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Instead of the park, I decided to head to The Cup on East Pearl Street, where I could work on the novel and drink socially responsible coffee at the same time. While I was at it, I’d treat myself to a turkey club sandwich. I could already taste the bacon, avocado, and Swiss cheese. Maybe I was being stalked by some loony, but I wasn’t going to deny myself life’s small pleasures.
I pondered the situation as I drove. Who could’ve written that note, and why? Then a bizarre scenario suggested itself. Could it have something to do with Fred’s failure to return my phone calls? Or the thing he wanted to talk to me about? No way, I thought. It has to be a coincidence. Just my overactive imagination running away with me. Same for the note written by the anonymous caller. And what did the van have to do with anything?
Writing a novel hardly seemed like a dangerous occupation to me, but now I wasn’t sure. Whatever the reason for my current problems, I felt glad to have taken all those free self-defense courses the university offered.
I parallel parked near Pearl Street, trying not to think about it. How much danger could I be in surrounded by people in downtown Boulder? The Cup seemed like a pretty good place to be.
Not that there was any shortage of good coffee shops in Boulder. The Cup was usually busy but not jammed to the gills with the regulars who hung out at Rocky Mountain Bookstore. Nor was it overrun with the earnest students in endless discussions of consciousness, the nature of time, and inter-dimensionality who favored the second-floor trappings of Java Joe’s Café. Such conversation could be stimulating—to a point. Right now, I needed to focus on my story. Work out the details of what would happen next to Alexis and Swede.
I’ll admit that I felt a smidgen of guilt for hanging out at The Cup, agonizing over the fate of fake people in a made-up situation instead of working on my thesis. But I was so eager to review this draft of my novel and put the final touches on it, I simply couldn’t stop now.
I ordered my coffee and sandwich and then set up at a corner table to write.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alexis
They found a cheap motel well off the freeway, halfway to Portland. Swede peered out the window between the closed curtains, while Alexis stretched out on the bed and clicked through the ten available channels on the small TV.
“Are you ever going to tell me what this is about?” she asked, stopping on TBS to check out what might be a watchable movie.
“I told you,” Swede said. “It’s about the research.”
“Which tells me nothing.”
“Like I said--”
“I know what you said.” The movie was some cop flick, full of stupid banter and chase scenes. Alexis muted the sound, tossed the remote aside, and rolled over to face Swede. “You need to tell me more. I wouldn’t have even come this far, if you hadn’t freaked me out. But I insist on getting a few details. I’m not going any farther with you unless you tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m trying to protect you.” Swede turned from the window. He looked exhausted. “Please. Just trust me.”
Alexis considered this. “No.”
“No?”
“I need an explanation. You’re disrupting my life. I have a master’s thesis to work on and classes to attend. And a limited time to finish my studies, so if you’re going to insist that I live my life on the run, I have to know why I’m running.”
Swede shook his head. “I had hoped to avoid this.”
“Clearly, but if you don’t explain now, I’m calling a cab or catching a bus back home.”
Swede sighed. “Well, I can’t really force you to come.”
“They call it kidnapping.”
Swede grimaced and glanced out the window again. He froze as the flash of headlights illuminated him briefly, then relaxed as they disappeared.
“All right,” he said. “Did Daniel ever explain the theory we were testing?”
“I told you. Daniel didn’t explain a thing.”
“Well, you did know h
e was a cosmologist.”
“Yes, yes. You were both studying the origins of the universe.”
Swede grabbed a chair and turned it backward. He straddled it and dropped onto the seat with a grunt, resting his arms on the back, his solid torso settling like a sack of cement. “You’ve heard of Albert Einstein, of course.”
