The Planck Factor

Chapter 12

Jessica Evans

The fact that Alexis and Swede ended up crawling out a bathroom window in order to escape the strange people in the van parked outside their motel room, was an irony not lost on me. After I fled down the alley and made my way back to my car, I went straight home and threw a few essentials into a small bag.

I wanted to get as far out of town as possible. I'd have to dip into my small savings and rely on Visa for the rest, but I had to get away from those men. The police couldn't act as my personal bodyguards, and Fred was dead—beyond anyone's help now. I considered my parents, who lived in the Bay Area, but I didn't want to go running home, possibly bringing trouble with me. And San Francisco didn't seem far enough away.

My sister, on the other hand, was across the country in Washington, DC. She was a lawyer, so trouble was her business. However, it had been nearly a year since I'd last spoken to Liz. She and our parents weren't on the best of terms. I could only hope she wouldn't perceive a visit to her as an imposition. After mulling my other options (which didn't take long, as there were none), I called Liz, tapping my fingers as her phone rang. "C'mon, c'mon . . . pick up."

The ringing stopped, and I groaned as her recorded voice requested that I leave my name, number and a brief message.

At the beep, I said, "Liz, it's me, Jess. I'm coming out there on the first plane I can catch. It's . . . it's hard to explain. But call my cell as soon as you get this message."

When I'd closed my bag, I quickly booted up my laptop and checked an online site for same-day flights to DC. After that was squared away, I'd call Shelley and tell her I had to leave town due to a family emergency. The emergency part was true, anyway.

I stored my laptop and flash drive in their carrying case. Like Alexis, I intended to hold onto these items like grim death. I'd spent way too much time working on my novel to leave it behind.

* * *

I put my old Dodge into overdrive, rocketing down US 36 to get to the airport in time to inch through the security line.

As I snaked toward the TSA folk, I glanced about looking for the redhead and his taller companion. Surely, they couldn't have followed me here. Could they? I checked my watch with OCD frequency, as the line crawled along. By the time I made it through the metal detector, I had 15 minutes to get to the gate.

Hastily re-tying my shoes and cramming cords and accessories back into my laptop case, I snatched up my purse, laptop and carry-on bag and half-ran, half-stumbled toward the train that would take me to Concourse B. Luckily, I was able to leap aboard just before the doors closed.

I collapsed onto a seat, allowing my baggage to droop to each side, and tried to catch my breath, although the occasional snippets of carnival music they play on the train are hardly relaxing. As we rolled into the concourse, I checked my watch again. Nine minutes—yikes!

I lumbered out the door and onto the escalator, lugging my bag up the moving steps. "C'mon, c'mon." I muttered my new mantra.

Once I reached the top, I hit the ground running. Caught sight of a clock—eight minutes! Could I make it?

Checking the gate numbers, I realized they were going up instead of down. Damn! Wrong direction, stupid.

Pulling a hasty U-turn, I pounded the other way, puffing like an asthmatic steam engine.