The Gender Experiment: (A Thriller) (23 page)

Bailey turned to face Renfro. “I’m headed back to my motel. Let me know if you find anything.”

“Will do.”

Bailey hurried toward the door. Halfway across the room, she stopped and turned. “Thanks for staying.” Renfro could be useful if the investigation got sticky.

Back in her motel room, she ate the protein bar she’d picked up and washed it down with black coffee. She pulled off her jacket, unholstered her weapon, and sat on the bed. No point in taking off her clothes. She needed to be ready to rush out of the room if anything broke open with the case. Eager as she was to read the journal, she had to send Metzler’s confession to her boss first. It proved to be easy—simply tap the recording and hit the Share icon.

She pushed the laptop aside, leaned back against the headboard, and opened the journal. The first page was dated May 3, 1995, and the last page with writing said September, 2016. Last month. Bailey started skimming the handwritten text, the sloppy penmanship making her strain. Every entry had two sections, the first revealed personal thoughts, goals, and accomplishments, while the second contained cryptic references to the ImmuNatal experiment. The notes indicated the drug was intended to improve his pregnant patients’ immune systems as well as their babies’. The mentions were brief, referring to new shipments, occasional side effects, and the money he received.

After a few minutes, Bailey’s eyes hurt and her brain wanted to shut down, so she skim read, looking for names. On a page dated February 13, 1996, she found a detailed personal entry that overlapped with the drug-trial information.

I delivered the Lopez baby this afternoon and was surprised, maybe a little horrified, to discover that the baby had mixed genitals, a tiny penis and a vagina. I consulted with the parents, and they were distressed. The father wanted me to perform a surgery to close up the vagina, but mother disagreed and refused consent. They named the baby Taylor, which is not gender specific. Mariah Lopez was the first patient I gave ImmuNatal to, and I wonder if there’s a connection. I certainly hope not.

The doctor’s musings continued with speculation about how an immune booster might have an effect on genitalia and concluded that it couldn’t. Bailey flipped ahead several pages, and read an entry dated six months later.

A seventh intersex baby had been born to an ImmuNatal mother, and the doctor had been distressed enough to question Captain Rashaud about the drug. His commander had admitted they were testing it for other effects, and the intersex babies were unexpected, but welcome.

What the hell?
Bailey closed her eyes to rest for a moment. Why were military medical researchers pleased with intersex offspring? Messing with human reproduction was serious business, and she suspected it had implications related to the army’s main focus—war. But how? And what other effect had they wanted?

The numbers were a puzzle as well. The list sent by the clinic receptionist held thirty-three names. Were they all intersex? Or just the names of those born to mothers who took ImmuNatal? Perhaps some looked gender-specific at birth, then developed gender identity issues later. She might never know, unless the researchers had documented everything and she managed to access that data. Bailey knew that all embryos started out as female, so gender seemed to be a biological afterthought. ImmuNatal clearly exploited that weakness.

Bailey forced herself to open her eyes and scan a few more pages further into the journal. One entry caught her attention.

I went to Captain Rashaud, demanding more information about the drug. He offered to reveal details if I was willing to monitor two of the intersex children over the next twenty years and report anything significant. When I objected, he reminded me of my part in the trial and his ability to deny me an Army pension. So I agreed to go along. I admit, I’m curious about how their lives will turn out. Rashaud told me he and Major Blackburn were developing psychotropic pharmaceuticals in a secret lab on Fort Carson and that Blackburn was fascinated with intersex offspring. I find this very curious.

Yes, indeed. Bailey found it intriguing as well. Exhausted, but fascinated, she kept reading. Below the personal entry was Major Sam Blackburn’s bio: a medical doctor and helicopter pilot. He’d flown Medevac missions during the Gulf war, and developed a clotting drug to save injured soldiers. He had a son named Devin, who was also in the military.

What was the major’s interest in non-gender-specific people? Did he think they made good soldiers? She grabbed her phone and texted Havi, her bureau analyst:
Get everything you can on Major Sam Blackburn and Devin Blackburn, including photos.
Havi would be at home, but he would get right on it anyway. That was the job.

Bailey couldn’t think straight anymore. She needed to rest until the morning. Then she would access Fort Carson on foot, visit the base hospital, and find Major Blackburn, one way or another.

Hours earlier, SRC

Blackburn finished his meal and poured a drink, the good stuff this time. He briefly considered leaving his quarters to watch a movie or play pool in the rec room but decided against it. The Peace Project was at too critical a juncture now to take his focus away even for an hour. Tomorrow he had to show up at the hospital for a budget meeting, and it would be good to get out of the complex and get some fresh air. By then, ImmuNatal would be on its way to complete the mission, and the loose ends would be wrapped up as well.

But where the hell was Devin and why hadn’t he heard from him?
Blackburn called his son again, leaving another harsh message. He called the lab next, and Blessert answered, sounding less pleasant this time.

“Is the drug ready? It needs to go out on a helicopter now if it’s going to make it onto the next transport plane for Kuwait.”

“I’ll inform you as soon as it’s packaged, sir.” The call went dead.

The insubordinate little shit.
Blackburn clenched his fist, relaxed it, and clenched again. He took a big pull of scotch and stared at the desk photo of Devin’s mother. Their affair had been brief but beautiful. She’d broken it off without telling him she was pregnant. He’d only learned of his child after she died giving birth to Devin. After one look at his son, Blackburn had known Noreen had been given ImmuNatal at the obstetrics clinic. The discovery had outraged him, and he’d fired the doctor who’d included her in the trial. Unfairly, of course. The poor man hadn’t known Noreen was his girlfriend. No one had. Blackburn had done the right thing, filed for custody, and raised the boy as best he could.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Blackburn jumped to his feet, his aging body slower than it used to be.

“It’s Rashaud.”

Blackburn unlocked the door and let him in, the first person to enter his private quarters in years. The psychologist’s eyes were distressed.

“What’s going on?”

“A clerk at the visitor’s center just notified me that an FBI agent was seeking entry to the base and wants to talk to me specifically.” Rashaud walked over to the desk and poured himself a glass from the bottle Blackburn had left out.

“Well, fuck. That can’t be good. Any idea what it’s about?”

“No, but I denied her a pass. I also called my contact at the FBI, but I haven’t heard back yet.” Rashaud gulped his drink. “We have to assume they sent someone to investigate.”

“It’s probably about the Lopez disappearance.” Blackburn shook his head. “I regret bringing the girl here. Maybe it’s time to dump her body somewhere and make it look like a serial killer abducted her.” An unseemly idea, but Lopez shouldn’t have been so nosey. A disturbing thought hit him. “How did the FBI agent come up with your name? Especially in connection to Lopez?”

“I don’t know.” Rashaud looked grim. “Maybe it’s not about the missing woman. Maybe it’s about the dead subjects.”

“Goddammit. Only the doctors you gave the drug to know about your involvement.”

“I called Metzler and he doesn’t answer.”

“His wife died recently. Maybe he’s becoming unhinged.”
Damn.
Would they have to terminate Metzler too?

“Have you heard from Devin about the others?”

Rashaud meant Seth Wozac, the fourth fire-starter, and Wilson, the reporter. More loose ends. “No, but I will. I’m sure my son is handling it.”

Rashaud wasn’t appeased. “I think we need to cover our tracks on the original subjects. Notify the monitors that it’s over and tell them to destroy all documentation.”

“Agreed. We need to destroy files at the clinic too. If I don’t hear from Devin, you’ll have to handle that yourself.”

Rashaud was silent.

“I’ll contact Devin again now.” Blackburn nodded at him. “I’ll keep you updated.”

After the captain left, Blackburn finished his drink, did twenty pushups to work off some anger, then called his son.

After six rings, Devin finally picked up. “Hello, sir. I see that you’ve called a few times. Sorry, I’ve been ill.” Devin spoke slowly and didn’t sound like himself.

“What do you mean by ill? What’s going on?”

“I’m behind on my assignments.” A pained tone now. “Things didn’t go well. I’m sorry. I’ll get it done.”

“Just fucking tell me!”

He heard his son take a deep breath. “I intended to give Jake Wilson an overdose, like we discussed. But he was with Wozac. Wilson picked him up from the hospital.”

Oh christ.
Could it get any worse?

Devin continued, his voice gaining some strength. “I saw it as an opportunity to take care of both at the same time. So I followed them to Wozac’s home.” A pause. “As I was preparing to enter, a dog attacked me, and a witness started screaming. I had to abandon my plan and get away.”

“What a clusterfuck!” Blackburn had a moment of concern. “Were you injured? Is that what you mean by sick?”

“No, sir. I had the heroin needle in my hand, prepared to inject it upon contact with the target.” A longer pause this time. “But the dog bite interrupted me, and I accidentally shot myself in the wrist with a dose. I had to go to a motel and sleep it off. But I’ll get back on task immediately.”

Blackburn held back another reprimand. Some missions just got FUBAR—Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. No one could predict or control everything. “I have another assignment that’s equally important. The computers at the clinic need to be destroyed and removed. Yes, it’ll create havoc for the staff for a while, but it’s time to shut down the Peace Project and eliminate all trace of the patients who participated.”
Maybe the remaining doctor too.
He would call the monitors in Washington and Alaska too. Blackburn wanted everything done right fucking now, but getting someone else involved at this point seemed counterproductive. The fewer people who knew, the better. Rashaud could take care of the doctor. Blackburn tuned into what his son was saying.

“I think it’s best to enter the clinic in the middle of the night, then make it look like dopers broke in and stole the computers.”

“That’s acceptable. Locate Wilson and Wozac in the mean time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Blackburn gave him the clinic’s alarm code. “Keep me updated.”

“I will, sir.”

They both clicked off. Blackburn poured himself another drink. The most important objective was to get ImmuNatal on a transport plane and into the hands of the operatives—even if he had to fly it out himself—before they were compromised and twenty years of research and resources were wasted. If he accomplished his Peace goal, whatever happened next would be worth it, even if the FBI showed up to arrest him. But Blackburn would never let himself be court-martialed or imprisoned. Death would be better.

Sunday, Oct. 16, 3:15 a.m., Colorado Springs

Jake woke and couldn’t get back to sleep. He finally got up, made coffee, and got online. He’d been up all night the evening before worried about Taylor, then finally crashed late that afternoon after switching motels and hearing no news from Agent Bailey. So his sleep schedule was off, and he was wide-awake in the middle of the night.

He shut the laptop off and paced the room, feeling hyper, cooped up, and frustrated. He had to get the hell out of this room and do something! If he couldn’t be productive, he needed to smoke some weed and calm down. Did he have any more stashed in his backpack? He searched every pocket and came up empty. Relieved and disappointed at the same time, he started pacing again.

What could he do to help Agent Bailey? Find the researcher who’d devised the experiment! That name had to be in the clinic somewhere. He’d searched for it in the files he’d downloaded, but they were all medical records and didn’t include any administrative details. Maybe he should go back to the clinic and try again. The FBI agent probably wasn’t willing to break any rules or laws to get information, but he was. Taylor’s life was on the line, and he was willing to risk a few months in jail to save her. Jake grabbed his backpack and headed for the door.

Jake stepped out of the motel room and sucked in the cold, fresh air. God, it was good to be outside. The dark stillness should have made him feel less visible, but instead, it enveloped him with a sense of dread. The assassin could be looking at him right now through the scope of a rifle, waiting for him to take one step forward. The man had come after him twice, so he’d earned the right to be paranoid. Keeping his back to the wall, Jake stepped sideways until he reached his car.
Taylor’s car,
he reminded himself. What would happen if she never turned up? He would have to contact her family somehow—if he could find them. She hadn’t mentioned anyone she was close to. If he found a relative and told the truth, would they believe him?

Don’t think about it!

Jake ran the ten steps to the vehicle, bracing for the sound of gunfire. No shots rang out. He jumped in, cranked the engine, and backed up. Was that more snow hitting the windshield?
Shit.
The last thing he needed.

The five-minute drive to Carson Obstetrics made him feel alone in the world. A dark eerie silence surrounded him. No lights flickered in any buildings, and no cars were on the road. He shut off his headlights, pulled into the clinic, and drove to the back, not wanting to take any chances—especially the possibility of a police officer cruising by. He also planned to leave out the back by driving over the strip of landscaping that separated this lot from the one behind it. Even with his escape mapped out, this was probably the riskiest, stupidest thing he’d ever done. But being arrested and jailed was better than sitting alone in the motel room feeling helpless—or running back to Denver like a coward. He couldn’t live with himself if he abandoned Taylor.