The Chemist

by Stephenie Meyer

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Stephenie Meyer

  Newsletters

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to Jason Bourne and Aaron Cross

  (and also to Asya Muchnick and Meghan Hibbett, who gleefully aid and abet my obsession)

  CHAPTER 1

  Today's errand had become routine for the woman who was currently calling herself Chris Taylor. She'd gotten up much earlier than she liked, then dismantled and stowed her usual nighttime precautions. It was a real pain to set everything up in the evening only to take it down first thing in the morning, but it wasn't worth her life to indulge in a moment of laziness.

  After this daily chore, Chris had gotten into her unremarkable sedan--more than a few years old, but lacking any large-scale damage to make it memorable--and driven for hours and hours. She'd crossed three major borders and countless minor map lines and even after reaching approximately the right distance rejected several towns as she passed. That one was too small, that one had only two roads in and out, that one looked as though it saw so few visitors that there would be no way for her not to stand out, despite all of the ordinariness she worked to camouflage herself with. She took note of a few places she might want to return to another day--a welding-supply shop, an army surplus store, and a farmers' market. Peaches were coming back in season; she should stock up.

  Finally, late in the afternoon, she arrived in a bustling place she'd never been before. Even the public library was doing a fairly brisk business.

  She liked to use a library when it was possible. Free was harder to trace.

  She parked on the west side of the building, out of sight of the one camera located over the entrance. Inside, the computers were all taken and several interested parties were hanging around waiting for a station, so she did some browsing, looking through the biography section for anything pertinent. She found that she'd already read everything that might be of use. Next, she hunted up the latest from her favorite espionage writer, a former Navy SEAL, and then grabbed a few of the adjacent titles. As she went to find a good seat to wait in, she felt a twinge of guilt; it was just so tawdry, somehow, stealing from a library. But getting a library card here was out of the question for a number of reasons, and there was the off chance that something she read in these books would make her safer. Safety always trumped guilt.

  It wasn't that she was unaware that this was 99 percent pointless--it was extremely unlikely that anything fictional would be of real, concrete use to her--but she'd long ago worked her way through the more fact-based kind of research available. In the absence of A-list sources to mine, she'd settled for the Z-list. It made her more panicky than usual when she didn't have something to study. And she'd actually found a tip that seemed practical in her last haul. She'd already begun incorporating it into her routine.

  She settled into a faded armchair in an out-of-the-way corner that had a decent view of the computer cubicles and pretended to read the top book in her pile. She could tell from the way several of the computer users had their belongings sprawled across the desk--one had even removed his shoes--that they would be in place for a long while. The most promising station was being used by a teenage girl with a stack of reference books and a harried expression. The girl didn't seem to be checking social media--she was actually writing down titles and authors generated by the search engine. While she waited, Chris kept her head bent over her book, which she had nestled in the crook of her left arm. With the razor blade hidden in her right hand, she neatly sliced off the magnetic sensor taped to the spine and stuffed it into the crevice between the cushion and the arm of the chair. Feigning a lack of interest, she moved on to the next book in the pile.

  Chris was ready, her denuded novels already stowed away in her backpack, when the teenage girl left to go find another source. Without jumping up or looking like she'd rushed, Chris was in the chair before any of the other lingering hopefuls even realized their chance had passed.

  Actually checking her e-mail usually took about three minutes.

  After that, she would have another four hours--if she wasn't driving evasively--to get back to her temporary home. Then of course the reassembly of her safeguards before she could finally sleep. E-mail day was always a long one.

  Though there was no connection between her present life and this e-mail account--no repeat IP address, no discussion of places or names--as soon as she was done reading and, if the occasion called for it, answering her mail, she would be out the door and speeding out of town, putting as many miles between herself and this location as possible. Just in case.

  Just in case had become Chris's unintentional mantra. She lived a life of overpreparation, but, as she often reminded herself, without that preparation she wouldn't be living a life at all.

  It would be nice not to have to take these risks, but the money wasn't going to last forever. Usually she would find a menial job at some mom-and-pop place, preferably one with handwritten records, but that kind of job generated only enough money for the basics--food and rent. Never the more expensive things in her life, like fake IDs, laboratory apparatus, and the various chemical components she hoarded. So she maintained a light presence on the Internet, found her rare paying client here and there, and did everything she could to keep this work from bringing her to the attention of those who wanted her to stop existing.

  The last two e-mail days had been fruitless, so she was pleased to see a message waiting for her--pleased for the approximately two-tenths of a second it took her to process the return address.

  l.carston.463@dpt11a.net

  Just out there--his real e-mail address, easily traceable directly to her former employers. As the hair rose on the back of her neck and the adrenaline surged through her body--Run, run, run it seemed to be shouting inside her veins--part of her was still able to gape in disbelief at the arrogance. She always underestimated how astonishingly careless they could be.

  They can't be here yet, she reasoned with herself through the panic, her eyes already sweeping the library for men with shoulders too broad for their dark suits, for military haircuts, for anyone moving toward her position. She could see her car through the plate-glass window, and it looked like no one had tampered with it, but she hadn't exactly been keeping watch, had she?

  So they'd found her again. But they had no way of knowing where she would decide to check her mail. She was religiously random about that choice.

  Just now, an alarm had gone off in a tidy gray office, or maybe several offices, maybe even with flashing red lights. Of course there would be a priority command set up to trace this IP address. Bodies were about to be mobilized. But even if they used helicopters--and they had that capability--she had a few minutes. Enough to see what Carston wanted.

&nbs
p; The subject line was Tired of running?

  Bastard.

  She clicked it open. The message wasn't long.

  Policy has changed. We need you. Would an unofficial apology help? Can we meet? I wouldn't ask, but lives are on the line. Many, many lives.

  She'd always liked Carston. He seemed more human than a lot of the other dark suits the department employed. Some of them--especially the ones in uniform--were downright scary. Which was probably a hypocritical thought, considering the line of work she used to be in.

  So of course it was Carston they'd had make contact. They knew she was lonely and frightened, and they'd sent an old friend to make her feel all warm and fuzzy. Common sense, and she probably would have seen through the ploy without help, but it didn't hurt that the same ploy had been used once in a novel she'd stolen.

  She allowed herself one deep breath and thirty seconds of concentrated thought. The focus was supposed to be her next move--getting out of this library, this town, this state, as soon as possible--and whether that was enough. Was her current identity still safe, or was it time to relocate again?

  However, that focus was derailed by the insidious idea of Carston's offer.

  What if . . .

  What if this really was a way to get them to leave her alone? What if her certainty that this was a trap was born from paranoia and reading too much spy fiction?

  If the job was important enough, maybe they would give her back her life in exchange.

  Unlikely.

  Still, there was no point in pretending that Carston's e-mail had gone astray.

  She replied the way she figured they were hoping she would, though she'd formed only the barest outline of a plan.

  Tired of a lot of things, Carston. Where we first met, one week from today, noon. If I see anyone with you, I'm gone, yada yada yada, I'm sure you know the drill. Don't be stupid.

  She was on her feet and walking in the same moment, a rolling lope she'd perfected, despite her short legs, that looked a lot more casual than it was. She was counting off the seconds in her head, estimating how long it would take a helicopter to cover the distance between DC and this location. Of course, they could alert locals, but that wasn't usually their style.

  Not their usual style at all, and yet... she had an unfounded but still pressingly uncomfortable feeling that they might be getting tired of their usual style. It hadn't yielded the results they were looking for, and these were not patient people. They were used to getting what they wanted exactly when they wanted it. And they'd been wanting her dead for three years.

  This e-mail was certainly a policy change. If it was a trap.

  She had to assume it was. That viewpoint, that way of framing her world, was the reason she was still breathing in and out. But there was a small part of her brain that had already begun to foolishly hope.

  It was a small-stakes game she was playing, she knew that. Just one life. Just her life.

  And this life she'd preserved against such overpowering odds was only that and nothing more: life. The very barest of the basics. One heart beating, one set of lungs expanding and contracting.

  She was alive, yes, and she had fought hard to stay that way, but during her darker nights she'd sometimes wondered what exactly she was fighting for. Was the quality of life she maintained worth all this effort? Wouldn't it be relaxing to close her eyes and not have to open them again? Wasn't an empty black nothing slightly more palatable than the relentless terror and constant effort?

  Only one thing had kept her from answering Yes and taking one of the peaceful and painless exits readily available to her, and that was an overdeveloped competitive drive. It had served her well in medical school, and now it kept her breathing. She wasn't going to let them win. There was no way she would give them such an easy resolution to their problem. They would probably get her in the end, but they were going to have to work for it, damn them, and they would bleed for it, too.

  She was in the car now and six blocks from the closest freeway entrance. There was a dark ball cap over her short hair, wide-framed men's sunglasses covering most of her face, and a bulky sweatshirt disguising her slender figure. To a casual observer, she would look a lot like a teenage boy.

  The people who wanted her dead had already lost some blood and she found herself suddenly smiling as she drove, remembering. It was odd how comfortable she was with killing people these days, how satisfying she found it. She had become bloodthirsty, which was ironic, all things considered. She'd spent six years under their tutelage, and in all that time they hadn't come close to breaking her down, to turning her into someone who enjoyed her work. But three years on the run from them had changed a lot of things.

  She knew she wouldn't enjoy killing an innocent person. She was sure that corner had not been turned, nor would it be. Some people in her line of work--her former line--were well and truly psychotic, but she liked to think that this was the reason her peers were not as good as she was. They had the wrong motivations. Hating what she did gave her the power to do it best.

  In the context of her current life, killing was about winning. Not the entire war, just one small battle at a time, but each was still a win. Someone else's heart would stop beating and hers would keep going. Someone would come for her, and instead of a victim he would find a predator. A brown recluse spider, invisible behind her gossamer trap.

  This was what they had made her. She wondered if they took any pride at all in their accomplishment or if there was only regret that they hadn't stomped on her fast enough.

  Once she was a few miles down the interstate, she felt better. Her car was a popular model, a thousand identical vehicles on the highway with her now, and the stolen plates would be replaced as soon as she found a safe spot to stop. There was nothing to tie her to the town she'd just left. She'd passed two exits and taken a third. If they wanted to blockade the freeway, they'd have no idea where to do it. She was still hidden. Still safe for now.

  Of course, driving straight home was out of the question at this point. She took six hours on the return, twisting around various highways and surface roads, constantly checking to be sure there was no one following. By the time she finally got back to her little rented house--the architectural equivalent of a jalopy--she was already half asleep. She thought about making coffee, weighing the benefits of the caffeine boost against the burden of one extra task, and decided to just muscle through it on the vapors of her energy supply.

  She dragged herself up the two rickety porch steps, automatically avoiding the rot-weakened spot on the left of the first tread, and unlocked the double dead bolts on the steel security door she'd installed her first week living here; the walls--just wooden studs, drywall, plywood, and vinyl siding--didn't provide the same level of security, but statistically, intruders went for the door first. The bars on the windows were not an insurmountable obstacle, either, but they were enough to motivate the casual cat burglar to move on to an easier target. Before she twisted the handle, she rang the doorbell. Three quick jabs that would look like one continuous push to anyone watching. The sound of the Westminster chimes was only slightly muffled by the thin walls. She stepped through the door quickly--holding her breath, just in case. There was no quiet crunch of broken glass, so she exhaled as she shut the door behind her.

  The home security was all her own design. The professionals she'd studied in the beginning had their own methods. None of them had her specialized skill set. Neither did the authors of the various novels she used as implausible manuals now. Everything else she had needed to know had been easy to pull up on YouTube. A few parts from an old washing machine, a microcontroller board ordered online, a new doorbell, and a couple of miscellaneous acquisitions, and she had herself a solid booby trap.

  She locked the dead bolts behind her and hit the switch closest to the door to turn on the lights. It was set in a panel with two other switches. The middle was a dummy. The third switch, the farthest from the door, was patched into the same low-voltage signal
wire as the doorbell. Like that fixture and the door, the panel of switches was newer by decades than anything else in the small front room that was living area, dining room, and kitchen combined.

  Everything looked as she'd left it: minimal, cheap furnishings--nothing big enough for an adult to hide behind--empty counters and tabletop, no ornaments or artwork. Sterile. She knew that even with the avocado-and-mustard-vinyl flooring and the popcorn ceiling, it still looked a little like a laboratory.

  Maybe the smell was what made it feel like a lab. The room was so scrupulously sanitary, an intruder would probably attribute the pool-supply-store scent to cleaning chemicals. But only if he got inside without triggering her security system. If he triggered the system, he wouldn't have time to register many details about the room.

  The rest of the house was just a small bedroom and bathroom, set in a straight line from the front door to the far wall, nothing in the way to trip her. She turned the light off, saving herself the walk back.

  She stumbled through the only door into her bedroom, sleepwalking through the routine. Enough light made it through the mini-blinds--red neon from the gas station across the street--that she left the lamp off. First, she rearranged two of the long feather pillows on top of the double mattress that took up most of the space in the room into the vague shape of a human body. Then the Ziploc bags full of Halloween costume blood were stuffed into the pillowcases; close up, the blood wasn't very convincing, but the Ziplocs were for an attacker who broke the window, pushed the blinds aside, and shot from that vantage point. He wouldn't be able to detect the difference in the neon half-light. Next, the head--the mask she'd used was another after-Halloween-sale acquisition, a parody of some political also-ran that had fairly realistic skin coloring. She'd stuffed it to roughly match the size of her own head and sewn a cheap brunette wig into place. Most important, a tiny wire, threaded up between the mattress and box spring, was hidden in the strands of nylon. A matching wire pierced through the pillow the head rested on. She yanked the sheet up, then the blanket, patted it all into shape, then twisted together the frayed ends of the two wires. It was a very tenuous joining. If she touched the head even lightly or jostled the pillow body a bit, the wires would slip silently apart.