Plank Factor Page 12

  “My research proved we could create an entirely different kind of weapon--a quantum gravity weapon. Fusing together Planck particles would be akin to smashing tiny black holes together and generating pulses of gravity waves. But we don’t know what immediate effects those waves would have in close proximity.

  “So, we’re not talking about creating a greater explosion. We’re talking about a concentrated waveform that changes the way matter exists in space. This could be a wavefront that causes chemical bonds to break and everyday objects to collapse at a molecular level into dust, vapor, and flame. Or it could cause an uncontrollable nuclear reaction releasing unimaginable amounts of energy, consuming everything as surely as if uranium or plutonium atoms were all that were involved.”

  Lips parted, Alexis looked frozen. “Sounds like Armageddon,” she whispered. Her expression transformed from one of horror to a scowl. “Why didn’t they tell me you were alive?”

  Daniel gave a wan smile. “They wanted everyone to think I was dead, so the terrorists would focus on Swede. Following only one person made their investigation easier, less labor-intensive.”

  “So,” Alexis said. “I assume that what Mel and I are going to discuss tomorrow is how to get me back to my sister’s, get your research, and take it to the Feds.”

  Daniel nodded, looking sheepish. “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “Basically, I have to pretend I don’t know who these people really are and convince my sister to tell me where your research is hidden?”

  “Yes.”

  Alexis blew out a breath. “I wish I’d taken acting lessons.”

  “And I wish I could do it instead.” Daniel grabbed her arms and gazed at her, his eyes drinking her in like a life-sustaining glass of water on a hot day. “But I need to stay dead. At least, until this is over.”

  Alexis felt tears welling in her eyes again. “I wish to hell it were over now.”

  JESSICA

  I took a quick break from reading. My plan all along had been to bring Daniel “back from the dead,” but I wondered if doing so at this point was more a function of good plotting or simply wishing Fred could be brought back, too. As I thought this over, a spark of recognition went off in my mind. What was it? The agent’s name. The one Daniel mentioned.

  “Benson,” I said aloud. The woman at the next table shot me a look, then glued her eyes back on her iPhone.

  I mouthed the word silently, which must have looked odd. Benson . . . Benson . . . . Then, I remembered the dream. Fred and Selby. The building Selby had emerged from. It had a name.

  “Benson Earth Sciences Building. Holy shit.” I blurted the words loud enough that the woman with the iPhone got up and moved to another table.

  Now I remembered. Selby was a geologist. Then, I remembered his specialty. Plate tectonics.

  Earthquakes, caused by the movement of the earth’s plates against one another. And San Francisco was located right on the San Andreas Fault, where two major plates ground against each other. I imagined a nightmare scenario in which terrorists might try to trigger a major quake—or more than one. Fault lines like the San Andreas could be found all over the planet. If the group caused enough earthquakes, millions (or even billions) could die. And my parents were close to ground zero.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Jessica

  For a moment, this revelation stunned me to the point where I simply sat and stared through the picture window fronting the store. People walked by, moving in and out of view at random intervals. They barely registered on my mental radar. People going about their business, not imagining the horror I envisioned.

  Could that really be the truth? Or am I just letting my imagination run away from me?

  Someone touched my shoulder and I started with a grunt. My heart was beating its way out of my rib cage. I gulped air as if I’d been drowning.

  “Are you all right, Miss?”

  I gazed up into the milk chocolate face of a motherly looking woman with honey golden eyes beneath a furrowed brow.

  “Are you feeling okay?” she asked.

  I realized I was staring and stuttered, “I’m . . . I’m fine, really. Just have a lot on my mind today.”

  “Uh huh.” The woman neither looked nor sounded convinced. Her brow relaxed, but she still looked doubtful.

  “I’m okay. Honest.” I even managed a smile. Hopefully, a convincing one.

  “Well, girl, you turned pale as a ghost. I thought you were going to pass out.”

  Well, that’s only because I know that a bunch of extremists are going to kill millions and millions of people. And I need to figure out how to stop them before they do it. No biggie, right?

  The look of concern returned to the woman’s face. I realized I’d been staring again.

  “I’m okay now,” I blurted. “I . . . I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m really tired.” This last sentence was spoken with the conviction of one who’s weary to the bone of everything, as I certainly was.

  The woman looked a bit more—if not completely—reassured by these words. “All right, honey. You shouldn’t push yourself too hard. Bad for your health.”

  This seemed to open the door to any number of rejoinders. But I simply said, “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

  I tried to push the horrible thought aside. I had no proof of the group’s plans, but what other part would a geologist play? I reviewed more of the story—a scene about the morning after, Mel briefing Alexis about what she needed to do (having just been through the drill, it was almost like writing in a diary). Not a thing here about geology, but how Swede and Daniel had debunked Magueijo’s footnote about the benign nature of his theory and had research to support the nightmare scenario that a weapon even more destructive than the atom bomb could be created.

  “Jeez!” I said, exhausted from lack of sleep and agonizing over the story (not to mention my impending “kidnapping”). “Enough.” I saved my files again and shut down the laptop.

  As I packed my equipment into my carrier, I noticed a car slow as it moved past the store. I thought it might be looking for a parking spot, but it passed a perfectly good one.

  The car was bland and indistinguishable. A late model compact, grayish-blue.

  I watched it turn the corner, out of sight.

  Hmm. I wonder if that’s my ride.

  I slung my purse over my shoulder, grabbed the carrying case, and tossed my trash on the way out.

  I headed back to Liz’s place. It was mid-afternoon, almost 2:00 according to my cell phone. Even so, the streets were full of people. Purposeful men and women in suits, talking up a storm into their phones. Many of them with Bluetooth phones plugged into their ears seemed to be babbling to the air.

  “Man,” I muttered. “I used to be able to tell who was crazy.” I smiled and shook my head at how this sentence so aptly summed up my life now.

  My stroll back to Liz’s took me past a narrow alley. As I stepped onto the corner and prepared to cross, I saw the grayish-blue compact parked beside the building. I heard the door open but kept walking. I felt her presence before she pressed a gun into my back.

  “Hi. Great to see you,” Cynthia said. She hooked her arm through mine and steered me toward the car.

  I breathed a sigh. Well, it was better than getting bashed over the head.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Joe

  Billy returned with coffee and sandwiches for the two of them. Cotter took his cup and sipped the hot brew.

  “They’ve moved to the alley,” he told Billy. He’d first spotted the bluish-gray compact because of its severely dented rear fender. He could have sworn he’d seen a similar vehicle with that distinguishing mark at the Navy Memorial. The car had been parked down the street from the coffee shop for hours. It pulled out and rolled past the shop, then hung a right. From where they sat half a block away from the alley’s entrance, Cotter could make out at least three people in the car.

  Jessica left the coffee shop and proceede
d toward them. Cotter jolted to alert.

  He saw Jessica stop and look to her right. Then she moved into the alley, out of view.

  “It’s on,” he said, starting the car.

  Billy grinned. “All right!”

  Cotter shot him an exasperated look. Could this kid possibly be as naïve as he seemed? Cotter shook his head, then checked traffic before pulling away from the curb and moving toward the alley. He edged into the intersection, looked for the car, and caught the sight of the compact’s taillights glowing in the shadows.

  Cotter swung a hard left to follow—at a distance.

  Billy’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID. “It’s just my Mom.”

  “Okay, whatever.” Cotter focused on the car ahead and tried not to get too close.

  Billy answered. “Hey, Mom . . . . Yeah . . . . We’re fine . . . . Mom, I gotta go, okay? See you later.”

  As Billy closed the phone, Cotter glanced over. The hint of a smile played on the young man’s lips.

  At the alley’s end, the bluish car turned right. Cotter hurried to catch up. He reached the intersection, looked right, and saw the car stopped at a red light.

  Cotter used the moment to snatch Billy’s phone from his hands. As Billy sputtered, Cotter checked the last call received. A private number.

  “Billy, how did you know it was your moth—?” Cotter’s question was cut off by a right uppercut to the chin.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Jessica

  “So nice to see you again, Cyn,” I said. “While I could see you, that is.”

  Once bundled into the car, I was blindfolded. Apparently, I wasn’t even going to get a cheap tour of D.C. out of this ride to . . . wherever.

  “Relax,” Cyn said, her voice dripping with venom.

  “Kind of hard to do that blindfolded. And with no idea where you’re taking me. Or what you want from me.”

  “I see you have your laptop.” Cynthia snickered. “You and that story of yours.” Her voice was filled with disbelief.

  “Maybe I can help you,” I said. “I . . . I want to cooperate if I can. I’m . . . just not sure I know how.” At this point, I knew the agents were listening in. I’d managed to hit the switch on my buckle while pretending to adjust my seatbelt.

  Cynthia fell quiet. The only sound was that of road noises and traffic.

  “Can you be more specific about what you need from me?” My voice tweaked up a notch. I hoped I wasn’t overplaying my hand. That is, assuming I could even guess what game we were playing.

  “Why don’t you just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride,” Cynthia said. “We’ll get into specifics when we get there.”

  Can’t wait. After trying to count turns and listen for clues, I finally gave up and took her advice. The only sound in the car was the road’s hum beneath the tires.

  After what seemed like hours, we arrived. My door opened and someone grabbed my arm.

  “Let’s go.” A man spoke the two words as if he were hard-pressed to share them.

  He pulled me from the car and maneuvered me across what felt like grass. I tried to keep my wits and my balance. The only sounds were birds and distant traffic. We could be in a quiet suburb or in the middle of nowhere.

  My feet hit pavement. A path? We halted. Keys jingled and a lock turned. I heard a door open and was then guided up one step and inside.

  Two people, each holding my arms, led me further inside. My tennis shoes squeaked on the hardwood floor.

  They lowered me into a chair. My face felt warm and I sensed a light shining beyond the blindfold.

  Someone tore the blindfold off and I blinked into the brightness. A light was directed at my face. Eventually, I made out a windowless room, barely furnished with a couple of chairs, a cot, and a desk with a shelf holding a fax or printer.

  A heavy-set man with a swarthy complexion squatted beside me. I gripped my carrying case in front of me, like a shield. My purse still hung from my shoulder.

  “Now,” the man said. “Tell us what you know.”

  “A-about what?” I managed to stammer. My mouth felt dry and pasty.

  “About our plans. What did they tell you?”

  I tried to think about how I’d been instructed to play this, but my memory failed me. I’d just have to play it by ear.

  “Nothing. I don’t know about any plans.”

  “How do you know Selby?”

  I opened my mouth, but realized it was a trick question. This man wanted me to admit I knew Selby, but I didn’t really.

  “Who?”

  “That guy who was talking to you at the Navy Memorial. What did he say?”

  “Oh, him. Jeez! Thanks to you, he keeled over before he could say anything.”

  The man rose and moved around me, inspecting me from all angles.

  “What makes you think we did that?” His voice taunted me.

  Who else? I wanted to say.

  “We know you’ve met Selby before,” the man said, sounding impatient.

  I froze. How long have these people been watching me?

  “Your friend, Fred, introduced you. Am I right?”

  Stunned, I nodded.

  “What do you know about Selby? Anything at all?”

  I had to say something here to appease the man.

  “I . . . I know he’s a geologist.”

  The man squatted beside me again and grabbed my arm. Wrong answer. I felt panic pour through me. “Are you sure that’s all you know?” the man said, his voice raspy, his eyes probing me like X-rays.

  “It’s no use, Lucius.” Cynthia spoke up.

  Lucius gave her a blank look, then rose to his full height, leaving me staring at his crotch. “I think he needs to talk to her.” Lucius emphasized the word “he” as if the “h” should be capitalized.

  Lucius ambled out the door. Cynthia and I said nothing. My eyes searched her out, but she averted her gaze.

  A tall dark-haired man in his forties, rangy with leathery tan skin, entered and strode up to me. I assumed this must be the “he” that Lucius referred to—probably their leader. His eyes were smoldering, black coals with a look of some internal madness or obsession embedded in a hard, pitted face. He began pacing, keeping his eyes on me. “What will we do with you, young lady?”

  He seemed amused.

  “Just don’t hurt me, please,” I said, my lines coming back to me. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but believe me, I’m not your enemy.”

  The man stopped and peered at me.

  “Honest.” I gulped. “The Feds are after me, but I don’t want any part of it. They think I’m on their side, but I’m not. I’m just a writer. I’m on no one’s side but my own.”

  Cynthia started to say something, but the dark-haired man held up a hand to silence her.

  “Why are you pretending to help the Feds?” he asked.

  “I told you. They’ve been after me, and I’m just playing along, so they’ll leave me alone.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “Why would I lie?” As I said it, I thought of several reasons.

  He leaned toward me. “You tell me,” he said, as if he’d read my mind.

  I merely shook my head. “I’m not lying. I swear it.” I felt like I was vying for an Academy Award against Meryl Streep.

  The man straightened and turned to Cynthia, who leaned against the desk.

  “Let’s give her some time to think about it,” he said. He turned to me and added, “I want you to write down anything Fred or Selby told you. Anything. It’s important.” He turned on his heel and stalked out.

  Cynthia looked at me and rapped her knuckles softly on the desk. She walked over to the lamp and shut it off.

  “You can use your laptop at the desk or write it by hand.” Cynthia jerked her head a couple of times toward the desk. She stared at me intently, as if trying to send a telepathic message.

  I realized she wasn’t pointing a gun at me anymore. I rose.

  “Carefu
l,” she said. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “No. No, I’ll cooperate.” My tongue felt like it was coated with glue. “Could I have some water? I think I’m entitled, as a . . . what? . . . prisoner?”

  She nodded. “No problem. I’ll take care of that. Meanwhile, you need to get to work.”

  For a moment, I relaxed and drew a deep breath. Cyn moved to the desk, picked up a pad and pen, and turned to me. “They’re listening,” she mouthed, as she handed me the writing implements and then left the room.

  I pondered Cyn’s behavior. What now? Gathering my wits, I trudged over to the desk, placed my laptop on it and sat down. What could I tell them that wouldn’t get me in trouble? All I had were suppositions based on what little I knew.

  I pulled out the laptop and set it up. Turning it on, I tried to think of anything Fred or Selby had actually said about the group and came up empty. Well, that wouldn’t take long to write.

  All I knew was that Fred had joined the group to help me research my novel about terrorists who were exploring the darker repercussions of a new physics theory that challenged Einstein’s relativity model.

  I knew Selby studied geology, including plate tectonics.

  I had no idea what one had to do with the other, if anything. All I had were assumptions about fault lines and earthquakes.

  I was typing out these pitiful bits of information, when Cyn walked in with bottled water.

  “Please excuse the informality,” she said, handing me the bottle. I twisted the cap and lifted it to my lips, knocking back almost half the contents.

  After pausing for breath, I swiped my hand over my mouth. “Thanks. I was parched.”

  “Take all the time you need.” Cyn pulled a drawer open and, without a word, pointed inside. It held a small black rectangle. I picked it up and examined it. It had a USB port at one end. A flash drive.

  This can’t be an accident. I thought of Cynthia, cocking her head toward the desk.

  My eyes narrowed. What was Cyn up to?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN