Stephenie Meyer - The Chemist

“But how could he do this? Why?”

At this point, she was nearly 65 percent convinced that they were not talking about one of Daniel’s multiple personalities.

“It’s too late for that. All that matters now is stopping him. Who is he, Daniel? Help me save those innocent people.”

A different kind of agony twisted his features. She’d seen this before. With another subject, she would know that his desire to be loyal was warring with his desire to avoid more torture. With Daniel, she rather thought the war was between loyalty and wanting to do the right thing.

In the perfect stillness of the night, as she waited for his answer, through the weak sound barrier of the foam, she clearly heard a small prop plane overhead. Very close overhead.

Daniel looked up.

Time slowed down while she analyzed.

Daniel didn’t look surprised or relieved. The noise did not seem to signal rescue or attack to him. He just noticed it the way someone might notice a car alarm going off. Not relevant to himself, but distracting from the moment.

It felt like she was moving in slow motion as she jumped up and raced to the desk for the syringe she needed.

“You don’t have to do that, Alex,” Daniel said, resigned. “I’ll tell you.”

“Shh,” she whispered, leaning over his head while she injected the drug – into the IV port this time. “I’m just putting you to sleep for now.” She patted his cheek. “No pain, I promise.”

Understanding lit his eyes as he connected the sound to her behavior. “Are we in danger?” he whispered back.

We. Huh. Another interesting pronoun choice. She’d never had a subject anything like this before.

“I don’t know if you are,” she said as his eyes drooped closed. “But I sure as hell am.”

There was a heavy concussion, not immediately outside the barn but too close for her liking.

She put the gas mask securely on his face, then donned hers and screwed in the canister. This time was no drill. She glanced at her computer – she had about ten minutes left there. She wasn’t sure it was enough, so she tapped the space bar. Then she jabbed a button on the little black box, and the light on the side started blinking rapidly. Almost as a reflex, she covered Daniel with the blanket again.

She shut the lights off, so the room was lit only by the white gleam of her computer screen, and exited the tent. Inside the barn, everything was black. She searched, hands out in front of her, until she found the bag beside her cot and, with years of practice guiding her, blindly put on all of her easily accessible armor. She shoved the gun into the front of her belt. She took a syringe from her bag, jabbed it into her thigh, and depressed the plunger. Ready as she could make herself, she crept into the back corner of the tent and hid where she knew the darkest shadow would be if someone came in with a flashlight. She pulled out the gun, removed the safety, and gripped it with both hands. Then she put her ear to the seam of the tent and listened, waiting for someone to open the door or a window into the barn, and die.

While she waited through the slow seconds, her mind raced through more analysis.

This wasn’t a big operation coming for her. No way any extraction team or elimination team worth its salt would announce its arrival with a noisy plane. There were better ways, quieter ways. And if it was a big, SWAT-style team sent after her without any briefing, just busting their way in by sheer might, they would have come in a copter. The plane had sounded very small – a three-seater at most, but probably two-.

If a lone assassin was coming for her again, as had always been the case in the past, she didn’t know what this guy thought he was doing. Why would he give himself away? The noisy plane was the move of someone who was lacking resources and in a very big hurry, someone to whom time was much more important than stealth.

Who was it? Not de la Fuentes.

First of all, a small prop plane didn’t seem like a drug lord’s MO. She imagined that with de la Fuentes, there would be a fleet of black SUVs and a bunch of thugs with machine guns.

Second, she had a gut feeling about this one.

No, she wasn’t a lie detector. Good liars, professional liars, could fool anyone, human or machine. Her job had never been about guessing the truth from the subject’s shifty eyes or tangled contradictions. Her job was breaking down the subject until there was nothing left but compliant flesh and one story. She wasn’t the best because she could separate the truth from the lie; she was the best because she had a natural affinity for the capabilities of the human body and was a genius with a beaker. She knew exactly what a body could handle and exactly how to push it to that point.

So gut feelings were not her forte, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d really felt something like this.

She believed Daniel was telling the truth. That’s why this exercise with Daniel had bothered her so much – because he wasn’t lying. It wasn’t going to be de la Fuentes coming after him. No one was coming after Daniel, because he wasn’t anything more than what he said he was – an English teacher, a history teacher, a volleyball coach. Whoever was coming was coming for her.

Why now? Had the department been tracking her all day and only just discovered her? Were they trying to save Daniel’s life, having realized too late that he wasn’t the guy?

No way. They would have known that before they set her up. They had access to too much information to be fooled in this. The file wasn’t entirely make-believe, but it was manipulated. They had wanted her to get the wrong person.

For a moment she felt a wave of nausea. She’d tortured an innocent man. She put that away quickly. Time for regret later, if she didn’t die now.

The columns reversed again. Elaborate trap, not real crisis. Though she did believe the situation with de la Fuentes was genuine, she no longer believed it was quite so urgent as she’d been told. Time was the easiest small change to make to a file; the tight deadline was a distortion. Low stakes again – just her own life to save. And Daniel’s, too, if she could.

She tried to shake the thought – it felt almost like an omen – that her stakes had somehow doubled. She didn’t need the extra burden.

Maybe someone else – that brilliant and unsuspecting kid who had taken her place at the department – was working on the real terrorist now. Maybe they didn’t think she still had the ability to get what they wanted. But why bring her in at all, then? Maybe the terrorist was dead, and they wanted a fall guy. Maybe they’d discovered this doppelgänger weeks ago and held him in reserve. Get the Chemist to make somebody confess to something, and tie a bow on a bad situation?

That wouldn’t explain the visitor, though.

It had to be near five in the morning. Maybe it was just a farmer who liked to start the day early and knew the area so well that he didn’t mind flying without radar through a bunch of tall trees in the pitch-black night and then enjoyed a good crash landing for the adrenaline kick…

She could hear Daniel’s breath rasp through the gas mask’s filter. She wondered if she had done the right thing putting him under. He was just so… exposed. Helpless. The department had already exhibited exactly how much concern they had for Daniel Beach’s well-being. And she’d left him trussed and defenseless in the middle of the room, a fish in a barrel, a sitting duck. She owed him better than that. But her first reaction had been to neutralize him. It wouldn’t have been safe to free him, she knew. Of course he would have attacked her, tried to exact revenge. If it came to brute strength, he’d have the advantage. And she didn’t want to have to poison him or shoot him. At least this way, his death wouldn’t be on her hands.