The Planck Factor

Chapter 31

Jessica Evans

That night at the safe house, I thrashed around in bed, unable to sleep. Couldn't imagine why.

The room was hot and dusty, little-used and unkempt, with only a bed, a desk, a computer and a bookshelf along one wall. The musty smell of old books made me feel like I was trying to sleep in the back room of a used book warehouse.

After one in the morning, I threw off the covers and got up. I peered through the slats in the Venetian blinds over the window at the quiet, dark neighborhood. Everyone tucked safely in bed and slumbering, no doubt. Or curled up in front of a television, watching a late night movie. Munching popcorn or drinking cocoa.

If any of them had insomnia, it wasn't because they'd been called upon to be kidnapped by terrorists in order to help authorities save the world from its biggest catastrophe ever.

Nor had they seen a nice guy like Fred lying on a floor with a bullet shot through his head.

Orwitnessed a man keel over dead—probably poisoned.    

And Cynthia of all people was involved with this group. Jesus!

This had started Monday. Only a few days ago. Talk about your bad weeks. And it was just barely Friday.

I turned away from the window. Sleep was hopeless at this point. I could read a book. I scanned the titles. Moby Dick? The Sound and the Fury? I shook my head. No, thank you, limited edition or not.

Desperate to keep my mind busy, I turned to my laptop. I sat at the desk and booted it up. No Internet access—something told me that was no accident.

My thoughts wandered to the story. Mel's appearance (plus the doorman's duplicity) had put a new wrinkle in things. I hadn't planned on Mel doing much, but I'd decided to write a version in which he stepped to the fore.

This made me ponder the nature of choice. How many choices we're faced with every day. How do we choose what to do in general? Can we choose who we are or is it chosen for us? Are our choices shaped by who we already are or is it we ourselves who are defined by those choices?

Here I was sitting in a dark bedroom, in a dark neighborhood, unable to sleep due to my choices. I'd chosen to serve my country rather than run away. Now, all I had to do was make a choice about my story. Or have my characters make their choices, because that's what it came down to.

The eerie similarities between my life and Alexis' made me wonder if I'd subconsciously created my own situation. Perhaps I could find answers to why I was in my situation in the words. If a terrorist group was after me because my manuscript threatened them, maybe reviewing it could give me a clue as to how to extricate myself.

With that faint hope in mind, I plugged in the flash drive and opened the document again.

Alexis

Alexis was barely able to catch her breath by the time the car squealed out of the garage.

"Who are you?" she gasped.

"A friend." Mel seemed disinclined to say more, which was completely consistent with their dealings so far, but Alexis was too curious to leave it at that.

"Care to explain? Are you Katie's friend or what?"

"I'm what you'd call an interested party."