The Gender Experiment: (A Thriller) (3 page)

By ten o’clock, her eyes hurt and she was exhausted. Taylor grabbed her laptop and phone from beside her on the couch and heard the familiar ping of a text. Probably Justin again. He usually texted late, after he’d had a beer or two. He’d been bugging her to hang out with him, but she only liked him as a friend. If her body were normal, she would have hooked up with him just for the experience, but she was a freak and didn’t plan to get naked with anyone she would ever see again. At least not yet.

She tapped the message icon, not recognizing the number of the text, but the sender was obvious:
Your call stirred up a lot of old memories. I looked back through the files and found a list. Give me your email address and I’ll send it to you.

A list! Taylor sucked in her breath. That meant there were more dual-gender babies born through the clinic. She quickly texted:
Thnx! [email protected]

After a short wait, she checked her email, but a new message hadn’t come yet. She texted the receptionist again:
Why so many intersex babies? What happened at the clinic?

Her phone stayed silent. Taylor walked over to the fish tank, knowing it would help her keep calm. The biggest clown fish swam by, and she watched it dart through the rocks. The old woman’s contact had surprised her. Taylor certainly hadn’t expected to get a text from her. She didn’t seem the type. Where had the receptionist gotten her number? From her earlier incoming call?

A beep in her hand made Taylor jump. She looked at the phone. An email this time. No message, just an attachment. Taylor left the file unopened and hurried to her laptop on the couch. She wanted to open the list on the big screen where she could scroll, save, and print it.

The email was from an anonymous Hotmail account. The receptionist was being careful to mask her identity. Or was the woman trying to hide the communication from someone else? Fingers trembling, Taylor opened the attachment, a plain-text file with a long list of names and birth dates. A fast count tallied thirty-three. Four had checkmarks by their names. Her chest tightened. Logan Hurtz and Adrian Warsaw were both marked. So were two others: Zion Tumara and Seth Wozac. Were they also dead? Or targeted for death?

After a second run through, she found her own name. No check next to it, but a little asterisk instead. What did that mean? A thorough scrutiny revealed that hers was the only name highlighted that way. She hoped the receptionist had just noted it for her convenience, but Taylor didn’t believe it.

Someone was coming for her too.

Tuesday, Oct. 11, 6:05 a.m.

Running hard, breathing heavy, her heart gripped with fear. Past the burnt-out rubble that used to be buildings. The road beneath her bare feet turned to dirt, and the wreckage gave way to open fields. Were those dead bodies? Out of nowhere, the earth in front of her exploded. For a moment, she flew through the air, then landed in a heap on the cold, hard ground. The silent aftermath hurt her ears. Was she dead?

A piercing scream cut through the quiet. But it wasn’t human. Taylor opened her eyes. The dreaded alarm drilled into her still sleepy brain. She reached out and slammed it off, heart pounding. That damn dream again. Whatever it was about. She’d never been in a war or seen an explosion, so it didn’t make sense. She hated the alarm almost as much as the dream, but at least its intrusion was short. When would she become a morning person? It was supposed to be easier now that she was twenty.

Taylor took a long shower to wake herself up and finally made up her mind about what she should do. She wasn’t scheduled at the ME’s office, and she only had three classes. Skipping them to drive to Colorado Springs and talk to the receptionist face-to-face seemed essential. She had to find out why her name had been noted and why the others had been checked—and possibly murdered.

She pulled on yoga pants to be comfortable during the drive and topped them with a pale-blue, button-up shirt to look sort of dressy. Plus ankle boots of course. They made her feel taller and more confident. She ate a banana and washed it down with instant coffee. Not her fave, but it was all she could afford and make time for. She grabbed her canvas shoulder bag, locked her small apartment, and headed down to her beat-up Jetta. Someday, she hoped to own a Prius or maybe a hybrid like a Trax. After getting gas, her first stop would be on campus to turn in her homework, then head south on the highway.

She’d finished writing her deviant-behavior paper for sociology class late the night before, then had stayed up searching online for some of the names on the clinic list. The task had been challenging, and she’d only found three before she was too exhausted to continue. Two were still in Colorado, and one had moved to L.A. The first two names she’d googled were Seth Wozac and Zion Tumara. Seth hadn’t turned up at all, but she’d found Zion on Instagram. His photos also included a lot of fire scenes, which had startled her. It was as if the marked men shared some DNA. Zion, who lived in Denver, was an artist and liked outer space too, posting pictures of comets and supernovas—explosions in the cosmos.

Tempting as it was to track down Zion right away, Taylor thought it would be best to get more information. Her mother’s voice in her head kept nagging her to contact the police, but she wasn’t ready. The thought made her queasy. What could she tell them? That two young men had died in accidents? It happened all the time. Their connection to the same obstetrics clinic was also common. The people of Colorado loved their state and tended to stick around.

The list—and vague warning—from the clinic receptionist was the only inexplicable part of her story, and it sounded a little crazy. Taylor suspected the receptionist would deny everything if detectives questioned her. Otherwise, why hadn’t the clinic worker contacted the police herself? Taylor decided that when she was ready to take her concerns to the authorities, she would contact the female police detective who’d attended Adrian’s autopsy. At least the detective had seen one of the bodies and would understand what Taylor meant by intersex. Talking to a woman would be easier than being questioned by a man with a badge and gun.

But she wouldn’t call the detective yet. Taylor wasn’t even sure she should contact Zion. He might think she was a paranoid type who stirred up drama just to feel alive. Yet, not warning him seemed wrong. Logan and Adrian had died seventeen days apart. If Zion or Seth came into the morgue next week, she would freak the hell out. And if she hadn’t tried to contact them, the guilt would be unbearable.

The closest parking spot was six blocks from the sociology building, so her errand at the college took longer than she’d planned. But she managed to slip the essay under her professor’s door without encountering the woman and only had to stop and chat with one person, a graduate teaching fellow who always bugged her about her internship.

“Who’d you cut open this week?” he asked with a smirk.

She didn’t do the autopsies, but she was tired of explaining that to him. “A young person who drowned.”

“Bet he was drunk.”

She’d also assumed so at first too. “We don’t know yet. The toxicology report takes weeks.” Taylor had been surprised to learn that. TV made death investigations seem so fast and high-tech. She’d learned otherwise, but it hadn’t disappointed her. “Sorry, but I have to go. I’m late.” Taylor gave the guy a half smile and hurried away. She didn’t want to encourage him, in case he was actually flirting with her in his own peculiar way.

Once she was on the highway, she set her music to shuffle through her favorite songs and punched the address of the clinic into her GPS app. The big Colorado sky was blue and clear the way she liked it, and the mountains were topped with a light frosting of snow for the first time in months. The changing season and its new challenges suddenly made her anxious. Structure and predictability were her friends, but they never stuck around long enough.

Carson Obstetrics was just off Nevada Avenue on the south end of Colorado Springs, not far from Fort Carson. The original red-brick building had been added onto with a two-story structure of glass and mauve concrete. Taylor sat in her car, working up the nerve to go in. She had two strategies mapped out and rehearsed, but her legs shook just thinking about the potential conflict.

What’s the worst that could happen?
Her mother’s voice echoed in her head.

They could call security and have her thrown out.

Then what?

Get in the car and drive away.

See? You’ll survive.

Taylor smiled sheepishly and climbed out. She remembered the first time her mother had talked her through a fearful situation. A big black dog had lived in the middle of their block, and she’d been afraid to walk past that house to her school around the corner. Her mother had sat her down and asked, “What are you afraid of?”

“It might bite me!”

“And if the dog bites you, what happens then?”

“It’ll hurt and I’ll bleed,” she’d responded, even more worried.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I might need stitches.”

“Then what?”

Taylor had shrugged, not wanting to admit the next part.

Her mother had supplied it. “We’ll put on a bandage, and you’ll go back out and play.”

Taylor had reluctantly walked to school after that, and the dog hadn’t left its porch. The lesson had stayed with her.

Now she walked into the clinic, trying to look confident.

A pretty young receptionist sat behind a long, curved counter. “May I help you?”

Taylor had expected the older woman, so the script in her head was suddenly worthless.
Oh no.
She’d have to wing it. “I want to see the older woman who answered my call yesterday afternoon.”

“Bonnie? She didn’t come to work today.” The girl reached up and adjusted her tight blonde bun. “I think I heard someone say she retired.”

Since yesterday?
“Do you have Bonnie’s contact information? I really need to talk to her.” Taylor had the printed list of names in her pocket, but the thought of showing it to anyone else in the building worried her. They might see her as a threat.

“I’ll see what I can find out.” The receptionist turned away and made a phone call.

The door opened behind her, and Taylor turned to see a pregnant woman walk in and plop down in a waiting chair. Taylor hoped the baby inside her was okay. On the surface, the place seemed comforting, with thick carpet and soft chairs in pale-blue and peach colors. But knowing what she did, she wouldn’t come here for prenatal care.

After a hushed conversation, the young receptionist turned to Taylor. “Bonnie did retire and she won’t be back.”

Had the older woman known she was leaving the clinic when she sent Taylor the information? Or had someone discovered the leaked document and forced her out? An icy knot of fear formed in Taylor’s stomach. She started to say something, got tongue-tied, and stopped. Then tried again. “What I’m trying to determine is whether Bonnie’s retirement was planned. Did she know that yesterday was her last day?”

The receptionist shrugged. “Why do you care?”

Time for her second strategy. “Is there anyone else on staff who worked here twenty years ago?”

The tight-bun girl laughed. “I have no idea. I’m a temp who only fills in sometimes, but I’ll see if the director will talk to you.”

“Thanks.”

A moment later. “Karen Thayer is busy, but she said you could email her if you have questions.” Tight Bun handed her a business card with little pink and blue bows around the border. “This is the director’s contact info. Now excuse me.” The receptionist waved at the pregnant lady and called her to the counter.

Taylor pocketed the card and stepped back. She needed to speak with the retired woman. “What’s Bonnie’s last name?”

Tight Bun gave her a look. “Yost.”

Taylor hurried out, disappointed. So far, she’d been a crappy investigator. But she had learned her contact’s name. That was something. Could she find her? Colorado Springs wasn’t that big.

In her car, she googled
Bonnie Yost Colorado Springs
. A crude approach, but it made sense to start with the easiest and most obvious things. That’s what her mentor at the ME’s office always said. The search phrase came up twice, once in an old news article about library volunteers and repeatedly in a story about condominium owners fighting a rezoning ordinance to stop the development of high-rise apartments near the adjacent golf course. Dated two months earlier, the article indicated Bonnie still lived in the Fairfield Greens Complex. Taylor keyed the neighborhood name into her GPS and set off, following the directions.

After a minute, she realized she knew where she was going. She’d lived in Colorado Springs as a child and remembered passing the golf course every time she and her mother went clothes shopping. Finding the right condo would still be a challenge. Yet, she had to try. Bonnie’s abrupt retirement seemed suspicious enough to check out. Or maybe the receptionist had known it was her final day, and that’s why she’d sent the list of names, believing it was her last chance to access the data and share the secret—whatever it was.

A waist-high rock wall surrounded Fairfield Greens, but the gate stood open after another car pulled in, so Taylor drove through. The homes were clustered in groups of three or four, and each condo had two levels and one shared wall—somewhere between an apartment and a house. Dozens of sandstone-colored units spread out in a meandering maze, dotted with small pine trees and rock paths. She didn’t spot any mailboxes with names, only shared mail stations with numbers.

Taylor parked in front of the first condo cluster and shut off her car. This would be impossible. If only they still made phonebooks. Taylor laughed at herself, pulled out her phone, and brought up the white pages for Colorado Springs. Bonnie Yost was listed, but her condo number was not.

Footsteps made her look up. The man who’d pulled in ahead of her had parked and was walking back. An older guy with a permanent golfer’s tan. He probably wanted to know why she’d snuck in behind him and what she was doing. Taylor scrambled for something plausible to say and rolled down her window. “I’m looking for Bonnie Yost. She knew my mother when she was pregnant. Now that my mother’s gone, I’m trying to figure out some things.” True, but Taylor had a flash of guilt for using the dead-mother card.