The Sixth Wicked Child

by J. D. Barker

  When he finished helping her, Dr. Beyer put on a similar suit with practiced speed. “The air tank will last for fifteen minutes. I doubt we’ll need more time than that.” His voice came through some kind of built-in comm system. “Ready?”

  Clair nodded.

  She followed him through another door and into Paul Upchurch’s room.

  Clair hadn’t gotten a good look at him when they brought him in. He had collapsed into police custody and was immediately ushered into the ICU and prepped for surgery. The man lying in the bed before her was the stuff of nightmares. His skin was pasty gray and shimmered with a thin layer of sweat. She expected his head to be wrapped in layers of bandages, but that wasn’t the case at all. Instead, the surgical incision was clearly visible under a transparent bandage. Meant to expand, the bandage was filled with some kind of liquid. She didn’t know if it was medicinal, placed there to help with the healing process, or some kind of pus, but the sight of it nearly made her gag. His hair and both eyebrows were gone. Either the hair had fallen out with treatment or had been shaved in preparation for surgery. He looked alien, not human at all, and he was staring directly at her.

  Upchurch had blue eyes according to his file, but to look at them, you’d never know. The eyes that fixed on her were a milky gray, bloodshot and yellow where they should have been white.

  Dr. Beyer crossed the room to the rack of machines beside the bed and studied the various graphs and numbers on the colorful readout. His back was to her. She couldn’t see his face.

  Clair edged closer to the bed. Upchurch’s gaze followed her. His tongue came out and licked at his dry, chapped lips. Like his eyes and skin, his tongue wasn’t pink but the same gray, lifeless color. She knew she was looking at a dead man. Something in his gaze told her that he knew the truth, too.

  Upchurch’s right hand twitched and lifted about an inch off the bed before falling back down. The handcuffs clattered against the metal. It seemed absurd they were there at all; this man wasn’t going anywhere. When his lips moved, they didn’t bring words but a dull smack, a labored gasp at the air.

  Through all this, Upchurch’s gaze remained on her. If he blinked, she hadn’t seen it.

  Clair took another step closer. “My name is Detective Clair Norton with Chicago Metro. Do you know where you are?”

  With effort, his head moved in a slight nod. His eyes did close then.

  “He’s heavily medicated, but I imagine even the slightest movement would be painful right now. It would take immense concentration,” Dr. Beyer told her.

  She hadn’t seen him turn around, but he was facing her now from the opposite side of Upchurch’s bed.

  “You asked for Sarah Werner,” Clair told Upchurch. “She’s dead.”

  If he understood what she said, his face didn’t betray him. His lips smacked again, and Clair willed her feet to stay put while the rest of her wanted to run from the room.

  Again, his lips moved, and this time she was certain he was trying to speak. There was a voice there, albeit feeble. She leaned in close enough to make out what he was saying, then frowned at him. “You see? You see what?”

  A thin trail of blood began to seep out from the corner of his mouth, from one of the cracks, and it was almost too much for her to bear. “I finally see,” he told her, his voice just a little stronger.

  “See what?”

  He tried to raise his head, to get closer to her, but the motion was too much. He fell back into his pillow.

  Clair leaned in instead, as close as she could get, ready to tear off her mask if that’s what she needed to do in order to hear him.

  When Upchurch spoke again, the next four words fell from his dying mouth, the whispers of a ghost—Clair wished she could unhear them. She took a step back, her mouth falling open. “Oh, hell no.”

  Clair nearly tore off the containment suit as she backed out of Upchurch’s room, Dr. Beyer and the others staring at her.

  23

  Clair

  Day 5 • 9:31 AM

  Ten minutes later, in the small office with Kloz, Clair had her head buried in her hands. She sat on the floor in the corner against the wall, rocking slowly back and forth.

  At first, Klozowski had hovered over her, tried to comfort her, but he’d backed off and returned to his chair, settled back into the safety of his laptop’s glow. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  “He’s delirious, Clair. What he said, it’s meaningless.”

  Clair continued to rock. “He said it. I’m a cop. I have to report it. There will be a record. Christ, when the papers get ahold of this…”

  “Are you sure you heard him correctly? Maybe you misunderstood.”

  “I never heard something so clear in my life.”

  “You said you were in some kind of hazmat suit. How could you hear through that?”

  Clair rocked even faster. “He said ‘Sam Porter is 4MK.’ It was plain as day. I didn’t misunderstand nothing. The doctor was right there, too. I’m sure he heard it. God, there was a nurse. She probably heard him. Who knows who else…”

  “You need to get a statement from him,” Kloz said softly. “Before he dies.”

  She stopped rocking. “I’m not going back in there.”

  “We need to understand what he knows.”

  “He’s lying,” she said defiantly. “Anson Bishop is 4MK.”

  “What if he’s not?”

  She glared at him. “Whose side are you on?”

  Kloz held up both his hands. “I’m not on anybody’s side, but we’re in here alone and when this gets out—and you know it will—if we don’t get some kind of statement out of him, how will that look? They’ll accuse us of protecting Sam.”

  “We know Upchurch killed Ella Reynolds and Lili Davies…he tried to kill Larissa Biel and Katy Quigley. Probably the parents. He killed that boy, Wesley. He says something like this, who is going to believe him?”

  Even as Clair said the words, she knew people would.

  “You’re not considering not reporting it, right?” Kloz asked. “That’s not an option on the table right now. Is it?”

  Clair looked up at him but said nothing.

  Klozowski’s mouth fell open. “Then why did you tell me?”

  “Maybe we should just keep it quiet until we know what it means.”

  Kloz shook his head. “I’m calling Nash.”

  “I tried already. He’s going to voice mail.”

  “Poole, then,” Kloz said. “We should tell Poole.”

  “He’s going straight to voice mail, too.”

  The phone on the wall began to ring, and the two of them looked up at the little flashing light. Neither moved. It wasn’t until the fourth ring that Klozowski stood and answered.

  Clair listened to his side of the conversation, watched as he nodded his head several times, then finally hung up. She knew exactly what that call was before he said a word. He said it anyway.

  “Upchurch is dead.”

  24

  Diary

  Detective Welderman returned that night. He didn’t come into the house. Instead, he sat out in the driveway, behind the wheel of his car, the engine rumbling, window down, a cigarette slipping out every minute or so as he tapped away the ashes. He sat out there for about five minutes before Tegan and Kristina left the house and climbed into his back seat. I watched as they drove off, his taillights turning into tiny red pinpricks before disappearing completely. It was just a little after nine.

  “Do you know where they go?” I asked.

  Paul was up on his bunk working on his comic, The Misadventures of Maybelle Markel. He’d stolen one of Tegan’s sweaters from her room the night before, and he raised it to his nose and gave it a good sniff. “Quiet. I’m trying to get inspiration.”

  “By smelling Tegan’s sweater?”

  “Smelling her panties would be creepy.”

  I was fairly certain Paul had a wide assortment of Tegan’s
clothing hidden away somewhere, but I had yet to find it.

  “He takes them somewhere nearly every night. Where do they go?”

  Paul set the sweater aside and began drawing again. “I think you should focus on the positive—it’s not you in the back of a police detective’s car right now. That’s no way to spend an evening.”

  “Do you know where he takes them?”

  Paul shuffled through his markers, picked the red one, and began coloring in his sketch. “You, my friend, are asking the wrong questions.”

  “I am?”

  “What you should be asking is how do you get Kristina to rub her hot little body up against you again like she did down in the parlor.”

  My face blushed again. “She was just messing around.”

  Paul snorted. “She was messing around, with you. For those of us well versed in the ways of the woman, this was her subtle way of saying you’re tall enough to ride this ride, all you need to do is buy a ticket and climb aboard.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not what she meant.”

  He ignored me. “She gave you an easy-pass. Wants you to smell her flower. A bit of bam-bam in the ham. Some aggressive cuddling. Boffing. Boinking. Dinky-tickling. Hide…the bishop…with Bishop. If you had half a brain, you’d be across the hall climbing under her sheets and waiting for your Maid Marian to come home all riled up after her girls’ night out.”

  “A girls’ night out? With the police detective?”

  “Where do you think they went?” Paul capped the red marker and started in with the green one. “What were they wearing? Our two lovely housemates?”

  I told him Tegan had been wearing a black dress and high heels. I think Kristina’s dress was dark blue, but it was hard to tell in the light.

  “They don’t dress up like that for us,” Paul pointed out. “We get jam-jams and frumpy sweats most of the time. Today was a special treat.”

  Down the hall, I heard a door slam. Then Weasel shouted at someone. Probably his roommate, The Kid. They were both a little younger than the rest of us and mostly kept to themselves. Weasel was probably around twelve. I had no idea what his real name was—Weasel suited him just fine. He had beady eyes, and he crinkled his nose whenever he got upset, which was most of the time. I had no idea why they called The Kid ‘The Kid,’ but they did, so I did too.

  Paul held up his drawing.

  Tegan, naked, lying on her towel with her eyes closed. Kristina hovering above her with the bottle of suntan lotion upside down, a single drop about to land on Tegan’s back. Tegan’s red sweater was bunched up near her head. It was quite good.

  “Where’s Libby?”

  Paul glanced at the drawing and pointed to a foot in the far corner, barely visible. “Right there.”

  “No, I mean, why didn’t she go with them?”

  Paul rolled his eyes and went back to work on the drawing. “You’ve got a hottie like Kristina fawning all over you, and you’re wondering about someone like Libby?” He shook his head. “She’s broken, man. Let her go. A girl like that will never be right. She’ll be here for a few weeks, and someone will cart her off to wherever they send girls like that. She’s not long for our world. Best not to get too attached. Finicky didn’t even bother to get a picture of her for the wall.”

  I still hadn’t seen her, not really. Glimpses here and there. The flutter of blonde hair. Her shadow on the wall. Even today, outside in the open, she managed to stay invisible—shrinking into her surroundings until she was nothing but a ghost of a girl, a wispy afterthought.

  I went to the door and pressed my ear against the wood. “What do you think Ms. Finicky is doing right now?”

  Paul shrugged. “Practicing witchcraft, would be my guess. Boiling small children in a cauldron down in the basement. Gotta simmer for thirty, then add the paprika with just a pinch of salt.”

  When I opened the door and peered out into the hallway, I didn’t see anyone. Weasel’s door was closed. Kristina and Tegan had left their door open. Vince’s door was open—I hadn’t seen him all day. I wasn’t sad about that. Libby’s door wasn’t open or closed, but cracked. Nothing but darkness on the other side.

  Paul tossed a Snickers bar at me. It struck me in my side and fell to the ground. “Kristina likes chocolate—can’t hurt to bring a bribe.”

  I picked up the candy bar, but I wasn’t going to Kristina’s room.

  25

  Nash

  Day 5 • 9:37 AM

  “Go! Go! Go!”

  The voices came through Nash’s earbud, and a moment later he heard them enter the building. The crash of the front door, boots on the stairs. They cleared each room as they went, calling out as they found each space empty, as they grew closer.

  As the flurry of voices approached, Nash remained still. His eyes didn’t leave Bishop. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep from pulling the trigger and ending him. Bishop didn’t move, either. When two members of SWAT rushed into the room, followed swiftly by three more, he still didn’t move. They shouted. They grabbed at his hands and arms and pulled them to his back before securing them with handcuffs. Then there was a foot in the center of Bishop’s back, pushing him down—the officer leaned down over him, his full weight and the weight of his gear grinding Bishop’s face into the filthy floor.

  Bishop didn’t make a sound.

  Through all of this, Nash remained frozen.

  They bound Bishop’s feet together with zip ties.

  They patted him down, turned all his pockets inside out. They found nothing.

  Nash felt a hand on his shoulder.

  Poole.

  He didn’t say anything. There was no need.

  Nash finally holstered his gun, then knelt next to Bishop, cleared his throat. “You have the right to remain silent…” He rattled off the rest as the others watched, the room growing oddly quiet. When he finished, he told them to take Bishop outside.

  Four of them lifted him from the ground, this inanimate thing, and carried him from the room.

  “The press is already here,” Poole said.

  “I know.”

  “Get out there and make a statement before my supervisor calls and tells me to do it.”

  “This is Sam’s bust. It should be him.”

  “Nobody is putting Sam in front of a camera. Not right now.”

  Nash ran his hand through his hair, smoothed it down as best he could. “Everything about this is fucked.”

  Poole said nothing to this, looking down at the remains of the camera.

  Nash left the room before he could ask him about that, scooping up Bishop’s cardboard sign on his way out.

  He followed the men carrying Bishop through the hallway, down the steps, and out the front door onto the stoop of the building and froze.

  The block, which had been completely deserted less than twenty minutes ago, was somehow teeming with people. Nearly a dozen law enforcement vehicles—vans, cars, SWAT—filled the street. He’d expected those. As per the instructions he’d worked out with Poole, they had followed about a half-mile behind him and positioned about two blocks over, just far enough to remain out of sight. The locals had crawled out, too, filled the icy sidewalks. Two news vans, another attempting to get past a Metro road block.

  The four men carried Bishop down the steps and into the waiting mouth of a black SWAT van where two more helped get him inside and close the doors. All of this played out in a matter of minutes, and to Nash, none of it seemed real. Several of the reporters yelled out the same question that was running through his head—why would Bishop turn himself in?

  Cameras clicked away all around and he realized their focus had shifted from Bishop being loaded into the van to him standing on the stoop of 426 McCormick, the green door busted and hanging at an odd angle on two of the three remaining hinges. Half-cocked, Nash thought as he looked at the orange penis spray-painted on the front. This made him smile, if only for a second. Several more camera clicks brought him back.

 
“Can you hold up the sign?”

  This came from one of the photographers. He was wearing a navy blue jacket with Chicago Examiner emblazoned on the front.

  Nash remembered Bishop’s cardboard sign in his hand and turned it around backward so the writing was no longer visible. The photographer took the picture anyway.

  Lizeth Loudon, the reporter from Channel Seven, stood at the bottom facing her own cameraman, but Nash couldn’t hear what she was saying. A moment later, she turned to him and said, “You’re live, Detective. Is it true Anson Bishop turned himself in?”

  Nash opened his mouth to speak, then realized he wasn’t sure what he should say. He hadn’t given it a second of thought. Sam always made it look so easy—some off-the-cuff remark.

  Loudon stood there, her microphone thrust at his face, for what was probably only a second or two but seemed to stretch on for minutes. Nash cleared his throat. “Earlier this morning, Anson Bishop contacted Chicago Metro and made…” He couldn’t tell them about the threats. If he said Bishop threatened to release more of the virus if he didn’t come to this meeting alone, it would just cause panic. He needed to say something comforting, something to set everyone at ease. That’s what Sam would do. “We knew he’d be here, and through a joint effort with the FBI, Chicago Metro utilized the opportunity to capture Bishop and take him into custody.”

  Loudon’s brow furrowed. She brought the microphone back to her mouth. “What about the victims found this morning? Has the virus been recovered? Will the people in Stroger Hospital be permitted to leave now?”

  Nash didn’t answer any of these things. Instead, he said, “Chicago can finally rest easy knowing the monster who has been terrorizing our city is behind bars.”

  He pushed past her, through the crowd, and made his way back to his Chevy.

  Both his front tires were flat.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught the convenience store owner watching him from the window of the corner market. When he turned to him, the man pulled down the blinds.

  26

  Clair