The Chemist

CHAPTER 4

This operation was murdering her nest egg.

That thought kept circling in the back of her brain. If she lived through the next week, and nothing changed in regard to her working relationship with the department, she was going to have serious financial issues. It wasn’t cheap changing lives on a triannual basis.

Just acquiring disposable funds in the first place had been a major procedure. She’d had money – the salary had certainly been a factor in her choice to do the job in the beginning, and earlier than that, she’d inherited a decent insurance payout when her mother had died. But when you work for powerful paranoids who probably note it in your file when you switch toothpaste brands, you can’t just withdraw all your money and put it in a shoe box under the bed. If they weren’t planning to do anything to you before, you might have just given them a motive. If they were, you just made them decide to accelerate their plans. You could try withdrawing all your money on the way out of town, but that limited your ability to pay for any advance preparations.

Like so much of it had been, it was Barnaby’s scheme. He’d kept her in the dark about the details to protect the friend or friends who helped him set it up.

In the cafeteria located a few floors up from the lab, she and Barnaby had let themselves be heard talking about a promising investment situation. Well, Barnaby had called it promising and worked to convince her of it. There was nothing remarkable about the conversation; various versions of it were probably taking place by watercoolers in several normal offices at the same moment. She played being convinced, and Barnaby loudly promised to set it up. She wired money to an investment firm – or a company that sounded very like an investment firm. A few days later, that money was deposited – minus a 5 percent “commission” to compensate those friends for their time and risk – in a bank in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in the name of Fredericka Noble. She received notification of this new account in an unmarked envelope placed in a copy of Extranodal Lymphomas at the county library. An Oklahoma driver’s license for Fredericka Noble, with her own picture on it, was also in the envelope.

She didn’t know where Barnaby’s drop was. She didn’t know what his new name was going to be. She’d wanted them to leave together – the vast aloneness of running was already part of her nightmares then – but he had thought that unwise. They’d both be safer separated.

More investments, more little envelopes. A few more accounts were created for Freddie, but there were also accounts and IDs for Ellis Grant in California and Shea Marlow in Oregon. All three identities were strong creations that would hold up under scrutiny. Freddie had been blown the first time the department found her, but this only made her more careful. Ellis and Shea were still safe. They were her prized possessions and she used them carefully and sparingly so as not to contaminate them by any association with Dr. Juliana Fortis.

She’d also started buying jewelry – the good stuff, and the smaller the better. Canary diamonds that looked to her eyes like nothing more than yellow sapphires but that cost ten times as much as their clear counterparts. Thick gold chains; heavy solid-gold pendants. Several loose gems she pretended to be planning to set. She knew all along that she would never get back half of what she paid, but jewelry could be carried easily and later converted to cash under the radar.

From a pay phone, Freddie Noble rented a small cabin just outside Tulsa, using a new credit card that would be paid from the Tulsa bank account. The cabin came with a sweet older landlord who sounded happy to bring in the boxes she mailed there – boxes full of the many things she would need when she walked away from her life as Juliana Fortis, everything from towels and pillows to her unset jewels to reflux condensers and boiling flasks – and collected his rent without commenting on her absence. She left a veiled hint here and there that she was planning to leave a bad relationship; it was enough for the landlord. She ordered supplies from library computers, giving an e-mail address she never accessed on her laptop at home.

She did everything she could to be ready, and then she waited for Barnaby to give the signal. In the end, he did let her know that it was time to run, but not the way they’d planned it.

That money, so carefully hoarded for so long, was now flowing through her fingers like she was some entitled trust-fund brat. One big spree in hopes of gaining her unlikely freedom, she promised herself. She had a few tricks for making real money, but they were dangerous, involving risks she could ill afford but would have no choice but to take.

People needed medical professionals who would break the rules. Some just wanted a doctor who knew how to oversee the administration of a treatment that was not approved by the FDA, something they’d picked up in Russia or Brazil. And some people needed bullets removed but didn’t want it done in a hospital, where the police would be notified.

She’d maintained a floating presence on the web. A few clients had contacted her at her last e-mail address, which was now defunct. She’d have to get back on the boards that knew her and try to get in touch with some contacts without leaving any new trails. It would be hard; if the department had found the e-mails, they probably knew about the rest. At least her clients understood. Much of the work she did for them ranged from quasi-legal to totally criminal, and they would not be surprised by occasional disappearances and new names.

Of course, working on the dark side of the law added other dangers to her already overloaded plate. Like the midlevel Mafia boss who found her services very convenient and thought she should set herself up permanently in Illinois. She’d tried to explain her carefully composed cover story to Joey Giancardi without compromising herself – after all, if there was money to be made by the sale of information, the Mob wasn’t exactly known for its loyalty to outsiders – but he was insistent, to put it mildly. He assured her that with his protection, she would never be vulnerable. In the end, she’d had to destroy that identity, a fairly well-developed life as Charlie Peterson, and run. Possibly there were members of the Family looking for her, too, now. It wasn’t something she lost sleep over. When it came to manpower and resources, the Mob couldn’t touch the American government.

And maybe the Mob didn’t have time to waste on her anyway. There were lots of doctors in the world, all of them human and most of them corruptible. Now, if he’d known her real specialty, Joey G would have put up more of a fight to keep her.

At least Joey G had been good for changing her jewels into cash. And the crash course in trauma medicine couldn’t hurt. Another perk of working in the underground: no one got too upset about your low batting average. Death was expected, and malpractice insurance wasn’t necessary.

Whenever she thought of Joey G, she also remembered Carlo Aggi. Not a friend, not really, but something close. He’d been her contact, the most constant presence in her life then. Though he was stereotypically thuggish in appearance, he’d always been sweet to her – treated her like a kid sister. So it had hurt more than the others when she hadn’t been able to do anything for Carlo. A bullet had lodged in his left ventricle. It was too late for Carlo long before they’d brought his body to her, but Joey G had still been hopeful; Charlie had done good work for him in the past. He was philosophical when Charlie had pronounced Carlo dead on arrival. Carlo was the best. Well, you win some, you lose some. And then a shrug.

She didn’t like to think about Carlo.

She would have preferred a few more weeks to think about other things – to fine-tune her scheme, consider her vulnerabilities, get the physical preparations perfect – but Carston’s plan gave her a deadline. She’d had to divide her limited time between surveillance and organizing a workspace, so neither had been perfectly done.

It was likely that they’d be watching her in case she tried to make a move without them. After her early visit to Carston, they would be anticipating it. But what choice did she have? Report for work as expected?

She’d seen enough to bet that Daniel would follow the same pattern today as he had the past three. Something about his almost identical outfits – similar jeans, button-down shirt, casual sport coat, all featuring only minor differences in hues – made her suspect that he was a creature of habit in his public life. After school, he would stay past the final bell to talk to students and work on his lesson plan for the next day. Then, with several folders and his laptop in a backpack over his left shoulder, he would head out, waving to the secretary as he passed. He would walk six blocks and get on the subway at Congress Heights around six, just as the commuting mayhem was at its worst. He had a straight shot up the Green Line to Columbia Heights, where his tiny studio apartment was located. Once there, he would eat a frozen dinner and grade papers. He went to bed around ten, never turning the TV on as far as she’d seen. It was harder to follow what happened in the morning – he had rattan shades that were basically translucent when lit from inside, but opaque in the morning sun. He hit the street at five for a morning run, returned an hour later, then left again after another thirty minutes, headed for the subway station three blocks away, longish curly hair still wet from his shower.

Two mornings ago, she’d followed his exercise route as best she could from a safe distance. He held a strong, fast pace – obviously an experienced runner. As she watched, she found herself wishing that she had more time to run. She didn’t love running the way others seemed to – she always felt so exposed on the side of a road, no car to escape in – but it was important. She was never going to be stronger than the person they sent after her. With her short legs, she wouldn’t be faster, either, and there was no martial art she could learn that would give her an advantage over a professional killer. But endurance – that could save her life. If her tricks could get her past the crisis moment, she had to be able to keep going longer than the killer could keep chasing. What a way to die – winded, muscles quitting, crippled by her own lack of preparation. She didn’t want to go out that way. So she ran as often as she could and did the exercises she could manage inside her small homes. She promised herself that when this operation was over, she would find a good place to jog – one with plenty of escape routes and hidey-holes.

But his running route – like the apartment and the school – was too obvious a place to make her move. The easiest way to do this would be to grab him off the street as he was finishing his run, worn out and unfocused, but the bad guys would know this too. They would be prepared for her. The same was true for the walking portion of his journey to school. So it had to be the Metro. They would know the Metro was another possible option, but they couldn’t cover every line, every stop, while also watching each leg of his commute.

There were cameras everywhere, but there was only so much she could do about that. When it was over, her enemies would have a million clear shots of what her face looked like now, three years later. Not much change, in her opinion, but they would still, no doubt, update her file. That was all they would be able to do, though. Her former position with the department had given her enough familiarity with the mechanics of snatching a target off the street to know that the difficulties were a lot greater than the average espionage TV series would lead one to believe. The purpose of the Metro cameras was to help catch a suspect after the crime. There was no way they’d have the resources and manpower to act on the coverage in real time. So all the cameras could tell them was where she had been, not where she would be, and without that information, the footage was useless. All the usual discoveries the tapes could help with – who she was, where she’d gotten her information, what her motive was – were things they already knew.

In any case, she couldn’t think of a less risky option.

Today her name was Jesse. She went with a professional look – her black suit with the V-neck black tee underneath and of course the leather belt. She had another, more realistic wig; this one chin-length and lighter, a mousy blond-brown color. She held this back with a simple black headband and added glasses with thin metal rims that didn’t make it look like she was hiding but still subtly disguised the shape of her cheekbones and forehead. Her face was symmetrical with small features; nothing stood out. She knew that as a general rule, people overlooked her. But she also knew she wasn’t so generic-looking that someone specifically searching would fail to recognize her. She would keep her head down whenever she could.

She brought a briefcase rather than her tote; the wooden details from her shoulder strap snapped into place on the handle of the briefcase. It was lined with metal, heavy even when empty, and could easily be used as a bludgeon if necessary. The locket, the rings, but not the earrings. She would have to do a bit of manhandling, and the earrings wouldn’t be safe. The shoe knives, the scalpel blades, the ChapStick, the various sprays… almost full armor. Today it didn’t make her feel more confident. This part of the plan was far outside her comfort zone. Kidnapping wasn’t something she’d ever imagined needing to do. In the past three years, she hadn’t thought of a scenario that didn’t boil down to either kill or escape.

Jesse yawned as she drove through the dark streets. She’d not been getting enough sleep, nor was sleep going to figure largely in the next few days. She had a few substances that would keep her awake, but the crash could be delayed for only seventy-two hours at most. She would need to be hidden very well when that crash came. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to use them.

There were plenty of spaces available in the economy parking lot at Ronald Reagan. She pulled into one near the shuttle bus stop, where most people would want to park, and waited for the bus to arrive. She knew this airport better than any other. She felt a long-missing sense of comfort kick in – the comfort of familiar surroundings. Two other passengers showed up before the shuttle, both of them with luggage and tired faces. They ignored her. She rode the bus to terminal three, then doubled back on the pedestrian bridge to the Metro stop. This route took her about fifteen minutes at a brisk walk. Nice thing about airports – everyone walked fast.

She’d debated wearing boots with wedge heels, going for a different height, but then decided she would be walking – and possibly running, if things went badly – too much today. She wore the dark flats that were half sneaker.

As she joined the crowd heading down to the Metro platform, she tried to keep her face hidden as much as possible from the ceiling cameras. Using her peripheral vision, she searched for a likely group to join. Jesse was sure that the watchers would be looking for a lone woman. A larger group – any group – was a better disguise than makeup or a wig.

There were several clusters of people heading to the tracks with her as the first wave of rush hour began to crowd the escalators. She chose a trio, two men and one woman, all in dark business suits and carrying briefcases. The woman had shiny blond hair and was a good nine inches taller than Jesse in her high-heeled, pointy-toed pumps. Jesse edged her way around a few other parties until she was somewhat hidden between the woman and the wall behind them. Any eyes examining the new quartet would naturally be drawn to the tall blonde. Unless those eyes were specifically looking for Juliana Fortis.

Jesse’s quartet moved purposefully through the crowd, claiming a spot near the edge of the platform to wait. None of the others in the group seemed aware of the small woman moving in tandem with them. There were too many close-packed bodies for her proximity to be noticeable.

The train raced into view, whipping past and then jerking to an abrupt stop. Jesse’s group hesitated, looking for a less crowded car. She contemplated abandoning them, but the blonde was impatient, too, and she forced her way into the negative space of the third car they considered. Jesse pushed in close behind the woman she’d been following, her body pressed against both the blonde and another, larger woman behind her. She would be all but invisible between them, uncomfortable as the position might be.

They rode the Yellow Line up to the Chinatown station. There she left the trio and joined a new couple, two women who could have been secretaries or librarians in their buttoned-up blouses and cat-framed eyeglasses. They rode the Green Line together up to the Shaw-Howard station, Jesse’s head cocked in the direction of the shorter brunette, pretending to be absorbed in a story about last weekend’s wedding reception that hadn’t included an open bar, of all the nerve. Mid-story, she left the secretaries on the train and melted into the crowd exiting the Metro. She did a quick U-turn through the densely packed ladies’ room and then joined the crowd heading down to the tracks for the next train. Timing would be everything now. She wouldn’t be able to hide inside the herd.

The shrill wail of the approaching train had Jesse’s heart bouncing up into her throat. She braced herself; it felt like she was a sprinter crouched at the blocks, waiting for the gun to fire. Then she shuddered at the metaphor in her head – it was only too possible that a gun was actually about to fire, but this one would have real bullets and wouldn’t be aimed at the sky.

The train shrieked to a stop, and she was on the move.

Jesse power-walked down the line of cars, elbowing through the flow of passengers as the doors whooshed open. Scanning as fast as she could, she searched for the tall frame with the floppy hair. There were so many bodies ducking past her, blocking her view. She tried to put a mental X through every head that didn’t match. Was she moving too quickly? Not quickly enough? The train was leaving by the time she got to the last car, and she couldn’t be positive he wasn’t on it, but she didn’t think he was. By her calculations of his last two arrivals, he was most likely on the next train. She bit her lip as the doors closed. If she’d blown this one, she’d have to try again on his next trip. She didn’t want to have to do that. The closer the time got to Carston’s plan being put into action, the more dangerous this would be.

Rather than linger in plain sight, she continued briskly toward the exit.

She did another circuit through the restroom, wasting a little time pretending to check the makeup she wasn’t wearing. After counting to ninety in her head, she rejoined the stream of commuters on their way to the tracks.

It was even more crowded now. Jesse chose a spot close to a group of suited men at the far end of the platform and tried to blend in with the black fabric of their jackets. The men were talking about stocks and trades, things that seemed so far from Jesse’s life that they might as well have been science fiction. The next train was announced and she got ready to walk and scan again. She stepped around the traders and examined the first car as it came to a stop.

Moving fast, Jesse’s eyes ran through the next car. Woman, woman, old man, too short, too fat, too dark, no hair, woman, woman, kid, blond… The next car -

It was like he was helping her, like he was on her side. He was right beside the window, looking out, standing tall, with the wavy hair very much in evidence.

Jesse gave the rest of the occupants a quick once-over as she walked toward the open doors. Many business types – any one of them could have been hired by the department. But there were no obvious tells, no extra-wide shoulders that didn’t quite fit into normal-size suit coats, no earpieces, no bulges under the jackets, no eye contact between riders. No one wore sunglasses.

This is the part, she thought to herself, where they try to bag us both and haul us back to the lab. Unless this is a setup, in which case Daniel and his innocent curly hair will be one of them. He might be the one to shoot me. Or stab me. Or they’ll try to get me off the train to shoot me somewhere in private. Or they’ll knock me out and throw me on the tracks.

But if the story is all true, they’ll want us both alive. They’ll probably try something similar to what I’m about to do to Daniel. Then they’ll cart me off to the lab and my odds of ever walking out again are… less than encouraging.

A thousand other bad endings raced through her head as the doors closed behind them. She walked quickly to stand beside Daniel, sharing the same pole for balance, her fingers close below his paler, much longer fingers. Her heart felt like someone was squeezing it in a tight fist; it got more painful in direct proportion to her proximity to the target. He didn’t seem to notice her, still staring out the window with a faraway look, a look that didn’t change as they pulled into the darkness of the tunnel and he could see only reflections from inside the car. Nobody in the car made any move toward them.

She couldn’t see any of the other guy in Daniel Beach, the one she’d seen pictures of in Mexico and Egypt, the one who hid his hair and moved with aggressive assurance. The abstracted man next to her could have been an Old World poet. He must be an incredible actor… or was it possible that he was legitimately psychotic, suffering from dissociative identity disorder? She didn’t know what to do with that.

Jesse tensed as they neared the Chinatown stop. The train lurched into the station, and she had to grip the pole tighter to keep from swinging into Daniel Beach.

Three people, two suits and one skirt, exited the train, but none of them looked at Jesse. They all hurried past, moving like they were late for work. Two more men got into the car. One caught Jesse’s attention – a big man, built like a professional athlete, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. He had both hands in the front pouch of the hoodie, and unless his hands were the size of shoe boxes, he was carrying something in them. He didn’t look at Jesse as he passed her, just went to the back corner of the car and grabbed an overhead strap. She kept him in the corner of her eye in the reflection, but he didn’t seem interested in either herself or the target.

Daniel Beach hadn’t moved. He was so absorbed in his distant thoughts that she found herself relaxing beside him, as if he were the one person on the train she didn’t have to guard against. Which was foolish. Even if this wasn’t a trap, even if he was exactly who she’d been told he was, this man was still planning to become a mass murderer in the very near future.

The athlete pulled a boxy pair of headphones out of his sweatshirt’s big pocket and covered his ears with them. The cord led back down to the pocket. Probably to his phone, but maybe not.

She decided to make the next stop a test.

As the doors opened, she bent down as if to fix the nonexistent cuff on her pants, then straightened suddenly and took a step toward the door.

No one reacted. The athlete in the headphones had his eyes closed. People got on, people got off, but no one looked at her, and nobody moved to block her exit or suddenly brought up a hand with a jacket awkwardly draped over it.

If her enemies knew what she was doing, they were letting her do it her way.

Did that mean it was real or that they just wanted her to believe it was for now? Trying to think around their circles made her head hurt. She grabbed the pole again as the train started moving.

“Not your stop?”

She looked up, and Daniel Beach was smiling down at her – the perfectly sweet, guileless smile that belonged to the school’s most popular teacher, to the Habitat for Humanity crusader.

“Um, no.” She blinked, her thoughts scrambling. What would a normal commuter say? “I, uh, just forgot where I was for a minute. The stations all start to blur together.”

“Hold on. The weekend is only eight or nine hours away.”

He smiled again, a kind smile. She was more than uncomfortable with the idea of socializing with her subject, but there was a strange – possibly counterfeit – normality about Daniel that made it easier for her to assume the role she needed to play: Friendly commuter. Ordinary person.

She snorted a dark little laugh at his observation. Her workweek was just beginning. “That would be exciting if I got weekends off.”

He laughed and then sighed. “That’s tough. Law?”

“Medicine.”

“Even worse. Do they ever let you out for good behavior?”

“Very rarely. It’s okay. I’m not much for wild parties anyway.”

“I’m too old for them myself,” he admitted. “A fact I usually remember around ten o’clock every night.”

She smiled politely as he laughed, and tried to keep her eyes from looking crazed. It felt both creepy and dangerous to be fraternizing with her next job. She never had any interactions with her subjects beforehand. She couldn’t afford to look at him as a person. She would have to see only the monster – the potential million dead – so she could remain impassive.

“Though I do enjoy the occasional quiet dinner out,” he was saying.

“Mm,” she murmured distractedly. It sounded like an agreement, she realized.

“Hi,” he said. “My name is Daniel.”

In her surprise, she forgot what her name was supposed to be. He held out his hand and she shook it, tremendously aware of the weight of her poisoned ring.

“Hi, Daniel.”

“Hi…” He raised his eyebrows.

“Um, Alex.” Whoops, that was a few names back. Oh, well.

“Nice to meet you, Alex. Look, I never do this – ever. But… well, why not? Can I give you my number? Maybe we could have that quiet dinner sometime?”

She stared at him in blank shock. He was hitting on her. A man was hitting on her. No, not a man. A soon-to-be mass murderer working for a psychotic drug czar.

Or an agent trying to distract her?

“Did I scare you? I swear I’m harmless.”

“Er, no, I just… well, no one has ever asked me out on a train before.” That was nothing but the plain truth. In fact, no one at all had asked her out for years. “I’m at a loss.” Also true.

“Here, this is what I’ll do. I’ll write my name and number down on this piece of paper and I’ll give it to you, and when you get to your stop, you can throw it in the next trash can you see, because littering is wrong, and immediately forget all about me. Very little inconvenience to you – just that extra few seconds with the trash can.”

He smiled while he spoke, but his eyes were down, focused on writing his information on the back of a receipt with a no. 2 pencil.

“That’s very considerate of you. I appreciate it.”

He looked up, still smiling. “Or you don’t have to throw it away. You could also use it to call me and then spend a few hours talking to me while I buy you food.”

The monotone voice overhead announced the Penn Quarter station and she was relieved. Because she was starting to feel sad. Yes, she was going to have a night out with Daniel Beach, but neither of them was going to enjoy it very much.

There could be no room for sadness. So many innocent dead. Dead children, dead mothers and fathers. Good people who had never hurt anyone.

“It’s a dilemma,” she answered quietly.

The train stopped again, and she pretended to be jostled by the man exiting behind her. The appropriate needle was already in her hand. She reached out as if to steady herself with the pole and grabbed Daniel’s hand in a move designed to look accidental. He jerked in surprise, and she held on tight like she was trying to keep her balance.

“Ouch. Sorry, I shocked you,” she said. She released him and let the tiny syringe slide out of her palm into her blazer’s pocket. Sleight of hand was something she’d practiced a lot.

“No worries. You okay? That guy really knocked you.”

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

The car started moving again, and she watched as Daniel’s face quickly lost its color.

“Hey, are you okay?” she asked. “You look a little pale.”

“Um, I… what?”

He glanced around, confused.

“You look like you’re going to pass out. Excuse me,” she said to the woman in the seat beside them. “Can my friend sit? He’s not feeling well.”

The woman rolled her enormous brown eyes and then looked studiously in the other direction.

“No,” Daniel said. “Don’t… bother about me. I’m…”

“Daniel?” she asked.

He was swaying a little now, his face dead white.

“Give me your hand, Daniel.”

Looking bemused, he held out his hand. She gripped his wrist, moving her lips in an obvious way as she looked at her watch and pretended to count to herself.

“Medicine,” he muttered. “You’re a doctor.”

This part was closer to the scripted version, and it made her more comfortable. “Yes, and I’m not pleased with your condition. You’re getting off at the next stop with me. We’re going to get you some air.”

“Can’t. School… can’t be late.”

“I’ll write you a note. Don’t argue with me, I know what I’m doing.”

“’Kay. Alex.”

L’Enfant Plaza was one of the biggest and most chaotic stations on the line. When the door opened, Alex put her arm around Daniel’s waist and led him out. He draped one arm over her shoulder for support. This didn’t surprise her. The tryptamine she’d injected him with made people disoriented, acquiescent, and quite friendly. He would follow her lead as long as she didn’t push him too hard. The drug was distantly related to a class of barbiturates that laypeople called truth serum and that had a few effects similar to Ecstasy; both were good for breaking down inhibitions and inducing cooperation. She liked this particular synthesis because of the confusion. Daniel would feel incapable of decision making and therefore would do whatever she told him to until it wore off – or unless she asked him to do something that really pushed against the walls of his comfort zone.

This was easier than she’d hoped, thanks to the unexpected tête-à-tête. She’d planned to stick him, then play the old Is there a doctor in the house? Why, yes, I happen to be a doctor! routine to get him to go with her initially. It would have worked, but he would not have been this docile.

“Okay, Daniel, how are you feeling? Can you breathe?”

“Sure. Breathing’s good.”

She walked quickly with him. This drug rarely made anyone sick, but there were always exceptions. She glanced up to check his color. He was still pale but his lips hadn’t taken on the greenish hue that would presage nausea.

“Do you feel sick to your stomach?” she asked.

“No. No, I’m fine…”

“I’m afraid you’re not. I’m going to take you to work with me, if that’s okay. I want to make sure this isn’t serious.”

“Okay… no. I have school?”

He was keeping pace with her easily despite his disorientation. His legs were about twice as long as hers.

“We’ll tell them what’s happening. You have a number for the school?”

“Yes, Stacey – in the office.”

“We’ll call her while we walk.”

This would slow them down, but there was no help for it; she had to allay his concern so he would stay docile.

“Good idea.” He nodded, then pulled an old BlackBerry out of his pocket and fumbled with the buttons.

She took it gently from his hand. “What’s the last name for Stacey?”

“It’s under ‘Front desk.’”

“I see it. Okay, I’ll dial for you. Here, tell Stacey you’re sick. You’re going to the doctor.”

He took the phone obediently, then waited for Stacey to answer.

“Hello,” he said. “Stacey. I’m Daniel. Yes, Mr. Beach. Not feeling so good, going to see Dr. Alex. Sorry. Hate to dump this on you. Sorry, thanks. Yes, get better, for sure.”

She flinched a little when he used her name, but that was just habit. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be Alex again for a while, that was all.

It was a risk, taking him out of school. Something de la Fuentes might notice if he was keeping close tabs on his messenger of death. But surely he would not raise the alarm to critical over one missed Friday. When Daniel showed up intact Monday morning, the drug lord would be reassured.

She took the phone from Daniel and pocketed it.

“I’ll hold this for you, okay? You look unsteady and I don’t want you to lose it.”

“Okay.” He looked around again and frowned at the giant concrete ceiling arcing overhead. “Where are we going?”

“My office, remember? We’re going to get on this train now.” She didn’t see any faces from the other train in this car. If they were following, they were doing it from a distance. “Look, here’s a seat. You can rest.” She helped him settle, surreptitiously dropping his phone by her foot and then nudging it farther under the seat with her shoe.

Tracking a cell phone was the very easiest way to find someone without having to do any work. Cell phones were a trap she’d always avoided. It was like volunteering to tag yourself for the enemy.

Well, she also didn’t really have anyone to call.

“Thanks,” Daniel said. He still had one arm around her, though now, with him sitting and her standing, it was at her waist. He stared up at her dizzily and then added, “I like your face.”

“Oh. Um, thank you.”

“I like it a lot.”

The woman sitting next to Daniel looked over at Alex and examined her face. Great.

The woman seemed unimpressed.

Daniel leaned his forehead against her hip and closed his eyes. The proximity was disconcerting on a few different levels, but also oddly comforting. It had been a long time since any human being had touched her with affection, even if this affection had come out of a test tube. Regardless, she couldn’t let him fall asleep yet.

“What do you teach, Daniel?”

He angled his face up, his cheek still resting on her hip.

“Mostly English. That’s my favorite.”

“Really? I was horrible at all the humanities. I liked science best.”

He made a face. “Science!”

She heard the woman beside him mutter, “Drunk,” to her other neighbor.

“Shouldn’t have told you I was a teacher.” He sighed heavily.

“Why not?”

“Women don’t like that. Randall says, ‘Never volunteer the information.’” The way he said the words made it clear he was quoting this Randall verbatim.

“But teaching is a noble profession. Educating the future doctors and scientists of the world.”

He looked up at her sadly. “There’s no money in it.”

“Not every woman is so mercenary. Randall is dating the wrong type.”

“My wife liked money. Ex-wife.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He sighed again and closed his eyes. “It broke my heart.”

Another twinge of pity. Of sadness. He would never say these things, she knew, if he weren’t high on her Ecstasy-truth serum hybrid. He was speaking more clearly now; the drug wasn’t wearing off, his mind was just adapting to working around it.

She patted his cheek and made her voice cheery. “If she was that easily bought, she probably isn’t worth crying over.”

His eyes opened again. They were a very gentle hazel, an even mix of green and soft gray. She tried to picture them intense – fitting under the baseball cap of the self-assured man meeting with de la Fuentes in the photos – and failed.

She didn’t know what she would do if he actually had dissociative identity disorder. She’d never worked with that before.

“You’re right,” he said. “I know you are. I need to see her for what she really was, not what I imagined she was.”

“Exactly. We build up these ideas of people, create the one we want to be with, and then try to keep the real person inside the false mold. It doesn’t always work out well.”

Gibberish. She had no idea what she was saying. She’d been in one semiserious relationship in her whole life, and it hadn’t lasted long. School had been prioritized before the guy, just like work had been prioritized before everything else for six years. Like how she now prioritized breathing over everything else. She had a problem with obsessiveness.

“Alex?”

“Yes?”

“Am I dying?”

She smiled reassuringly. “No. If I thought you were dying, I would have called an ambulance. You’ll be fine. I just want to double-check.”

“Okay. Will I have to have blood taken?”

“Maybe.”

He sighed. “Needles make me nervous.”

“It will be fine.”

She didn’t like that this bothered her – lying to him. But there was something about his simple trust, the way he seemed to ascribe the best motives to everything she did… She had to snap out of it.

“Thank you, Alex. Really.”

“Just doing my job.” Not a lie.

“Do you think you’ll call me?” he asked hopefully.

“Daniel, we’re definitely going to spend an evening together,” she promised. If he hadn’t been drugged, he would have heard the edge in her voice and seen the ice in her eyes.