The Planck Factor - Page 14
I followed the old woman down the stairs and caught up with her near a row of mailboxes.
“I’m trying to find your neighbor, but he’s not home. When was the last time you saw him? The young man living across from you?”
She blinked slowly, seeming to consider this. “I don’t know. Sometime last week, I guess.”
“Have you seen any strange people around here?”
She barked a laugh. “This town is full of strange people. And a few of them live here,” she said, fumbling to insert the key in one of the mailboxes.
It was grasping for straws, but I had to ask. “Have you noticed a dark van hanging around the parking lot lately?”
She swiveled round to face me. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Or two men in tan jumpsuits?”
She shook her head as she removed a fistful of mailers and catalogs from the box. I was leaving when I heard her say, “Unless you mean the delivery men.”
“Delivery men?”
“Sure. They wore tan jumpsuits. One of them had a clipboard. Figured it was to sign for deliveries. Thought they were bringing me a Snuggie I ordered weeks ago.”
“An older man and another one with red hair?”
She smiled. “Yes, one of them was a redhead. I’ve always thought red hair looks strange on men.”
“Thanks,” I said, and turned to leave.
“Is something wrong?” she called after me.
“Not a thing. Thanks for your help.” I rushed to the car.
I could barely keep my hands on the wheel for their shaking. What to do? Call the police? There’d be questions. Another report. Did I want to get involved? Would the killers come after me, if I did? Would the cops suspect me? It happened and no
t just in mystery novels.
I wanted to go home and think, but the coincidence about the so-called delivery men seemed to suggest it was the last place I should be. If they had killed Fred, why hadn’t they killed me?
I pulled over long enough to retrieve my cell phone and place a call to 911.
A woman answered. “Nine-one-one. Please state the nature of your emergency.”
“Please send the police to 8111 Mountain Road,” I said. “Apartment 3A.”
“What’s wrong? What is the nature . . . .” I disconnected her in mid-sentence. I’d done right by Fred, without getting further enmeshed in whatever was up.
Putting the phone away, I drove and considered my situation. If the cops didn’t think the phone calls and note were threatening, what would they say about my being at a murder scene? Perhaps I’d be better off leaving town for a while.
I tried to calm down, but my foot was heavier than it should have been. I took the turn onto the main road toward my place so fast the car skidded nearly to the curb. At this rate, I was well on my way to killing myself. I glanced in the rear-view mirror just to make sure that Boulder’s finest hadn’t noticed my recklessness.
Then I saw the dark van, turning off the same side street, heading my way. And everything wasn’t fine again.
Could it be the same van? I made an impromptu turn at the next side street and punched the gas to get some distance between me and the main road. I stopped and waited, watching the intersection in my rearview mirror. In a matter of moments, the van appeared and rounded the corner. I pulled a right turn, executing a series of maneuvers highly unlikely to be taken by anyone who wasn’t following me. A couple of times I thought they’d gone elsewhere or I’d lost them, but they always reappeared. To their credit, they kept a respectful distance—I’d probably never have noticed them if I hadn’t been looking—but I wasn’t able to lose them either.
Rather than go home, I headed back to Pearl Street. I needed to come up with a plan. The last thing I wanted was to return home alone with this van on my tail.
I pulled into the first spot I saw near the Pearl Street Mall, a popular pedestrian mall. I got out and looked around. Couldn’t see the van, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t nearby. Glancing around, I strode toward the mall and plunged in among the milling people. I hustled through the throng, despite having no destination. Anxious to get lost in the crowd. (Like Swede had said in my book? Too weird.) I needed time to think.
I’d joined a group of people clustered around a juggler, when I caught a glimpse of a red-haired man walking toward my car. He appeared to be the one I’d seen yesterday morning outside my place. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans this time. He pointed toward my car. The older man with him, a tall, middle-aged guy with a graying flattop, also dressed casually, scowled and ignored him, scanning the crowd like the spotlight from a watchtower.
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