The Planck Factor

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREEJessica

My adviser Shelley removed her glasses and set them on the

desk. “You’re making progress with your thesis. I must say I’m impressed.” She

ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair and rolled her head back,

rotating it as if to loosen her neck muscles.

I could feel an inadvertent smile form as I pulled my

manuscript pages from a folder. “If you like that, I think you’re going to love

this.”

Shelley put her glasses back on and glanced at the first page.

Laughing soundlessly, she grinned. “Oh, my God. You’re actually writing that

novel?”

“How could I not accept such a challenge?”

She turned her attention to the story. After turning the page,

she said, “Well, you’re off to a rousing start, that’s for sure.”

“And you don’t think the beginning is too corny?”

“Well.” Shelley paused and set aside the manuscript. “It’s not

exactly War and Peace, is it?”

“Exactly! I’m not trying to write the Great American Novel. I’m

just trying to tell a great story.”

Shelley shrugged. “To me, it reads like the stuff that sells.

Not that I’m a big expert.”

“Nobody is.”

Shelley nodded. “Got that right. Look how that ‘Fifty Shades’

book did. Who would have thought?” She shook her head. “Think you can keep this

up while working on your thesis? Writing a novel isn’t the easiest thing.”

“I know, I know. I’ve been working on it slowly over time.

Almost done, actually. I’m just going over it again to make sure it doesn’t

completely stink.”

“Well, okay.” She delivered a probing gaze. “Just don’t let it

interfere with your real work here.”

“I won’t,” I said. “Promise.”

“Uh huh,” she replied. She pointed two fingers toward her eyes,

then at me. “Don’t forget.”

She picked up the manuscript again. “Who knows? With some real

effort, you might even prove your original point.” She scanned the pages.

That was as close to a concession as I would ever get from

Shelley.

“This almost reads like a movie script,” she added. “All high

concept and big action and suspense. Not that it’s bad. But if you can make it

more than just that, you could make it amazing.”

Later, I drove home after a long day at the library, followed

by a shift at the bookstore. It was almost nine. I was beat and starved. Lunch

had been a cup of yogurt and a banana. More like an appetizer than a meal. As

I’d shelved books, my thoughts had been so consumed with the story, half the

customers who asked me questions were treated to a dazed look and the cogent

response, “Huh?”

Show, don’t tell. Weave in backstory. Truisms, guides, rules,

pointers—call them what you will. It was the kind of stuff writers heard all

the time. Yet, somehow, writers were always bending these rules just a bit.

Bending them to serve their own purpose. Inserting huge chunks of backstory so

colorful you didn’t mind reading it—even though conventional wisdom said to do

so would slow the narrative. And adverbs. Never use an adverb. Oh, really?

Well, I wish I had a dime for every adverb I’d read, even in the best-written

books. Never say never.

After parking in front of my building, I grabbed my shoulder

bag and knapsack and hiked the stairs to my condo. Despite my skimpy lunch, I

cringed at the thought of making dinner. Maybe I’d scramble a couple of eggs.

Order take-out Thai.

I was starved but too tired to even think of what to eat and

whether to make it myself or leave the cooking to someone else.

I tossed my shoulder bag onto the couch and the manuscript onto

a pile of waste paper. I used the blank sides to print drafts: waste not, want

not—and I couldn’t afford to waste anything. Take-out would be nice, but

expensive. The scrambled eggs were sounding better all the time. I figured I’d

do some writing, then decide.

I sat at my desk and turned on the computer. Simply watching it

boot up gave me a vague feeling of dread. Opening the word processing program

would only increase my anxiety. Here we go again, I thought. How many times do

I have to review this? How many iterations of the same thing must I churn out

before it’s perfect? As perfect as I’ll ever get it, anyway.

I took a deep breath and began to work.

Alexis

Alexis arrived home and hauled her laptop and files up

to her apartment. She was just putting the key in the lock when she thought she

heard someone whisper her name.

The whisper came from the darkened landing above her,

making her whirl with such force she almost dropped everything. She peered into

the gloom but saw nothing. Eugene, Oregon, was a small and relatively safe town,

but no place was completely safe, was it?

Her hand trembling, she quickly turned the deadbolt and

reinserted the key to turn the knob.

“Alexis.”

She yipped in fear. This time, there was no mistaking

it. Someone was up there.

As she turned the key and hurled herself against the

door to get in, the voice said, louder and closer now, “Alexis, it’s just me.

It’s Swede.”

Alexis gaped at the tall figure looming above her on the

stairs. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “What the hell are you doing, Swede? You

scared the s**t out of me.”

Swede drew close and said, “Let me in. Quick. We need to

talk.”

Alexis backed inside, and the tall, dark-haired man

followed. He closed the door, turning and leaning against it, as if someone

were on the other side threatening to break it down. Swede was breathing hard,

his eyes closed.

How Alan Sweetser got a nickname like Swede was anyone’s

guess. He might be many things, Alexis thought, but Swedish wasn’t one of them.

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” She got a good

look at him and her voice softened a bit. “What’s wrong? Jeez, you look like

hell.”

Swede brushed curly, dark locks back from a pale

forehead shining with perspiration. He took a shuddering breath, opened his

eyes--a startling lucid green--and said, “Someone followed you here.

They . . . I think they’re after something. It may relate

to Daniel’s research. Our research, that is.”

Alexis, who’d been gaping in astonishment, laughed--a

sound as harsh as ripping fabric.

“What the hell would I know about your research?” she

said, making it sound like an accusation. Poking a finger into Swede’s chest,

she hissed, “You two were thick as f*****g thieves about what you were doing.

Daniel never discussed your precious research with me. Would’ve thought you

guys worked for the CIA, from what little either of you told me about it. And

you, of all people, know that goddamned good and well!” Her voice had climbed

to a wail by the time she reached the end of her speech. A fleeting memory of

Daniel’s face brought grief bubbling to the surface of her consciousness. First

one tear, then several others. The next thing Alexis knew, she was sobbing,

over all the wasted time, the meaningless arguments, the wedge that research

had driven between Daniel and her.

“Oh, God,” Her voice shook from the force of her sobs.

“Daniel. Oh . . . shit.”

She swatted the tears away, swiping a backhand across

her runny nose, and glared at Swede. “What the hell do you want?” she muttered

through clenched teeth.

Swede gulped. “The research. I thought he might have . . . told

you . . . .”

“Goddamn it, Swede!” Alexis paused, hunting for the

words. “So what are you saying? You think Daniel went back on his word and

spilled his guts during pillow talk? Well, surprise! He didn’t, okay? He never

told me a thing. All the secrecy was no joy to live with, let me tell you. I

knew something was troubling him, but if I tried to discuss it--whoops!--we

couldn’t because it had to do with his research. There were nights not long

before the accident when he couldn’t sleep. He’d get up and pace, so I’d ask if

he was okay. And he was like, ‘Sure, sure. I’m fine.’ But he wasn’t fine and he

wasn’t telling me about it because it was all connected to that research,

wasn’t it?”

She paused, her ragged breathing matched only by

Swede’s, and said, “Now you have the f*****g gall to come here and act like I’m

supposed to know something about this goddamned mystery research that was

wrecking our lives, when you know Daniel wouldn’t have told me and you know I

know nothing about it.” She paused again and swallowed, trying to regain

self-control. “So why don’t you just get the hell out of here?”

“You may not know what Daniel was doing,” Swede

stammered, “but they don’t know that.”

“Who the hell is--”

Then someone pounded on the door.

Jessica

After spending the better part of an hour going over Swede’s

introduction to the story, I stopped and considered the result. Getting there,

I thought. But how can I really know if it’s there?

As I went about fixing my scrambled-egg dinner, my cell phone

rang. I flipped it open. (I won’t buy a “smart” phone. Too pricey.) Private

caller. For the third time that week. I don’t like to take calls unless I

recognize the number. I sighed and ignored it. I was melting butter in the pan

when it rang again. Private caller. Hmm . . . could it be

that editor I met at the symposium two weeks ago? But why didn’t she leave a

message? I took the call to find out.

“Jessica Evans?” I couldn’t place the voice—deep and

androgynous—although it had a familiar ring.

“Yes?”

“Look out your window but don’t move the blinds or make it

obvious.” A brief pause. “Someone is watching you.”