The Sixth Wicked Child

by J. D. Barker

  “No direct contact with Upchurch or his case, but he was on the hospital board. Kloz is trying to determine if he controlled funding that might have indirectly impacted Upchurch and put him on Bishop’s radar.”

  “Good, good,” Dalton said. “Keep me posted on what you find. I’ll pass everything on to the feds.”

  He hung up.

  “Well, that wasn’t the least bit helpful,” Clair said.

  The back of Stout’s chair groaned as he leaned back. “Whether it’s Bishop, some copycat, or someone else entirely, whoever killed Dr. Pentz is locked in this hospital with us. Between SWAT and my guys, we’ve got every entrance covered.”

  Clair remembered something then. “Are you connected to the tunnel system under the city?”

  “Tunnel system?”

  Clair nodded. “The old bootlegging tunnels. They run from the harbor to heaven knows how many points under Chicago. They were created during prohibition to keep the booze flowing. Later the utility companies took most of them over. They still use them today. When we were trying to track down Emory Connors, we learned Bishop used the tunnels to get around unseen. You can get from one end of the city to the other down there.”

  Stout frowned. “I never heard of them.”

  “We need to check the basement.”

  16

  Nash

  Day 5 • 9:15 AM

  Nash rolled up tight on the curb and parked his Chevy about half a block from the address Bishop had sent him—423 McCormick on the eastside. Shifting into park, he looked up and down the block. There wasn’t much to look at. Most Chicagoans had given up on this part of the city back in the nineties. Once the gangs got a good foothold, the businesses began to fold one after the other until all that remained were several pawn shops, a bail bondsman, and a corner convenience store which no longer permitted patrons inside. Instead, they offered a window made up of two-inch ballistic glass on the street side. You placed your order through the intercom system, and the items were retrieved by the owner. Once paid for, the purchased items were delivered via a large metal drawer. Over the past several years, as the neighborhood degraded, residents of the community (gang members included) created an unspoken rule of protection surrounding the little store, and it had yet to be robbed in twenty-three years of operation. That didn’t mean the owner would open the door, though. Not for anybody. Even a cop.

  This perplexed Nash because the address Bishop had given him, 423 McCormick, was the store. The lights were on—he most likely opened shop at nine—but no one stood on the corner, and Nash didn’t see anyone moving around behind that thick glass.

  Reaching over to the glovebox, Nash pressed the release button, spilling eight-track tapes out on the floor. “Shit.” He meant to fix that. At the back of the glove box, secured to the plastic with heavy-duty screws, was a leather holster housing a snub nose .38. He took that out, checked the cylinder, then shoved it under his belt at the small of his back. He also had his regulation Beretta in his shoulder rig and a Kel-Tec P-3AT in a holster on his ankle. He had no idea what to expect of the coming minutes, and if there had been a Samurai sword on the back seat, he probably would have grabbed that, too. Under his bulky down coat, he wore a kevlar vest. He’d put that on back at the FBI building—didn’t want anyone to see him do it here.

  He placed his POLICE placard on the dashboard, thought better of it, and tossed it down on the floor with the eight-track tapes. This wasn’t the kind of place you wanted to advertise your employment with the po-po. Somebody had probably pegged him as a cop by now, anyway. He still hadn’t seen a living soul, but he felt eyes on him—from up above, down the block, and behind. He was certain he was being watched. Whether those eyes belonged to Bishop or a local looking out for their own interest or the interests of their associates would remain to be seen.

  With a deep breath, Nash shut off the Chevy and climbed out onto the icy cracked sidewalk. He closed the car door but didn’t bother to lock it. The passenger side door didn’t lock at all, and in a neighborhood like this, it was best to provide easy access to the interior. Otherwise, you’d find yourself shopping for a replacement window.

  While the plows kept the streets relatively free of snow, even here, the sidewalks were another story. In some places, black snow reached heights of three to four feet. Against some of the abandoned storefronts, the drifts went even higher. Nobody had salted the sidewalk so Nash trudged along carefully, avoiding the icy patches, as the wind kicked up around him with a grumbling howl.

  When he reached the window for the convenience store, noting the building had no signage depicting the store’s name, he knocked on the glass, pressed his face up close, and looked inside. He spotted a man who was presumably the owner in a folding lawn chair at a desk to the left of the window reading the Chicago Examiner. He glanced up at Nash, then went back to the paper.

  “What the fuck.” Nash grumbled, knocking again.

  Without looking up, the owner pressed the button on a bulky microphone beside him. “You want service, you use intercom.” He went back to the paper, turning the page.

  Nash started to reply, realized it wouldn’t matter, and searched around the window until he found the intercom button embedded in an aluminum speaker on the left. He pressed the button with his gloved finger and said, “I’m here…”

  His voice trailed off because he wasn’t exactly sure what to say.

  I’m here to see Anson Bishop.

  Is Anson home?

  Can Anson come out and play?

  The man seemed to know exactly why he was here, though, and Nash didn’t need to say anything further. The metal drawer below the window slid open—a flashlight and two D-cell batteries inside. “He said you can keep all your guns, but you’ll need light.”

  Reaching into the drawer, Nash took out the large flashlight and fumbled with the cap on the bottom, twisting it off to get the batteries inside, then replacing it. Not an LED light but an older bulb model. Still bright, though.

  “Six fifty-eight,” the store owner said.

  “What?”

  “For the light and batteries. Six fifty-eight.”

  “Where’s Bishop?”

  The man rattled the drawer. “Six fifty-eight.”

  Digging in his pocket, Nash fished out a ten and put it in the drawer.

  The owner pulled the drawer back to his side, took out the ten and put the bill in his own pocket, then settled back into his chair with the newspaper.

  “What about my change?”

  “Neighborhood beautification tax,” the man said without looking up.

  Nash wasn’t in the mood to argue. It was too damn cold out. “Just tell me where to find Bishop.”

  The owner sighed, lowered the paper, and extended a bony finger. “He in 426, across street. You not alone, I supposed to say 430.”

  “I am alone.”

  “That’s why 426. You some kind of dummy? I see you alone. Go now. Five-oh bad for business.”

  This time when the store owner raised the newspaper, he used it to shield himself from Nash’s gaze. An impenetrable wall of ink and pulp.

  Nash turned, nearly fell on a patch of ice, but managed to remain upright by grabbing the brick wall with his free hand. 426 across the street wasn’t much to look at. A three-story red brick tenement with heavy black bars on the first-floor windows, plywood on the rest. Somebody had painted an orange penis on the green front door along with the phrase CaliCorn ’16, which meant absolutely nothing to Nash.

  “426 McCormick,” he said aloud, looking up at the building. “As good a place to die as any.”

  He took a moment to look both ways before jaywalking across the center of the block, but the only other car he spotted was the burned out husk of an old van half-buried in snow.

  17

  Diary

  “Turn to the left and give me a little pout,” Paul Upchurch said from behind the camera.

  I stuck my tongue out at him instead.

  Fath
er had told me to avoid photographs at all costs. Photographs created a record—documentation, evidence, timelines. All of these things could resurface at any point and become problematic. “You travel this world as a ghost, champ. The less people see you, the freer you become. Only the dead know true freedom.”

  Yet here we were. Standing in the parlor of Finicky’s home. Me with my back against the wall and Paul holding up a thirty-five-millimeter camera that looked more expensive than some cars.

  “What is this for?”

  “The wall of shame on the stairs.” Paul adjusted something on the camera, then got down on one knee and looked back through the lens. “Finicky usually insists we take them on the first full day, and you’ve been here nearly a week.”

  The camera clicked. The bright flash left white dots floating around the room.

  “I saw that police detective this morning. The one who brought me here.” I didn’t tell Paul what I had seen of Tegan. That would lead to a two-hour grilling, and I wasn’t ready to dedicate that kind of time today. I had plans.

  “Welderman?”

  “Yes, Welderman.”

  “The correct response is ‘yeah.’ You sound like an old person sometimes. I think you should commit to using the word ‘ain’t’ at least three times today.”

  The camera clicked again. Another flash.

  “Turn to the right.”

  I couldn’t say ‘ain’t’ any more than I could say ‘yeah’ without a conscious effort. Father had explained the importance of blending in to me, and I supposed I could do it in an effort to do so, but it would be an effort. Poor grammar did not come easily to me.

  Paul made another camera adjustment. “Welderman is a tool, but he’s here a lot. Same with that partner of his, Stocks. They’re friends with Finicky, and sometimes they give the girls rides into town. The boys too, but mostly the girls.”

  “He smells like old grapefruit, but it beats walking.”

  This came from Kristina.

  When I looked up, I found her standing in the parlor’s arched entryway. She wore nothing but a skimpy white bikini with a brown towel draped over her shoulder.

  “Grapefruit and Old Spice,” Tegan said, stepping up behind her in a black two-piece. Both girls had their hair pulled back in ponytails.

  My face flushed at the sight of them, and my eyes went to the ground.

  When Paul turned, his mouth fell open. “I think I love you both.” Without looking through the viewfinder, he clicked off several shots of the girls with the camera. The two of them quickly fell into model-mode, pressing their backs together and smiling just so at the camera. Tilting their heads this way and that. Old pros.

  “That’s how you do it,” Paul told them. His thumb jerked back in my direction. “Captain Stick-Up-His-Butt is camera shy.”

  “Is he now.” Tegan grinned. “He wasn’t so shy this morning.”

  She crossed the room, pulling Kristina along by the hand.

  When they reached me, Tegan dropped her towel on the floor and put her arm around my waist. She leaned in close and whispered at my ear. “You weren’t shy at all, were you, Anson?”

  Kristina edged in on my other side and pressed her half-naked body against me.

  My arms hung awkwardly at my sides. I wasn’t sure where to put them. When my fingers brushed against Kristina’s thigh, I curled them away.

  Paul took another picture.

  The two of them smelled like fresh wildflowers and baby powder. They pressed in tighter against me. Both so warm.

  “Your face looks like a ripe tomato,” Paul was kind enough to point out, which only made my cheeks burn more.

  Tegan giggled. She reached over, tapped Kristina on the shoulder, and pointed down toward my crotch.

  “Well, that was easy,” Kristina said with a soft laugh.

  “I told you.” Tegan beamed. She cocked her head back toward the parlor’s entrance. “Libby, want to see Anson’s hard-on? I think he wants you to see it!”

  Both my hands went to the front of my jeans, and the girls giggled again, grinding against me.

  “Libby, come in here! Hurry up!”

  I saw her shadow then, just a hint of it, beyond the parlor on the hallway wall. But she didn’t step into the room.

  “I think I’m going to go back up to my room,” a thin voice said. I’d never heard her speak before, but the pitch of her voice, the inflection, sounded like I’d known it my entire life.

  Tegan rolled her eyes and stomped off toward the hallway. “The last place you need to be is locked in your room. You’re going to go with us to get some sun. You’re as pasty as a corpse.”

  If I felt awkward sandwiched between the two girls, it felt even weirder to be standing there with Kristina alone.

  Paul didn’t seem to care. He snapped another picture.

  None of us heard Ms. Finicky enter the room from the formal dining room. She’d probably been in the kitchen. “Anson, you should take your shirt off. The two of you look unbalanced—Kristina there in a lovely bathing suit, showing off her curves, and you dressed for church.” She turned to Paul. “You’ll never learn to properly photograph if these things aren’t apparent to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Paul said.

  Ms. Finicky turned back to me. “Well?”

  When I didn’t move, Kristina started on the buttons of my shirt. “I’ll get it.” Her voice no longer sounded playful. For a moment, I thought she actually sounded frightened.

  18

  Nash

  Day 5 • 9:22 AM

  Nash nearly fell on his ass climbing the icy steps. When he reached the top, he found someone had kicked in the green door with the large orange penis painted on it. The wood along the frame was splintered, the dead bolt gone. Looked like it had been that way for a while. He gave it a gentle push, and it swung inward on a dark hallway covered in peeling floral wallpaper. He switched on the flashlight and scrolled the light over the interior. Several boards were missing from the scratched and faded hardwood floors, revealing open joists and holes to the basement. The yellow beam of the flashlight dipped down into those holes but revealed nothing beneath. He could only see about ten feet down the hallway before the light petered out.

  “Bishop? I’m coming in.”

  He stepped forward tentatively, wondering just how sturdy that floor was. He wasn’t exactly a small man. At last check, he weighed in at two-twenty, and that was before he strapped on his arsenal and enough winter gear to survive a walk in the Arctic. He took out the Baretta. “I’m armed, and I will shoot you if you do anything stupid.”

  The only reply came from the wind, howling through an open window somewhere in the building. A piece of loose wallpaper beside him rattled, reminding Nash of a moth stuck to the wall trying to break free. “Where the hell are you?”

  “Are you alone?”

  Bishop’s voice startled him, something he’d never admit. Not to anyone. There was something in the timbre of it. He hadn’t shouted, he hadn’t spoken the words loud at all, yet his voice seemed to come from every direction. From up ahead as well as sneaking up from behind. Above and below. His voice inched up on you the same way a snake might. You look down at your feet and it’s just there, coiled and ready to strike.

  “You said alone, so I came alone. I don’t need an army to put a bullet in your head.” Nash stepped deeper into the hallway, checking each room as he went with the flashlight—an old sitting room, a dining room, a dilapidated bathroom. “Why couldn’t we just meet at Starbucks or something?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  The floorboards creaked behind him and Nash spun around, leading with his gun and following close behind with the flashlight. Nobody was there.

  “Jumpy, aren’t you?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Take the steps to the second floor,” Bishop replied, and surely this time, his voice had come from above.

  Nash brought the beam of the flashlight to the ceiling, and he thought
he saw someone watching him through one of the holes. “If I fall and break something, it’s on you. I’m suing. Metro PD healthcare is shit.”

  “I remember,” Bishop said, his voice more muffled this time. More distant. “Take the steps slowly and stay close to the wall. You’ll be just fine.”

  Nash had stopped at the staircase. It ran against the wall on the left, wooden treads disappearing up into the dark. “Why am I here?” He eyed the banister, but with the gun in his right hand and the flashlight in his left, something would have to give if he wanted to hold on—that wasn’t happening. He placed a foot on the first step and felt it sag under his weight. He inched closer to the side of the wall and brought his other foot up. It held. He took the next step.

  “You’re doing just fine, Nash.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “So hostile.”

  The next step crunched underfoot, and Nash though for sure he’d bust through, but the wood held. He took the final four a little faster and found himself standing on a landing at the foot of a hallway. Three doors were closed, two more open, another missing altogether.

  “Where am I going, shithead?” He ran the beam up and down the hallway, toward each open door, but didn’t see anything.

  “We’ll never be friends if you treat me like that. Friends respect each other.”

  “Step out in the open,” Nash replied. “Give me a clean shot. I’d hate to just wing you. Best if I put you out of your misery quick. I catch you in your gut or something, and you could be up here bleeding out for days. That would be just terrible.”

  “I’m sure you would be wrought with worry and remorse. Last room, the one without the door.”

  Nash followed Bishop’s voice, stepped forward. He pointed his gun toward that last room while also scanning the others with the flashlight as he passed. “Why don’t you just come out into the open?”