The Chemist

by Stephenie Meyer

  Three rings--one rose gold, one yellow gold, one silver. They all had small barbs hidden under clever little twisting hatches. The color of the metal indicated which substance coated the barb. Very straightforward, probably expected from her.

  Next, the earrings, which she always handled with delicate care. She wouldn't risk wearing them for this part of the journey; she would wait until she was closer to her target. Once they were in, she had to move her head very deliberately. They looked like simple glass globes, but the glass was so thin that a high note could shatter it, especially as the little spheres were already under pressure from the inside. If anyone grabbed her by the neck or head, the glass would burst with a quiet pop. She would hold her breath--which she could do for a minute fifteen, easy--and close her eyes if possible. Her attacker would not know to do that.

  Around her neck went a largish silver locket. It was very conspicuous and would command the attention of anyone who knew who she truly was. There was nothing deadly about it, though; it was just a distraction from the real dangers. Inside was a photo of a pretty little girl with fluffy, straw-colored hair. The child's full name was handwritten on the back of the picture; it looked like something a mother or an aunt would wear. However, this particular girl was Carston's only grandchild. Hopefully, if it was too late for Casey, the person who found her body would be a real cop who, due to the lack of identification, would be forced to dig into this evidence and bring her murder around to the doorstep where it ultimately belonged. It probably wouldn't really hurt Carston, but it might make things inconvenient for him, might make him feel threatened or worry that she'd released other information elsewhere.

  Because she knew enough about hidden disasters and classified horrors to do much more than inconvenience Carston. But even now, three years past her first death sentence, she hadn't grown comfortable with the idea of treason or the very real possibility of causing a panic. There was no way to foresee the potential damage of her revelations, the harm they might cause to innocent citizens. So she'd settled for just making Carston think that she had done something so reckless; maybe the worry would give him an aneurysm. A pretty little locket filled with drippings of revenge to make losing the game more palatable.

  The cord the locket was attached to, however, was deadly. It had the tensile strength of airline cable in proportion to its size and was easily strong enough to garrote a person. The cord closed with a magnet rather than a clasp; she had no desire to be lassoed with her own weapon. The wooden embellishments on her tote's shoulder strap had slots where the ends of the cords fit; once the cord was in place, the wooden pieces became handles. Physical force wasn't her first choice, but it would be unexpected. It gave her an advantage to be ready.

  Inside the intricate patterns of her black leather belt were hidden several spring-loaded syringes. She could pull them individually or flip a mechanism that would expose all the sharp ends at once if an attacker pressed her close to his body. The mix of the different substances would not blend well in his system.

  Scalpel blades with taped edges were tucked into her pockets.

  Standard shoe knives, one that popped forward, one to the rear.

  Two cans labeled PEPPER SPRAY in her bag--one containing the real thing, the other with something more permanently debilitating.

  A pretty perfume bottle that released gas, not liquid.

  What looked like a tube of ChapStick in her pocket.

  And several other fun options, just in case. Plus the little things she'd brought for the unlikely outcome--success. A bright yellow, lemon-shaped squeeze bottle, matches, a travel-size fire extinguisher. And cash, plenty of it. She stuck a key card in the tote; she wouldn't come back to this hotel, but if things went well, someone else would.

  She had to move carefully when she was in full armor like this, but she'd practiced enough that she was confident in her walk. It was comforting to know that if anyone caused her to move less carefully, he'd be the worse for it.

  She left the hotel, nodding to the clerk who had checked her in, a briefcase in one hand and the black tote over her arm. She got into her car and drove to a crowded park near the middle of the city. She left the car in an adjacent strip mall's lot on the north side and walked into the park.

  She was quite familiar with this park. There was a bathroom near the southeast corner that she headed into now. As she'd expected, midmorning on a school day, it was empty. Out of the briefcase came another set of clothes. There was also a rolled-up backpack and some more accessories. She changed her clothes, put her previous outfit in the briefcase, and then shoved it and the tote into the large backpack.

  When she walked out of the bathroom, she was no longer immediately recognizable as a she. She slouched away toward the south end of the park, loose-kneed, concentrating on keeping her hips from swaying and giving her away. Though it didn't appear that anyone was looking, it was always smarter to act like someone was.

  The park started to fill up when lunchtime approached, as she'd known it would. No one paid attention to the androgynous kid sitting on a bench in the shade furiously texting on a smartphone. No one came close enough to see that the phone wasn't on.

  Across the street from the bench was Carston's favorite lunch spot. It was not the meeting place she'd suggested. She was also five days early.

  Behind the men's sunglasses, her eyes scanned the sidewalks. This might not work. Maybe Carston had changed his habits. Habits were, after all, dangerous things. Like the expectation of safety.

  She'd sifted through the advice that both the factual accounts and the novels had given on disguises, always focusing on the commonsense stuff. Don't slap on a platinum wig and high heels just because you're a short brunette. Don't think opposite; think inconspicuous. Think about what attracts attention--like blondes and stilettos--and avoid it. Play to your strengths. Sometimes what you believe makes you unattractive can keep you alive.

  Back in the normal days, she'd resented her boyish frame. Now she used it. If you put on a baggy jersey and a pair of well-worn jeans a size too big, any eyes looking for woman might slide right over boy. Her hair was short as a boy's and easy to hide under a ball cap, and layered socks inside a pair of too-large Reeboks gave her that puppy-pawed look of the average teenage male. Someone who really looked at her face might notice some discrepancies. But why would anyone look? The park was filling with people of all ages and sexes. She did not stand out, and no one hunting for her would expect her to be here. She hadn't been back to DC since the department's first attempt to murder her.

  This wasn't her forte--leaving her web, hunting. But it was, at least, something she'd put some thought into beforehand. Most of what she did in an average day took only a small part of her attention and intelligence. The rest of her mind was always working through possibilities, imagining scenarios. It made her slightly more confident now. She was working from a mental map that had been many months in the creation.

  Carston had not changed his habits. At exactly 12:15 he sat down at a metal bistro table in front of his cafe. He'd picked the one that was angled so he could be completely covered by the umbrella's shade, as she'd expected. Carston had once been a redhead. He didn't have much of the hair anymore, but he still had the complexion.

  The waitress waved to him, nodded toward the pad of paper in her hand, then went back inside. So he had a usual order. Another habit that could get you killed. If Casey had wanted Carston dead, she could have managed it without his ever knowing she had been here.

  She got up, shoved the phone in her pocket, and slung her backpack onto one shoulder.

  The sidewalk led behind a rise and some trees. Carston couldn't see her here. It was time for another costume. Her posture changed. The hat came off. She shrugged out of the jersey she'd layered over the T-shirt. She tightened the belt and rolled up the bottom inches of the jeans, turning them into a boyfriend-cut look. The Reeboks came off and traded places with the slip-on ballet-slash-athletic shoes from the backpack. She
did all this casually, as if she were hot and just stripping down a bit. The weather made it believable. Bystanders might have been surprised to see a girl under the masculine clothing, but she doubted this moment would linger in anyone's memory. There were too many more extreme styles on display in the park today. The sunshine always did bring out the freaks in DC.

  Her tote went over her shoulder again. She dropped the backpack behind an out-of-the-way tree while no one was looking. If someone found it, there was nothing inside that she couldn't live without.

  Decently certain that no one could see her, she added a wig and then, finally, carefully, she threaded her earrings into place.

  She could have confronted Carston in her boyish garb, but why give up any secrets? Why let him connect her to her surveillance? If he'd even noticed the boy, that is. She might need to be a boy again soon, so she would not waste the persona now. And she could have saved some time by wearing the costume from the hotel, but if she'd made no changes to her appearance, the image of her captured by the closed-circuit security cameras at the hotel could be easily linked to the footage from any public or private cameras picking her up now. By spending extra time on her appearance, she'd broken as many links as she could; if someone was trying to find the boy, or the businesswoman, or the casual park visitor she was now, he would have a complicated trail to follow.

  It was cooler in her female outfit. She let the light breeze dry the sweat that had been building up under the nylon jersey and then walked out to the street.

  She came at him from behind, taking the same path he had just a few minutes earlier. His food had arrived--a chicken parm--and he seemed to be totally absorbed in consuming it. But she knew Carston was better than she was at appearing to be something he was not.

  She dropped into the seat across from him with no fanfare. His mouth was full of sandwich when he looked up.

  She knew that he was a good actor. She assumed he would bury his true reaction and display the emotion he wished before she could catch sight of the first. Because he didn't look surprised at all, she assumed she'd taken him completely unawares. If he had been expecting her, he would have acted like her sudden appearance had shocked him. But this, the steady gaze across the table, the unwidened eyes, the methodical chewing--this was him controlling his surprise. She was almost 80 percent sure.

  She didn't say anything. She just met his expressionless gaze while he finished masticating his bite of sandwich.

  "I guess it would be too easy to just meet as planned," he said.

  "Too easy for your sniper, sure." She said the words lightly, using the same volume he had. Anyone overhearing would think the words a joke. But the two other lunch groups were talking and laughing loudly; the people passing by on the sidewalk listened to earphones and telephones. No one cared what she was saying except Carston.

  "That was never me, Juliana. You must know that."

  It was her turn to act unsurprised. It had been so long since anyone had addressed her by her real name, it sounded like a stranger's. After the initial jolt, she felt a small wave of pleasure. It was good that her name sounded foreign to her. That meant she was doing it right.

  His eyes flitted to her obvious wig--it was actually quite similar to her real hair, but now he would suspect she was hiding something very different. Then he forced his eyes back to hers. He waited for a response for another moment, but when she didn't speak he continued, choosing his words carefully.

  "The, er, parties who decided you should... retire have... fallen into disfavor. It was never a popular decision to begin with, and now those of us who were always in disagreement are no longer ruled by those parties."

  It could be true. It probably wasn't.

  He answered the skepticism in her eyes. "Have you had any... unpleasant disturbances in the past nine months?"

  "And here I was thinking that I'd just gotten better at playing hide-and-seek than you."

  "It's over, Julie. Might has been overcome by right."

  "I love happy endings." Heavy sarcasm.

  He winced, hurt by the sarcasm. Or pretending to be.

  "Not so happy as all that," he said slowly. "A happy ending would mean I wouldn't have contacted you. You would have been left alone for the rest of your life. And it would have been a long one, as much as that was in our power."

  She nodded as if she agreed, as if she believed. In the old days, she'd always assumed Carston was exactly what he appeared to be. He had been the face of the good guys for a long time. It was almost fun now in a strange way, like a game, to try to decipher what each word actually meant.

  Except then there was the tiny voice that asked, What if there is no game? What if this is true... if I could be free?

  "You were the best, Juliana."

  "Dr. Barnaby was the best."

  "I know you don't want to hear this, but he never had your talent."

  "Thank you."

  He raised his eyebrows.

  "Not for the compliment," she explained. "Thank you for not trying to tell me his death was an accident." All of this still in the lighthearted tone.

  "It was a poor choice motivated by paranoia and disloyalty. A person who will sell out his partner always sees the partner as plotting in exactly the same way. Dishonest people don't believe honest people exist."

  She kept her face stony while he spoke.

  Never, in three years of constant running, had she ever spilled a single secret that she'd been privy to. Never once had she given her pursuers any reason to think her a traitor. Even as they tried to kill her, she had remained faithful. And that hadn't mattered to her department, not at all.

  Not much did matter to them. She was distracted for a moment by the memory of how close she had been to what she was looking for, the place she might have reached by now on her most pressing avenue of research and creation if she hadn't been interrupted. That project had not mattered to them, either, apparently.

  "But the egg is on those disloyal faces now," Carston continued. "Because we never found anyone as good as you. Hell, we never found anyone half as good as Barnaby. It amazes me how people can forget that true talent is a limited commodity."

  He waited, clearly hoping she would speak, hoping she would ask something, betray some sign of interest. She just stared at him politely, the way someone would look at the stranger ringing her up at a register.

  He sighed and then leaned in, suddenly intent. "We have a problem. We need the kind of answers only you can give us. We don't have anyone else who can do this job. And we can't screw this one up."

  "You, not we," she said simply.

  "I know you better than that, Juliana. You care about the innocents."

  "I used to. You could say that part of me was murdered."

  Carston winced again.

  "Juliana, I'm sorry. I've always been sorry. I tried to stop them. I was so relieved when you slipped through their fingers. Every time you slipped through their fingers."

  She couldn't help but be impressed he was admitting all of it. No denials, no excuses. None of the It was just an unfortunate accident at the lab kind of thing she had been expecting. No It wasn't us; it was enemies of the state. No stories, just acknowledgment.

  "And now everyone is sorry." His voice dropped and she had to listen hard to make out his words. "Because we don't have you, and people are going to die, Juliana. Thousands of people. Hundreds of thousands."

  He waited this time while she thought it over. It took her a few minutes to examine all the possible angles.

  She spoke quietly too, now, but made sure there was no interest or emotion in her voice. Just stating obvious facts to move the conversation forward. "You know someone who has vital information."

  Carston nodded.

  "You can't take him or her out, because that would let others know that you are aware of them. Which would expedite whatever course of action you would prefer not to happen."

  Another nod.

  "We're talking about the bad stuff
here, yes?"

  A sigh.

  Nothing worked the department up like terrorism. She'd been recruited before the emotional dust had entirely settled around the hole where the Twin Towers used to stand. Preventing terrorism had always been the main component of her job--the best justification for it. The threat of terrorism had also been manipulated, turned and twisted, till by the end she'd lost a lot of faith in the idea that she was actually doing the work of a patriot.

  "And a large device," she said, not a question. The biggest bogeyman was always this--that at some point, someone who truly hated the United States would get his or her hands on something nuclear. That was the dark shadow that hid her profession from the eyes of the world, that made her so indispensable, no matter how much Joe Citizen wanted to think she didn't exist.

  And it had happened--more than once. People like her had kept those situations from turning into massive human tragedies. It was a trade-off. Small-scale horror versus wholesale slaughter.

  Carston shook his head and suddenly his pale eyes were haunted. She couldn't help but shudder a little internally as she realized it was door number two. There were only ever two fears that big.

  It's biological. She didn't say the words out loud, just mouthed them.

  Carston's bleak expression was her answer.

  She looked down for a moment, sorting through all of his responses and reducing them to two columns, two lists of possibilities in her head. Column one: Carston was a talented liar who was saying things he thought would motivate her to visit a place where people were better prepared to dispose of Juliana Fortis forever. He was thinking quickly on his feet, pushing her most sensitive buttons.

  Column two: Someone had a biological weapon of mass destruction, and the powers that be didn't know where it was or when it would be used. But they knew someone who did.

  Vanity carried some weight, shifting the balance slightly. She knew she was good. It was true that they probably hadn't found someone better.

  Still, she would put her money on column one.

  "Jules, I don't want you dead," he said quietly, guessing her train of thought. "I wouldn't have contacted you if that were the case. I wouldn't want to meet with you. Because I am certain you have at least six ways to kill me on your person right now, and every reason in the world to use one of them."