The Planck Factor

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONEJessica

“This sucks!” I shook my head. Why did I open the story with

a man, alone at night on a twisty mountain road? I may as well have written,

“It was a dark and stormy night . . .” I sighed and reconsidered

the first lines again.

I had reworked the opening scene of my novel more than a few

times. How many ways were there to show that danger lay ahead?

I banged out a few more lines, but they still didn’t seem quite

right. Sometimes writing was like turning on a faucet. I could sit at the

keyboard and the words would flow nonstop, brain to fingertips. On days like

that, I couldn’t type fast enough. This was not one of those days.

“Ugh!” I stopped typing and read (for the third time? or was it

the fourth?) the intro to my suspense novel-in-progress, The Planck Factor,

and again reviewed the other scenarios under which Daniel could be killed. I’d

chosen an auto accident along a mountain road—plausible enough, but overdone.

Would an editor scan the first few lines, roll her eyes, and toss the

manuscript into the round file?

How about a mountain road in broad daylight? Nice sunny day.

Totally defying expectations. Almost Hitchcock-ian. But the night scenario was

so evocative. I liked the dark and the fog, the feeling of dread, the promise

of malevolence to come. It was an old trick but, in this case, maybe a good

trick.

I envisioned other possibilities—Daniel pushed from a window

and made to look like he had fallen? No, no—that and other kinds of accidental

death would leave a very obvious body. In my version, Daniel was burned beyond

recognition. Only dental records could establish that the body was his. I liked

that.

Wait! What if Daniel were attacked in his lab? Then what if

someone set it on fire and made it look like an accident? He could be working

alone, hear a noise, and think Swede was coming. Then—wham! He’s knocked

unconscious or killed. And the poor schmuck gets roasted.

I breathed a deep sigh. If I went that way, I’d have to rethink

the whole thing. And that dark scene on the road was so clear in my mind.

I rubbed my eyes, sipped some coffee, and gazed out the window

of my condo at the stellar view of the Flatirons, the rocky protrusions

thrusting upward at the western edge of Boulder, Colorado. They glowed rust-red

in the sunrise.

After a five-minute break, I returned to the keyboard. Working

on another scene might help. And I needed to develop the character Alexis.

After an hour’s work, I looked over the results. Not bad.

Might even work—assuming it wasn’t too detailed. I thought of Elmore Leonard’s

advice: “Leave out the boring parts.” What the heck? Run the changes by my

writers group. See what they think.

The sun had risen and the Flatirons stood in sharp relief

against a bright blue sky, the white-capped peaks of the Rockies poking up in

the distance. I stood and stretched my arms overhead. “Time to make the

doughnuts.”

I finished my coffee, washed out the cup and my French press,

and gathered my belongings before heading off for a meeting with my program

adviser. We had a friendly ongoing argument, of sorts. I initially wanted to

write my master’s thesis on how genre fiction could have literary value. She

convinced me to choose another subject. But then she challenged me to write a

novel. I took her up on that and even joined the writers group.

As I placed my belongings into my old Dodge Dart, I thought

about how genre fiction was often equally worthy of the acclaim often granted

to so-called “literary” works. I had no idea if I could accomplish such a

thing. I told myself, “You’re not trying to write War and Peace. Just

write a story you would read.” What I’d settled on was a suspense story with a

hint of science fiction and touch of espionage at its heart. Writing about a

scientific topic was a bit of a stretch, but a good one, I hoped. Plus my

research into physics was fascinating.

I started the car and headed toward the university.

As I drove off, I glanced in my rearview mirror. Two men in tan

jumpsuits emerged from a dark van sitting in my parking lot. A young man with

flaming red hair carrying a large case and an older man with a clipboard. They

seemed to be walking toward my building.

A dark van? Just like in my story? Too weird.

I shook my head and laughed. Jessica Evans, you’re getting paranoid. Since

when did life really imitate art?