The Fifth to Die

by J. D. Barker

  He crossed the room, his eyes darting over each shadow, every alcove. The office offered little in the way of hiding places, even with all the clutter.

  At the back of the small office, a hallway led off further into the dark, the office lights held back by the opening and the ornate millwork. Poole drew in a breath and started toward it. His gun rounded the corner first, and as he followed, he prepared to pull the trigger on whatever waited on the other side. He found nothing but a staircase leading to the second floor. He considered turning on these lights too, then thought better of it. If someone was up there, they didn’t need to know he was on his way just yet. Let them think he was still downstairs.

  He tentatively placed a foot on the first step, then followed it with his weight, unsure of whether or not it would betray him with some kind of sound. Nothing but silence.

  Poole ascended the stairs, his eyes adjusting to the dark above, the shape of an opening coming into focus as he drew nearer, some kind of alcove, a closed door beyond that.

  His hand wrapped around the cold metal of the doorknob. He turned it slowly, careful not to make a sound. The lock wasn’t engaged. There was a slight pop as the cylinder pulled free of the strike box.

  The door swung into the room.

  The smell hit him all at once.

  Decay, rot.

  The lights were off, the room crowded with the dark.

  Poole stepped inside and switched on the light, then wished he hadn’t.

  A woman stared at him from the couch, her vacant eyes clouded over, milky. She slumped there, leaning awkwardly to the side. Her face was pale, the blood having drained away to lower ground some time ago. This accentuated the dark, black hole in her forehead, a puckered gunshot wound. She had been eating when it happened, a plate of something unrecognizable spilled on her lap and the vacant cushion beside her.

  Her killer probably stood right where Poole did now, surprising her from this very doorway.

  He approached the body, knelt at her side.

  This wasn’t the woman from the prison, couldn’t be. This body had been here for at least a week, maybe as long as two, decomposition hungrily eating away at what was once a living thing. She wore a silver ring on her right hand, the finger plump and swollen like a hot dog around the metal.

  “Shit,” Captain Direnzo said from behind him. “That’s Sarah Werner.”

  Poole hadn’t heard him come in.

  128

  Porter

  Day 4 • 8:14 p.m.

  “Mother, give Sam your phone, please,” Bishop said, smoke from the gun distorting the air at his face.

  Sarah’s hand reached out, held the phone out to him. “Anson, baby, why would you tell this nice man your father was dead? We raised you better than that. That whole little book of yours is scribbled full of lies.”

  The body fell from Porter’s hands, crumpled at his feet.

  He dropped the knife.

  His heart thudded.

  Bishop knelt, retrieved the knife, and set the .38 down on the counter next to the popcorn machine.

  “Not all of the book, Mother. Only some. Little white lies here and there. You were always so good at those.”

  Porter’s eyes flew from Sarah’s outstretched hand, to the phone, to the body on the ground.

  “You look pale, Sam. You should sit. I worry about you sometimes.” Bishop reached to his side and grabbed an old wooden chair from a pile of ruined furniture and shook the dust off. The floral print on the back and seat was riddled with holes, worn through to the stuffing. Something had chewed on one of the legs. Bishop slid the chair behind him and Porter dropped into it, his own legs becoming Jell-O.

  “What the fuck is this?” he breathed. “I don’t . . .”

  “Language, Sam.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Christ, Anson. You’re no better than your father.”

  Porter looked down at the body at his feet. The bullet had left a small, round hole in her forehead and very little blood. There was no exit wound, probably a hollow-point, lodged inside. Her eyes stared forward, her last words trapped forever on her lips.

  We’re even now, Anson. I can’t run anymore. I did everything you asked of me.

  Everything.

  “Who . . . ?” The word sputtered out, caught on the edge of his tongue.

  Bishop knelt beside the body on the floor, looked into her vacant eyes. “Her name was Rose Finicky, and she deserved to die, she deserved to die a hundred times over—hardly pure at all.”

  “Finicky?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who . . . Did she kill Libby? Is that why . . . ?”

  “I wish we had time to go into all that, but like I said earlier, you’re late. The world waits for no one, and we have a lot of balls in the air today.”

  Porter felt Sarah’s eyes on him. Bishop’s mother. He couldn’t look at her, though. He couldn’t see her face. Not now, maybe not ever. He somehow knew she was smiling, and that made this all the worse. “Are you going to kill her too?”

  Sarah shuffled, “He won’t hurt me. Will you, Anson?”

  “No? We’ll see. We’ll see about that.”

  “I brought Finicky here, just like you asked,” Sarah shot back.

  Bishop tilted his head and smiled. “And she brought you . . . just like I asked. Funny, how things have a way of working themselves out.”

  Bishop brushed the blade of the knife against his pants leg, closed it, then dropped it into his pocket.

  “Finicky did some horrible things. Many of them here, right in this building.” Bishop said. “And I had been searching for her for a very long time, nearly as long as I searched for Mother. Both had reasons to hide, of course, some more than others, but nobody hides forever.”

  Porter’s eyes returned to the gun on the counter. He was only about four feet away. He could get to it. “If your father is still alive, where is he? Why make up some story about his death?”

  Bishop let out a soft chuckle. “He hasn’t figured it out yet, Mother.”

  “Not yet, but he will. I’ve got faith,” Sarah said. She came up behind him and ran her hand through Porter’s hair.

  Porter dove for the gun.

  He was off the chair and pushing past her before she could react. His hand fell over the gun, and he scooped it off the counter, shuffled to the side, and leveled the weapon on both of them. “Neither of you move.”

  Bishop smiled. “Sam, that’s not going to—”

  Sam fired a round past Bishop’s head. The report echoed through the room, the bullet landing in the far wall with a thud.

  Bishop’s mother let out a soft gasp. “I told you he’d shoot you, Anson.”

  “He didn’t shoot me, Mother.”

  “Give me your phone.”

  “Give Detective Porter your phone, Mother.”

  “I tried to give him my phone earlier, and he got twisted all out of sorts.” She stepped forward and handed the phone to him.

  Porter snatched it from her hand and swiped at the screen with his finger. “Get back beside him.”

  No signal.

  “You’ll want to go upstairs to place a call. These old buildings are not cell-phone friendly at all. I left something for you in room 405. It will work just fine in there. You can call when you go up.”

  Porter glanced around the room and located the stairs winding up from the far corner. “We’ll all go up. You’re going to tell me where the bomb is, where those girls are, then you’re both going to jail. If you don’t, I’ll shoot again, maybe her this time. Maybe this time I won’t intentionally miss.”

  Bishop shoved his hands into his pockets. “I want to thank you for bringing Mother to me, Sam. Finicky as well. Two birds. My ability to travel lately has been a bit . . . restricted. You’ve been so helpful. The last few months have been challenging, but it’s coming together now. I feel good about the future, I really do.”

  “Toward the stairs, now.”

  Bishop smiled. “You’re g
oing to let us leave, Sam. Then you’re going to head upstairs to room 405 and make a phone call. Not the phone call bouncing around your head right now, something altogether different.”

  “Last warning—toward the stairs.”

  Bishop reached over, took his mother’s hand, and smiled. “You’re going to do exactly as I say, Sam. Here’s why.”

  129

  Kloz

  Day 4 • 9:11 p.m.

  Klozowski stepped back into his makeshift office at John H. Stroger, Jr. Hospital and carefully crossed back to his computer with two cups of coffee, one in each hand, the contents of Paul Upchurch’s file strategically placed across every flat surface in the room.

  He’d spent the past two hours going through every page, identifying every name, then working with the team they had in place to round everyone up and bring them here. Thirty-two others in total, not counting spouses and children. They brought in so many people, Clair had been forced to spread out from the cafeteria and take over two adjoining employee lounges. She was in there now, trying to keep the large group calm, organize the uniforms, and get statements.

  Most of these people had no idea why they had been dragged down here by the police. From what she said, only a handful recognized Upchurch by name. His condition, as horrible as it may be, wasn’t uncommon. Anyone dealing with death on a daily basis learned to tune it out, compartmentalize.

  Kati Quigley was awake and talking up a storm. Clair told him what the girl went through, both girls. Kloz blocked it out. He could compartmentalize with the best of them.

  Larissa Biel had come out of surgery twenty minutes earlier. She was in recovery with her father. Once she woke, she’d be moved into a double room with her mother, who also regained consciousness—both expected to make full recoveries.

  Kloz set the two cups of coffee down and cracked his knuckles.

  Now he’d search the obits and put a nice bow on this project.

  His bed was calling out to him, and he’d be wrapped up in those glorious sheets soon.

  A small red box blinked at the corner of his laptop screen.

  Kloz clicked on it, expanding the alert message.

  “Shit.”

  He scrambled through the papers surrounding his computer, nearly knocked over one of the coffees, and picked up his phone, hitting Clair’s speed-dial button. The call went straight to voice mail.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  He dialed Nash.

  One ring.

  Two rings.

  Three—

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey, where are you?”

  “Still at the Upchurch house. I probably have another hour here. Why?”

  “Remember the trace I set up on Bishop’s laptop?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We got a hit, and it’s close.”

  “Text me the address. Espinosa too—his team just left.”

  130

  Clair

  Day 4 • 9:15 p.m.

  Clair was about ready to scream.

  She had the absolute worst headache, and the three Advil she’d swallowed did nothing for it.

  She stood in the middle of the cafeteria, surrounded by at least forty or fifty people—adults, children, medical staff—everyone Kloz had identified from all the documents they’d put together, everyone they’d tied to the dozens of obituaries planted by Bishop, all these people shouting either at her or at one another.

  Nobody wanted to be here.

  The faster she could get them out, the better.

  She’d spent an hour with Kati Quigley and couldn’t shake the images of what the girl told her. She had just been told Larissa Biel was awake too. Larissa’s father tracked her down, said he searched all over the hospital for her. Larissa couldn’t speak. The doctors wanted her to rest her throat, but she was able to write. She began writing the moment she woke, and based on her father’s hysterical state, her story might be worse than Kati’s.

  “I need everyone to shut up!”

  A few heads turned. The noise softened for a moment, then roared back to life.

  Clair climbed up a chair and onto one of the tables. “The sooner you all listen to me, the faster I can get you out of here!” She waved a stack of questionnaires above her head. “If you haven’t turned in the forms I passed out earlier, I need you to complete them and hand them in to one of the officers!”

  A little girl screamed about five feet away from her, screamed for no reason other than to add to the chaos. The girl’s mother scooped her up and rocked her, but that did little good.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted Dr. Morton ducking back into the cafeteria. He saw her too and quickly turned away.

  She left strict instructions that nobody was to leave this room, but the various medical professionals they rounded up into this makeshift protective custody seemed to treat her orders as more of a suggestion. Nearly everyone had come and gone at least once. Most had done so many times as their pagers and phones summoned them to various parts of the hospital. There was little she could do about this. In many cases, lives were ultimately at stake, not just their own, and none of these people were really obligated to stay. She was certain a few had snuck out and not come back at all.

  Clair’s phone vibrated in her pocket.

  She fished it out.

  Sarah Werner.

  She didn’t know a Sarah Werner. She would have to wait.

  Clair pressed Decline. She noticed that she had missed two calls from Kloz.

  She’d head back there next.

  He was analyzing Upchurch’s file and may have found something. The lab was also working on a substance found in that needle sticking out of the apple. If they couldn’t reach her, they would pass the results on to him.

  Her phone rang again.

  Sarah Werner.

  She hit the answer button and pressed the phone to her ear, covering the other ear with her hand. “This is Detective Norton!”

  The voice on the other end was male, but she couldn’t make out what he said. It was too loud in here. “Hold on—give me a second!”

  She climbed down off the table, pushed through the crowd and out into the hallway. When she reached the elevators, she tried again. “Sorry, this is Detective Norton. What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have Paul Upchurch?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Clair.”

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah.”

  She turned. One of the patrolmen guarding the cafeteria was watching her. She took a few more steps down the hallway and turned her back on him. “Where are you?”

  “I . . . I thought he had a bomb. He made me think he had a bomb, but it’s not a bomb. Not a bomb at all . . .”

  “Sam, you’re not making sense. Who are you talking about? Upchurch? We got him. He doesn’t have a bomb.”

  “Do you . . . do you have the girls? The two girls? Larissa Biel and the other one?”

  “Yes, Sam. They’re safe. Both of them. They’ll be okay.”

  Wait. Something was wrong.

  This wasn’t right.

  “Sam, how do you know about Larissa Biel? She disappeared after you left. We haven’t told anyone about Quigley. Have you been talking to Nash or that FBI agent, Frank Poole?”

  “Oh, Clair. I fucked up. I fucked up bad.”

  “What’s going on, Sam? Talk to me.”

  Porter drew in a deep breath. “Is Paul Upchurch alive?”

  “Yes. Espinosa’s team took him into custody without incident. Nash said it was like he was waiting for them. He went peacefully. On the ride to Metro, he had a seizure and passed out. They brought him here to Stroger, and he’s in surgery. Stage four brain cancer. It doesn’t look good.”

  “Glioblastoma. He has a glioblastoma,” Sam said softly.

  “How do you know that? How do you even know his name? Who have you been talking to?”

  Silence.

  “Sam?”

  “Where are
the girls?”

  “They’re here too.”

  “Christ.”

  “Sam? What is it?”

  Porter drew in another breath. “You need to isolate them. Isolate them and anyone who came into contact with them immediately. Don’t let anyone leave.”

  “Why?”

  Silence again.

  “Sam, you’re scaring me.”

  “Bishop said he injected both girls with a concentrated version of the SARS virus. He told me where he got the virus, and I believe him. He also said he left a sample for you in the hospital to confirm. He told me to tell you, ‘Snow White didn’t know better, either.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

  “We found an apple with a syringe stuck into it,” Clair told him, the words catching in her throat. “The apple was sitting on top of Paul Upchurch’s file.”

  “Clair, listen to me carefully. I’m going to give you a name. Are you ready?”

  No.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Dr. Ryan Beyer. He’s a neurosurgeon at Johns Hopkins. He specializes in something called focused ultrasound therapy. Apparently this is some kind of treatment that can help Upchurch, but his insurance wouldn’t cover it. Even though it’s extremely effective, the treatment is still considered experimental. Bishop believes everything they’ve done so far has been a waste of time. He felt all the people involved in Upchurch’s treatment failed him—the doctors, nurses, insurance, medication providers. He targeted everyone involved because he felt the system murdered Upchurch. He thinks insurance took the cheap way out, he believes everyone else just went along with business as usual, and he is not willing to let this guy die.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “As soon as we hang up, you need to locate this Dr. Beyer and get him there. Bishop said . . .”

  Porter’s voice trailed off, then he came back. “Bishop said he has more of the virus, and if Upchurch dies, he’s going to inject random people around the city. Find this guy. Isolate anyone who came in contact with the girls. You need to contain this.”

  “Are you with Bishop now?”

  “I have to go, Clair. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

  Porter disconnected, and the line went dead.