The Chemist

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.