The Sixth Wicked Child

by J. D. Barker

  Porter thumbed the business card attached to the phone.

  Hurry, they’re coming.

  “Why did Weasel really run into that alley?”

  “You know why, Sam. It’s buried in the back of your head. If you want that answer, you need to dig it out.”

  Porter noticed a shift in the crowd. Everyone seemed to be moving toward the west side of the Guyon parking lot. He moved with them. “Why all the pictures of you and me in the Guyon? Was all that just more misdirection, or did you expect it to trigger some kind of memory?”

  Bishop didn’t answer.

  “Are you still there?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Who am I to you?”

  Bishop hung up then.

  At the far corner of the parking lot, voices erupted in screams and cheers, a deafening cacophony.

  Porter pushed forward, forcing his way toward the sound.

  113

  Nash

  Day 6 • 5:56 AM

  “It’s a dead man’s switch,” Klozowski said calmly. “You shoot me, and we both die. I’ve got enough explosives on me to take out most of this building.”

  Nash didn’t lower the gun. “Where’s Clair? What do you want?”

  “I want the truth to finally come out.” Klozowski nodded toward a black and white composition book sitting on one of the tables. “Every name you’ll need to take down this entire trafficking ring is in that book. I hacked the website the mayor mentioned and found all the principals behind it —they’re all in there. The site led me to fourteen more, and I found everyone behind those too.” He tossed a videotape across the room. It clattered over the tile and came to a rest at Nash’s feet. “That’s the mayor’s confession. There’s much more. She…she was very thorough. I only showed you the highlights.”

  “Kloz, this isn’t you. You’re one of us.”

  “I was one of them first.”

  “You’re not a killer.”

  “Warnick would tell you otherwise.”

  “Disable the vest, and let’s talk about this.”

  Klozowski shook his head. “There’s no reason to kid each other—we both know this is well beyond the point of talking things out. I crossed that line a long time ago, and I’ve made peace with that.” He nodded at the notebook. “The lives that will be saved when that information surfaces will make it all worthwhile. I don’t regret any of the people I killed knowing so many more innocent people will be freed.”

  “Are you telling me you’re 4MK?”

  Klozowski’s gaze fell to the floor. He kicked an old Pepsi can across the room. “They called me The Kid back then. God, that all seems so long ago. I have no idea how Porter tracked all of us down after so many years, but he did. When he killed Libby, I thought for sure he’d come after me next. I covered our tracks well, new identities and all that, but you saw what he did to her, the torture. I figured she must have told him about the rest of us. Who I really was. Who could blame her? She was always tough, but nobody could hold out through all that. If he hadn’t run off like he did, if he’d come back to Metro, I’m sure I would have been next.” His voice dropped off for a second, considering this. “Or maybe he was saving me for last. Probably figured I betrayed him somehow and he wanted me to see the others die, who knows. I can’t pretend to understand what’s going on in his head.” Kloz waved his free hand through the air. “Hell, he hired Paul Upchurch to write up those diaries, and he must have recognized Paul. I don’t care what that bullet did to him; nobody goes that blank. Paul said he didn’t, though. Paul told me every time he met with Sam, he had no idea who he was.” Kloz’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Nash. “I’d love for a psychologist to weigh in on that. I mean, what if his subconscious recognized Paul, and that’s what drew him in? I was so young when he first met me. I get he wouldn’t recognize me as an adult, but Paul or Anson? Even Vincent, when he saw him in New Orleans. He flat-out talked to him in the warden’s office, yet Vincent said there wasn’t a spark of recognition. They all should have listened to me, but they didn’t—they all wanted to believe he really didn’t remember. If they listened to me, they might still be alive.”

  Nash kept the gun on Klozowski as he slowly shuffled around the room. He wasn’t sure what else to do.

  “I think he knew who we all were all along and used the amnesia as a cover until he’d gathered enough information and was ready to move, that’s what I think. Sam always was patient.” Klozowski stopped and turned back to Nash. “He killed Libby first. Tortured her, got what he needed, then killed her. I guess with Paul he figured best to just let nature take its course, but he used Paul to find Tegan and Kristina. Paul and I had been working on updating their identities, preparing everyone in case we had to run again. Sam must have used something he found at Paul’s house to track them down. You saw what he did to them. He left Tegan all alone in that cemetery and dropped Kristina on the tracks like yesterday’s trash. Oh, man, the anger there. Vincent tried to run, but somehow Sam found him too. He may be focused on Anson now, but I know it’s just a matter of time before he gets around to me. He’s trying to silence us all. I’m not waiting around for him, no way. I won’t end up like the others. If my life is over, it will end on my terms.” Klozowski’s grip tightened on the switch in his hand.

  “I don’t believe you,” Nash said. “Sam physically couldn’t have killed all those people. He was in custody when Tegan and Kristina were found. There’s no way he made it all the way down to Simpsonville and back.”

  Kloz shot him a frustrated look. “He was working with that piece-of-shit from the mayor’s office, Warnick. Some fed too. All of these guys are dirty, trying to cover their tracks. Besides, Sam was in custody when they were all found, not when they were killed.” He nodded toward the window. “They stored the bodies right outside the hospital here in the old salt dome, where they used to house their deicing salt for the parking lot. Right in the center of the city; nobody goes in there anymore. Ask Eisley, the salt screws with time-of-death. I’m sure he did something similar with the body in Simpsonville to confuse things. I’d probably be in that salt right now if not for Anson drawing him away. You’ll want to check the salt dome. There might be others in there.”

  “Disarm the vest. Let’s check the building together.”

  “That’s not my job anymore. I’ve got a bigger purpose.”

  Someone groaned then, soft, barely audible.

  114

  Poole

  Day 6 • 5:59 AM

  The photograph still in his hand, Poole dialed Detective Nash’s cell phone again. Straight to voice mail. He didn’t know if he could trust any information from Porter, but on the chance the photograph was real and Porter was telling the truth, he needed to get help.

  He scrolled through his contacts and located the number for another man.

  “Espinosa.”

  “This is Special Agent Frank Poole. Are you at Stroger?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Poole looked down at the photo. “I need you to listen to me carefully. I have reason to believe Special Agent in Charge Hurless might be involved in all this. I’m not sure to what extent. He’s commanding the team on the ground here at the Guyon. I can’t alert anyone on my end without risk of it getting back to him. Do you have anyone here we can trust?”

  Espinosa dropped off the line for a moment, probably considering this. “Involved how? Where’s Captain Dalton?”

  “He’s with SAIC Hurless, directing ground assets.”

  “Is he compromised?”

  Poole doubted it but couldn’t be sure. “I don’t know. They’re both in the comm van. I can’t risk speaking to him while he’s in close quarters with Hurless, and I’ve got no way to get him out without drawing suspicion.”

  “Half my team is out with whatever bug we picked up at the Upchurch house. I can send Thomas and maybe two others. Any more than that, and I spread myself too thin on the hospital search.”

  Poole had reached the bac
k of the Guyon Hotel, where two Metro officers stood guard at the door, when the crowd began to shout near the corner of the parking lot.

  Something was happening.

  “Send whoever you can, and give them this number. I’ve got to go.”

  He hung up, gave the Guyon’s back door one more glance, then started through the crowd toward the noise.

  115

  Nash

  Day 6 • 6:00 AM

  Nash turned to his right, toward the sound. A white sheet was draped over something large, something tall, near the boarded windows.

  Kloz let out a sigh. “That man will not die.”

  He crossed the room, took hold of the sheet, and tugged it away.

  “The statue is called Protection,” Kloz said. “I thought that was kind of ironic.”

  The statute was of a woman, towering over the room, clutching a young child tight. The two stood in the center of a shallow pool. The pool no longer contained water. Instead, the scent of gasoline wafted across the room.

  The mayor was on his feet, secured to the statue with a thick rope, his hands cuffed behind him, encircling the woman’s body. He was naked, barely conscious, and even from this distance, Nash could see the words carved over every inch of exposed skin—hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil, do no evil. On his forehead, carved larger than all others, was, I am evil. His left ear was gone. Black blood oozed from his eye socket. There were three white boxes on the edge of the basin—two tied shut with black string, the third empty.

  “I left him his tongue. Thought maybe he’d want to make amends. I should have known better,” Kloz said. “It’s time for you to go, Nash.”

  When Nash looked back at Klozowski, he was holding the trigger from his vest out in front of his chest.

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  Kloz nodded toward the composition book still sitting on one of the tables. “When you combine the information in that book with everything Anson already gave you, you’ll have more than enough to get convictions and shut down this entire trafficking ring.” He looked down at the videotape still at Nash’s feet. “That too—you don’t want to forget that. Plus, my computer at the office has information. Give everything to the FBI. Tell them to look in the folder named ‘Guyon.’”

  “I won’t let you do it.”

  Kloz ignored him and glanced over at a hallway on his right. “Clair is locked in room B18, right down there. You don’t need a key from this side. Once you get her, take the stairs at the far end of the hallway back to the main basement. You’ll see the opening for the tunnel system on the west wall. You can’t miss it.” He paused for a second, then went on. “I’m going to count down from one hundred before I set this off. That will give you just enough time, if you run.”

  “Don’t, Kloz. Don’t.”

  “It was a pleasure working with you, Brian. Clair too. Please tell her I’m sorry.”

  “You can tell her. Just deactivate the bomb.” Nash heard the pleading in his own voice, but he didn’t care. “Come with me. Testify. Explain everything.”

  “One hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight…”

  Nash eyed him for another moment, considered tackling him, shooting him, wrestling the remote from his hand…he knew none of that would happen, Kloz would have thought of all that, prepared for it. Instead, he scooped up the videotape from the floor and ran over to the table for the composition book.

  From the statue, the mayor’s remaining eye opened and he looked down at Nash. “Untie me,” he forced out, his voice thick and scratchy.

  Nash looked at the rope looped around him, the various knots, the handcuffs. He held up the videotape. “Is this true?”

  The mayor licked at the crusty blood on his lips. “Doesn’t matter…you have to help me…”

  Nash knew he didn’t have enough time to both free the mayor and get Clair to safety. Someday, he’d use that to rationalize his actions, not only to others, but to himself. To the mayor, he simply said, “Fuck you.”

  Kloz smiled at this. “We’re all 4MK, Brian. Remember that.”

  Without looking back, Nash ran from the room and down the hallway, as Kloz continued to count. “Ninety-four, ninety-three, ninety-two…”

  116

  Porter

  Day 6 • 6:01 AM

  Porter saw him.

  This time he was sure.

  Bishop.

  He wanted to be recognized now.

  Anson Bishop. Despite the cold, he wore only a black leather jacket. No gloves, no hat. He had a loose scarf around his neck, and his breath lingered in the air, a pale cloud riding the icy air. He’d arrived in a white van not unlike the one Hillburn had owned, and Porter knew this was no coincidence. The crowd parted, let the van pass, then closed up again behind the vehicle, swallowing the empty space. Voices rose all around as spectators realized who must be inside. There was a patrol car about a hundred feet back, the source of the siren that Porter had heard, but the people wouldn’t let it through—not fast enough to close the distance. Only the van was permitted, and only at a snail’s pace.

  The van had nudged through the crowd and pulled to the curb on the corner of Washington and Pulaski Road. The side door had slid open, and there was Bishop. He surveyed the large crowd, jumped down, and the van drove off again. Porter hadn’t seen the driver.

  Porter had never seen Bishop look nervous, but he looked nervous now. His shoulders were hunched, and he slumped forward slightly. He straightened up and scanned the area, and when his eyes settled on the Channel Seven news van kitty-corner from where he stood, something resembling relief washed over him. He raised a hand and waved in that direction. Porter caught Lizeth Loudon waving back, no doubt standing on something to see over all the people.

  Bishop started toward her.

  He had a water bottle in his hand.

  Even before Porter saw Bishop’s fingers twisting off the cap, Porter knew what that bottle meant, knew what it really contained, and he knew he had to stop him before he could infect this crowd.

  His fingers tightened around the .38 in his pocket, and he nearly knocked over an old man as he shoved his way through the tangled mass of people.

  117

  Clair

  Day 6 • 6:02 AM

  When she had heard muted footsteps coming down the hallway thirty minutes earlier, barely audible through the heavy door and thick walls, Clair had been ready. She stood just inside the door, pressed into the corner of the room, the six-inch piece of fluorescent bulb in her hand, ready to strike. Her trap (hopefully) ready to electrocute the man the moment he came through that door. Neither of those things happened, though. The footsteps had raced past her door to the next room over. Her captor must have drugged the mayor again, because aside from a quick yelp, there were no sounds of struggle.

  Through the small window, she watched the man in the black mask take the mayor away on a gurney in a quick rush with not so much as a glance in her direction.

  With a loud pop, much like the one she’d heard earlier, the hallway lights went dark, and without a light in her room, her surroundings plunged into complete darkness. A thick, moist dark that seemed to ooze from the walls, under the door, and wrap around her. She wanted to shake it off, but that only caused the murk to tighten its grip, and as she stood there, alone, pressed into the corner of her room, she wondered if she’d be able to move at all when the moment came, or if that dark would just hold her still for her captor’s blade.

  As if to test just how strong that hold was, Clair moved her makeshift weapon from her right hand to her left and wiped her sweaty palm on her jeans. Knowing she could still move eased her fears, if only a little. She wondered if this was how Emory Connors had felt, trapped all alone. Larissa Biel, Kati Quigley—all the others who had come before her.

  Was 4MK somewhere down the hall, lining up little white boxes and pieces of black string, preparing for her? Maybe testing the sharpness of his blade?

  Footsteps again.


  Fast.

  Louder than earlier, thundering down the hallway.

  A flashlight beam swept up and about outside, then was gone.

  Clair tightened her grip.

  The puddle on the floor had begun to evaporate, but there was still plenty of water there, and she was careful not to step in it.

  Flashlight again.

  Brighter, closer.

  She tightened her grip.

  When the light was at her window, shining through into her cell, she hoped to God he couldn’t see the missing light fixture, the wires dangling from the ceiling. All of this was such a long shot, but it was the only shot she had.

  Unwilling to move before she could strike, Clair sensed a face press to the glass more than saw it, visible only from the corner of her eye.

  She squeezed her weapon even tighter and made a conscious effort to not squeeze to the point of shattering the remains of the bulb in her hand.

  The doorknob jiggled.

  Clair couldn’t help but trace the faint lines of the wires, wondering if—

  “Clair?”

  When she heard her name, she thought she imagined it. For one brief instance, she actually thought she might have passed out again, dreamt the sound, the voice, but then she heard it again. Heard him—a shout this time.

  Nash.

  The dead bolt twisted with a click.

  The door pushed open.

  “No! No! Don’t!”

  The corner of the door reached the nail, and sparks flew with a loud crack!

  Clair expected Nash to jerk back, maybe convulse as electricity tore through his body, but neither of those things happened—he stood perfectly still, frozen, and she remembered her father’s stories of people getting electrocuted, how they were unable to move, forced rigid as the electricity charred their flesh from the inside out. She was ready to rush him, smack into him with all her weight in order to break the circuit when Nash stepped back.