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I strode down the sidewalk, scanning for cabs. And cops. And men in trench coats. Men in black with sunglasses. Trench coats and sunglasses? Please. The killers probably wore jeans and T-shirts. The thought raised goose bumps. They could be anyone. Male, female. Anyone at all.
Standing at that curb, I felt as exposed as a target in an arcade game.
I spotted an available cab. My arm shot up, waving as if to a rescue ship from a desert island.
Once settled into the cab, I thought about my conversation with Selby. He had been with a group of political dissidents. Extremists was his term. He had provided Fred an “in” with this group. Fred found out too much—about what? Selby said the group was talking about doing things that prompted him to leave, at risk to his own life. That suggested they were up to something extraordinarily bad.
And he’d emphasized that they were using his knowledge. So what did all this have to do with my book? Fred never told me what Selby studied, but if it was physics, it suggested some ugly possibilities.
Fred might have been doing research on how political extremists would react if the scientific premise of my novel—the ability to create a weapon twice as powerful as an atom bomb—proved to be possible.
Good God.
By trying to extract information on terrorist angles, had Fred sent up a red flag? Had he, in fact, been killed trying to help me get information for my book? Worse still, was it because the group was planning something big—something on the scale of 9/11 or worse—that would involve the kind of weapon I was writing about? Was that the thing that provoked Selby Harris to flee the group?
I lay back against the bench seat and took deep, even breaths and tried to empty my mind of all thoughts. Later. I’ll figure it out later.
At my request, the cab stopped near a coffee shop I’d seen on the way to Liz’s the previous night. As I sat, counting out the fare and figuring the tip, I saw the shop’s door open. The two men from the van emerged. I froze and stared at the tall man I called Flattop and his younger red-haired assistant, remembering Selby’s warning about them.
Shit! Did these guys really follow me halfway across the country to kill me, too?
Then Liz emerged and called the taller man back to have a few words with him. I thought my heart had stopped.
The cabbie cleared his throat. “Um, we’re here, miss.”
“No.” The word leapt from my mouth, as reflexively as a muscle twitch. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. Could you take me somewhere else?” I said, my voice quavering despite myself.
I had the driver make a quick detour to Liz’s place and had him wait while I stuffed the few belongings I’d removed back into my bag and grabbed my laptop. I left Liz’s hat where I’d found it. Frankly, I wanted to avoid thinking about Liz. I didn’t know what was going on, and maybe I wasn’t giving her a fair shake by sneaking out this way. I had no idea why she’d be talking to those men or vice versa. I was beginning to wonder if I should check myself into the psych ward at the nearest hospital, in anticipation of the nervous breakdown I was no doubt going to have soon.
Anyplace, I thought. Dupont Circle came to mind, because Liz and I had gone to dinner at a restaurant there. There were a lot of restaurants lining that section of Connecticut Avenue. Surely, there’d be a hotel around somewhere.
After I hopped back into the cab, I asked, “Can you recommend a cheap hotel in Dupont Circle?”
The driver smirked. “Cheap hotel? I don’t think so.”
“Can you recommend one anywhere??
?
The driver’s brow furrowed. “Well . . . not one good enough for a young lady like you.”
I threw up my hands. “It doesn’t have to be dirt cheap. Are you sure you can’t think of a decent hotel that’s not too expensive?”
The cabbie appeared to relent. “Possibly. Dupont Circle, you said?”
“Anyplace halfway decent.”
He nodded. “The Dupont Plaza. An old hotel. Remodeled. Not cheap but not as expensive as the others.”
When I got to The Dupont Plaza, I checked in and went straight up to my room—making sure to turn the deadbolt and attach the chain. Not that it wouldn’t give to a swift kick. Sighing, I placed my bag down and set my laptop up on the table.
I stood and gazed out the eighth floor window. People milled about in the street far below, so distant, so oblivious to me and my problems. Ordinary people, living ordinary lives. Feeling bored, unhappy, stuck in lousy jobs or bland marriages. How I envied them.
Somewhere out there was a killer. Or killers.
Selby, the man I’d just met, was once with an extremist group. He was killed, perhaps for leaving the group, knowing what they had planned, talking to Fred or talking to me. But by whom?
Selby said the men in the van might be assassins. But my sister wouldn’t get involved with anyone like that. Maybe they told her they were someone else. Possible. But still, Liz is no fool. She’d ask for identification, if they told her they were cops or something. Of course, you can get fake IDs.
