The Gender Experiment: (A Thriller) (4 page)

The man hesitated for a full five seconds. Finally, he pointed at the third cluster of condos on the left. “On the end, farthest from the gate. That’s her Volkswagen in the driveway.”

“Thank you.”

Taylor rolled up the window, waited for him to get into his car, and drove toward Bonnie’s home.

Loud knocking didn’t bring anyone to the door. Taylor called out Bonnie’s name and waited. Maybe she was out for a walk or playing golf. The mint-colored VW bug in the driveway suggested she was home though. Taylor hurried around the side of the condo and peered over the short white fence. Bonnie wasn’t in her small backyard either.

Taylor decided to get something to eat, then try again. Back in her car, she took a few deep breaths and called Zion. Warning him that he could be in danger suddenly seemed more urgent. His phone rang six times and went to voicemail.
Please let him be okay.
Taylor introduced herself, then left a message, stammering her way through an explanation and trying not to sound paranoid: “I need to talk to you about your birth, and it’s best if we meet in person. This is a little complicated…” She trailed off, then plunged in again. “I’m worried because you’re one of the marked names, and I think you’ll be targeted. I’m sorry to sound dramatic, but I think your life could be in danger. Please call me.”

Relieved that she’d finally done the right thing, she drove to a KFC she’d spotted earlier. Taylor took her time and ate a chicken breast and coleslaw, one of her only fast food weaknesses, then headed back to the Greens. After twenty minutes of waiting, another car came through and opened the security gate. Taylor followed it in and drove straight to Bonnie’s place, as if she belonged.

While she walked to the door, she pulled off her sweater and tied it around her waist. The day was warming up. Bonnie didn’t respond to her knock. On impulse, Taylor stepped off the porch and peeked through the window, in case Bonnie was napping on the couch or had headphones on.

Oh god.
The old woman was sprawled on the floor looking lifeless, and a lot of blood had spilled from her head into the pale carpet. Heart pounding, Taylor ran to her car, climbed in, and locked the doors.
Damn!
This was bad. What now? Her chest hurt, and she couldn’t get enough oxygen into her body.
Just get away!
It was all she could think. She backed out of the driveway and turned toward the entrance.
Be calm. Don’t speed. Don’t draw attention
. Hands slick with sweat, she gripped the wheel and drove through the gate after it opened automatically.

Someone had killed Bonnie to keep her from talking. Someone who might kill Taylor too. She knew she should call the police, but the idea terrified her. The cops might think she murdered the receptionist, because they always suspected the person who found the body. They would take her into a little room for intense questioning. She couldn’t handle that. If she told the truth and mentioned the list, they might send her to a psych ward. Her mother had been institutionalized against her will for a few months and had come home a different person. She’d killed herself a year later.

Taylor wasn’t taking that kind of chance. She would stop and make an anonymous 911 call in case Bonnie was still alive, then find another way to figure this out.

Wednesday, Oct. 12, 8:15 p.m., Denver

Jake Wilson stumbled down the dark alley, choking on the stink of garbage. How much farther was the park? As he passed another dumpster, his foot caught on something and he tripped. Smashing down on one knee, he cursed in pain. Then he cursed the growing despair in his heart. When the throbbing subsided, he turned to see what he’d fallen over. Big, yet pliable. What was it? He crawled forward, curious and a little stoned.
Oh shit.
A human body. A homeless drunk who’d passed out?

No.
A young person in nice clothes. With bullet holes in the chest and pelvis. Jake could smell the blood and piss and other disgusting things that still seeped from her body. His stomach heaved, and he fought the urge to vomit. He’d never seen a dead person before, even though he’d covered the crime beat as a reporter for six months. Before they’d fired him and he lost everything.

He moved closer and stared at the pale face illuminated only by a half moon. Not a woman after all. A young man with a narrow, sculpted profile. A rent boy? Maybe killed by an angry client or a gay-hating bigot? Was the guy really dead? Jake felt his neck for a pulse and didn’t feel one. He glanced around, suddenly fearful. What the hell was he doing here? What had happened to his life? If he didn’t get it together soon, he could end up just like this poor guy. Tears welled in his eyes. Grief for the dead young man, and for himself and what had become of his promising life.

Jake shook off the dark thoughts and pulled himself into a squat, ready to stand and move on. He had to find a place to sleep soon and something to cover up with. His jacket alone wouldn’t be warm enough tonight.

The shrill sound of a cell phone cut into the dark silence, startling him. The dead man’s pocket chirped, his ringtone set to an unsettling electronic beat. A creepy feeling ran up Jake’s backbone. Whoever was calling didn’t know the guy was dead. But the phone tempted him. This dude no longer needed it. Jake slipped his hand into the nylon jacket pocket and pulled out the cell. A phone would be useful for his job search and for calling about rooms to rent. He’d pawned his phone to a friend for cash—to hold until he could buy it back. But it wouldn’t be any time soon. For a long moment, he hesitated. His life would be so much easier with a phone… even for a few days. When the ringing finally went silent, he slipped the cell into his own pocket. Jake glanced around. Was anyone watching him? He shook it off. Probably just a little pot paranoia.

Maybe the dead man had a little cash too.

Guilt twisted his gut and made his stomach heave again. Disgusted with himself, Jake promised to make up for this bullshit by doing volunteer work later, when he got it together. With shaky hands, he searched the body’s pockets and found a set of keys, followed by a wallet with a driver’s license showing through a clear-plastic sleeve. Zion Tumara, age twenty. The guy looked younger, with a smooth face and a skinny body. Who had shot him and why? Jake’s natural quest to find answers—buried recently by his overriding struggle just to survive—surfaced in his pot-spacy brain. The need to know had driven him through journalism school and into an investigative reporter position at the Denver Post. He’d loved every moment of his job there.

But he’d failed a random drug test and been fired—even though pot was legal in Colorado! Soon after, his car had broken down and he’d been evicted. His father, who hated the pot smoking, refused to help him, except for keeping him on his phone service. New in Denver, Jake only had one good friend, but the guy lived with roommates who hadn’t been willing to let Jake crash with them. He slept in his car for a while, then sold it when he needed cash and ended up on the streets. Somewhere in his brain, he knew the weed was a problem and that he had to quit, but he hadn’t been able to yet. At the end of a miserable day of being homeless and stressed, smoking a joint was all he had to look forward to.

Jake flipped open the man’s wallet and checked the cash compartment. It was too dark to know for sure, but the wad of twenties probably added up to three hundred dollars or more. He started to pull out the cash, then changed his mind and shoved the whole wallet into his pocket. If he could find the address, he might be able to sleep there tonight, then rent a cheap room tomorrow with the cash. All he needed was a place to shower and sleep until he could find a job and jumpstart his life again. Right now, he had to get out of this alley before someone saw him with the body—and before the police came to investigate.

He glanced at the dead man again and impulsively reached out to touch his head, a gesture of compassion and apology. Jake’s fingers came away sticky with blood, and he noticed a gaping wound in his temple. Had he fallen against the dumpster when he was shot?

Jake pushed to his feet and looked around for something to wipe his hands on. A candy bar wrapper near the brick wall cleaned up most of it. He would rinse off the rest at the earliest opportunity. After another backward glance, Jake jogged down the alley. He’d been heading to Cheyenne Park to maybe sleep on the bench near the bathrooms, but now he would hop on a bus and cross town to find Zion’s home. If the dead man had a roommate, Jake would be out of luck.

The address turned out to be a small complex near an art school, an older neighborhood with a mix of apartments and retail. The lights were out in the upstairs window in unit three. A good sign. Feeling less high now, Jake moved quietly up the steps and let himself into the apartment. Afraid to show his face before he knew what he would encounter, he used the light on the cell phone to look around. Leather furniture, potted cactuses, and bizarre paintings. Was Zion the artist?

Jake heard a soft thump in another room and held his breath, not moving. If a roommate came out and turned on the lights, what would he say?
Oops?
Maybe this had been a stupid idea. It might be better to just use the cash and find a cheap motel along the highway. For a long moment, he waited, listening for footsteps or voices and expecting a light to come on. Something brushed against his leg and he jumped. The cat let out a meow at the same time, and Jake laughed. Not exactly a roommate.

Still, he had to check the apartment to be sure. He hurried into the hallway where two of the three doors were closed. The open entry led into a bedroom. A nightlight in a wall outlet shimmered with a purple glow, illuminating a large empty bed with a dark purple comforter. Jake stepped back and tried the other doors. A bathroom and a messy art studio. Zion had created the bizarre paintings, and he appeared to live alone. Except for the cat, which was following Jake around.

His stomach growled, and he headed for the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten since his free breakfast at the Food Bank that morning. The day had been devoted to job searching at the employment office and renewing his food stamps, then he’d smoked a joint with a street friend and started looking for a place to crash. The Mission filled up early so no point in going there. He hated the shelter anyway. The preaching was hard to take, and the smell of that many homeless people in one place was overwhelming. He’d only spent one night there, and it had been enough.

In Zion’s refrigerator, he found half a leftover pizza—the first normal thing in the apartment—and shoved it in the microwave. While he waited for it to heat up, the phone in his pocket rang.
Shit.
Getting calls for the dead man was too creepy. Jake pulled out the cell and silenced it. The caller information caught his attention. Whoever it was had called twice already. This was the third time. A family member trying to reach Zion? Jake had a pang of guilt for not reporting the death. He would do that soon. For now, he put the phone on the table, retrieved the warm pizza, and sat down to eat. No newspaper or magazines to peruse. A vase with fake purple flowers instead.

Out of curiosity and boredom, he accessed Zion’s voicemail and played the newest message: “This is Taylor Lopez again. I need to talk to you about your birth, and it’s best if we meet in person. I’m very worried about you. Your life could be in danger. Please call me.”

Jake’s pulse raced, and he put down his slice of pizza. Who the hell was Taylor Lopez? The voice had a pleasant tone that wasn’t distinctly male or female, and the name could go either way too. More important, how had Taylor known Zion was in trouble and would be murdered? Jake itched to grab the phone and call back. This was a news story and he wanted to know! But he had to think everything through and not get himself into trouble. He could call Taylor and pretend to be Zion, then figure out what to tell her before they met. Or maybe he should just be honest and tell Taylor about Zion’s death over the phone. If Taylor knew where Zion lived, he or she might eventually show up. The police would too.

Another wave of guilt rolled through Jake’s gut. The cops wouldn’t be able to identify the body and inform Zion’s family. What the hell had he done? Jake put his head on the table. He would leave the apartment first thing in the morning and make an anonymous phone call to the police department. Then he would sign up at one of those day labor places and work whatever crappy jobs they offered. He would quit smoking pot too. He needed a clear head.

The phone seemed to exert a magnetic pull, and Jake reached for it. He hit the callback button, and scrambled to think of a plausible connection between him and Zion—and a reason why he was in the dead man’s home. Taylor’s smooth voice answered right away. “Zion. Thank you for returning my call. I’d like to meet as soon as possible. Are you available now?”

Jake’s curiosity overpowered his sense of decency. “What’s this about?”

“I’ll explain when I see you. Where do you want to meet? I’ll come to you.”

Had Taylor ever seen the dead man before? Or know what Zion looked like? If not, Jake could pretend to be Zion just long enough to hear her story. Then he would tell her the truth. Jake remembered passing a coffee shop two blocks away and gave her the name and location. “I can be there in a few minutes.”

“Give me fifteen.” A pause. “What are you wearing?”

Jake glanced down at his stained hoodie, embarrassed by his appearance, but relieved that Taylor had never met Zion. “A blue Broncos sweatshirt and jeans. What about you?”

“Red sweater, black pants. See you soon.” The call went dead.

Taylor was a woman, Jake decided. Men didn’t wear red unless it was a football jersey. His own dirty sweatshirt bothered him even more now. How could he make a good impression? He had more clothes in a small storage locker downtown, but they were all just as crappy. Reflexively, his hand went to his chin. He could shave. That would help.

In the bathroom, he searched for a razor and finally found a small, unopened package of disposables. Zion didn’t keep any shaving gear on the countertop, so bar soap would have to suffice. The leisurely shave in the bright lights of a clean private bathroom was the best grooming experience he’d had since he’d lost his apartment. For months, he’d been using the Catholic Community Center, a crowded space he couldn’t get out of fast enough. Did he have enough time to shower? No. He would do that when he got back. Jake grabbed his backpack and headed out. He felt upbeat for the first time in ages. Taylor and her mysterious circumstances might be just what he needed to pull himself out of this slump. He was so ready for a comeback.