The Chemist

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 café. 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.