? And what did the van have to do with anything?

Writing a novel hardly seemed like a dangerous occupation to me, but now I wasn't sure. Whatever the reason for my current problems, I felt glad to have taken all those free self-defense courses the university offered.

I parallel parked near Pearl Street, trying not to think about it. How much danger could I be in surrounded by people in downtown Boulder? The Cup seemed like a pretty good place to be.

Not that there was any shortage of good coffee shops in Boulder. The Cup was usually busy, but not jammed to the gills with the regulars who hung out at Trident Bookseller's. Nor was it overrun with the earnest students in endless discussions of consciousness, the nature of time and inter-dimensionality who favored the second-floor trappings of Rocky Mountain Joe's Café. Such conversation could be stimulating—to a point. Right now, I needed to focus on my story. Work out the details of what would happen next to Alexis and Swede.

I'll admit, I felt a smidgen of guilt at hanging out at The Cup, agonizing over the fate of fake people in a made-up situation instead of working on my thesis. But I was so eager to review this draft of my novel and give it the final touches, I simply couldn't stop now.

I ordered my coffee and sandwich, then set up in a corner table to write.