The Sixth Wicked Child

by J. D. Barker

Day 5 • 10:02 AM

  “Oh, this is messed up.”

  Clair didn’t really need Klozowski to say it out loud, but the man felt the need to state the obvious anyway. She was ready to cross the room, slam his laptop shut, and beat him over the head with it. Not the first time she had such an urge, but maybe the first time she was ready to act on it. If she wasn’t feeling so damn tired, achy, and sniffly, that was.

  When she called Captain Dalton to tell him Upchurch was dead he didn’t seem surprised by the news, and she supposed there was no reason to be, but when she told him what Upchurch said to her, that didn’t seem to shock him either, and that was wrong. He knew Sam well enough to know it wasn’t true, yet he’d taken the news as if she had just reiterated the latest weather report, then he told her not to tell anyone—not the press, not the feds, not anyone.

  Her phone buzzed, and she glanced down at the screen—

  Bishop in custody

  The message was from Nash.

  “Nash caught Bishop.” Clair said this so quietly she wasn’t sure Kloz even heard her.

  He leaned in closer to his laptop screen. “I know. I said, it’s messed up. Come here, you gotta see this.”

  She’d been sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, just inside the door, and when she stood, her various joints cracked in protest. He turned the laptop screen to face her. At the top of the screen was a still shot of Nash standing outside somewhere holding a cardboard sign that said I Surrender. Below that was another box with a video playing on a loop—Anson Bishop was crouched on the floor in some room, and Nash was kicking him. Each time his foot made contact with Bishop’s stomach, the video looped and repeated. Below both images, in large block letters, was the caption—Chicago’s finest at work.

  “This is all over social media right now,” Kloz said.

  “Oh no.”

  “It gets worse.” Kloz clicked on a link below the images, and another video came up. It started with Nash’s foot catching Bishop in the gut—clearly where the other shot had come from—then Bishop recovered, coughed several times, and said, “I’ve clearly surrendered to a member of Chicago Metro. I’ve made no attempt at hostility. No aggressive moves. Yet this detective feels it is necessary to use force against me, threaten my life. This is why I invited you here, to witness this. To document the way I knew he would treat me. The way I have been treated from the beginning. Chicago Metro wants me as a scapegoat. All they’re trying to do is protect their own. This man, Detective Brian Nash, is Sam Porter’s partner. They’ve been friends for many years. I don’t know how deep into it this detective is, but he’s clearly dirty, maybe as dirty as Porter. I am innocent of everything these people have accused me of.”

  “Nash destroyed the camera right after that. Channel Seven has tape of all of it, and they’ve licensed the footage to everyone. All the major networks are running with it,” Kloz said, his fingers clicking away furiously at the keys. “They’re demanding access to Bishop and full transparency while he’s in custody. They want to talk to Sam, too. They want to know Sam’s whereabouts at the times of the murders this morning. All the other ones, too. This is a mess.”

  Sam Porter is 4MK.

  “Bishop coordinated this with Upchurch,” Clair said flatly. “Somehow, they worked this out in advance.”

  Clair’s phone started to ring.

  “Fuck, now what?” She dug it out and answered.

  It was Stout. “We need both of you in the cafeteria right now. We’ve got a serious—”

  The call dropped.

  #

  They heard the crowd the moment they pushed through the door out into the hallway, a churning mess of angry voices all trying to be heard above one another. Stout and three of his men were standing between the mob—there was no other way to describe it—and the glass doors leading out of the cafeteria into the hospital’s main corridor, lobby, and ultimately the exits. One of the men in the crowd held a chair above his head, another had a metal coatrack; he was swinging it at Stout. The two officers Clair had stationed down here were nowhere to be seen.

  She pushed through everyone and made her way to the front. She stood between Stout and Coatrack Man with one hand on the butt of her gun.

  “You gonna start shooting us now?” Coatrack Man said.

  “Everyone, calm down!” Clair tried to shout this, but her voice broke and she found herself coughing instead.

  “She’s no better than those other monsters with Metro!” A woman in a blue floral dress yelled out. She had her phone out, the camera pointed at Clair. “They’d rather keep us all locked away in here and wait for us to drop off one at a time. They’re not trying to protect us, they’re trying to contain us. I’m not staying in a cage anymore! I’m going home!”

  Several others shouted in agreement and Clair fought the urge to step back.

  Coatrack Man took a swing at her. The tip of the rack buzzed past her head with a whoosh of air. The crowd got quiet for just a second, then erupted even louder.

  Clair was ready to draw her gun when a loud whistle cut through all of it. She turned to find Klozowski standing behind her with two fingers in his mouth.

  “Enough!” Kloz shouted out.

  This time, the room went quiet, and all eyes fell on him.

  “We don’t want to be here any more than all of you. We’re stuck, too.”

  “We were told we had to stay here because 4MK was trying to kill us. They caught him, so why can’t we leave?”

  This came from an older man standing on the far left. He was wearing a tweed jacket and dark slacks. He must have noticed Clair trying to place him because he told her who he was before she could ask the question. “I’m Dr. Barrington with Oncology. Several of these fine folks work for me, and I think we’d all like to get back to our lives.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Clair said.

  “Because of the virus?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Barrington raised a hand. “It’s okay, Detective. Most of us are medical professionals. We understand the protocols surrounding a quarantine. We also understand precisely how viruses spread and confining the bulk of us to this singular space is counterproductive. The sick should be isolated from those of us who are not. Safety precautions such as masks should be enforced at all times.”

  Clair realized she wasn’t wearing her own mask. She’d left it on the floor back in their office. Only about half the people in the cafeteria had them on.

  Barrington went on. “The CDC has been diligent about issuing antibiotics and other countermeasures, we’re all grateful for that, but aside from removing the handful of people showing outright symptoms of SARS, they’ve treated us as a singular group by confining us to this cafeteria and surrounding rooms. We’re at the height of cold and flu season—many of the people here were sick before they came into the hospital. We don’t know who has contracted SARS, who has the common cold, who has the flu…the power of suggestion can bring on these symptoms, too—I can guarantee you there are people in this crowd who think they are sick and are not. It’s human nature. When we’re near someone who is ill, our bodies become defensive. Those defenses can manufacture symptoms that mimic the perceived illness, and our minds are trained to fear those symptoms which perpetuates the problem.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “SARS symptoms are difficult to distinguish until they fully present. In the early stages, an infected person appears ‘flu-like,’ some only have minor aches and pains, maybe the sniffles. If someone presents with these symptoms, there is no way to know if they’ve caught a cold, the flu, or heaven forbid, SARS. The problem is, a carrier of any of these illnesses is most contagious at the onset. We need to consider the use of subgroups for further isolation. Those with aches and pains should be held together. Sore throats held together. Sneezing and other respiratory ailments held together. Anyone with a fever should be removed entirely and quarantined from all others. Most of this is standard procedure—the CDC i
s aware, but they’re not doing it. They feel keeping us all here is good enough. That may be the case when it comes to protecting the general public from an outbreak, but it does little good when it comes to protecting those of us who are not sick…yet. If nothing changes, we all will be very soon.”

  A sneeze crawled across the interior of Clair’s nose and she willed it away. If she sneezed right now, these people looked like they might carry her to the incinerator.

  Barrington took a step toward her and lowered his voice so only she could hear. “I understand you have another body—Stanford Pentz from Cardiology. That obviously caused a bit of a panic all on its own earlier today, but now that Bishop is in custody, it’s subsided. I can tell you if you don’t get this crowd under control, things here have the potential to get very ugly, very fast. Right now, we have an ‘us vs. them’ mentality brewing. I’m offering to help you fix that while we still can. I can help you if you let me.”

  Clair knew he was right, and she could tell these people trusted him just by the way they watched him, how quiet they had gotten when he started to speak. “Tell your friend to put the coatrack down, and I’ll pretend he didn’t just assault an officer. Let’s start there.”

  Barrington turned to his left, keeping his eyes on Clair. “Put that down, Harry. Nobody here would be sad if she shot you. Probably best you don’t give her a reason.”

  Coatrack Man glared at him for a moment, then grunted and set the coatrack down at his side. Stout stepped over and took it away. “Should I arrest him?”

  Clair shook her head. “We all just need to calm down.”

  “If you can put me in touch with the proper person at the CDC, I can help,” Barrington told her. He lowered his voice again. “Give these people a purpose so they’re not just standing around, and I think you’ll find they become more docile.”

  Clair knew he was right, and frankly, she didn’t have time for crowd control. “You’ll want to speak to Jarred Maltby. He’s working upstairs. Let me see your phone.”

  He retrieved his phone from his back pocket, started to hand it to her, then pulled back as he got a closer look at her eyes, which were no doubt as red, itchy, and puffy, as they felt. “Perhaps you should just read me the number.”

  Someone screamed then, a woman.

  27

  Diary

  Out in the hall, I pressed my ear against Libby’s partially open door. I couldn’t see anything through the crack, and I couldn’t hear anything, either. Her name rolled out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  “Libby?”

  She didn’t answer, not a sound.

  I considered going in, and then I imagined her waking and screaming—this strange boy from across the hall hovering over her holding a Snickers bar. Not the best way to make proper introductions.

  I went downstairs instead and found the first floor as quiet and deserted as the second. Several lights had been left burning in this corner or that, but the shadows were winning the battle for territory in the land of Finicky.

  In the kitchen, I went straight to the silverware drawer. I found no knives inside, only forks and spoons. Ms. Finicky kept the nefarious utensils hidden away somewhere and only doled them out when needed, collecting them again when finished. She wasn’t the trusting sort.

  I missed my knife. I made a mental note to retrieve it the next time I ran into Dr. Oglesby. He said he didn’t have it, but I knew he did. I wasn’t fond of liars. Not in the least.

  I went through every other drawer and cabinet in the kitchen, not sure what I was looking for or what I might find. Turns out, I didn’t find much of anything. Kitchen stuff, nothing I hadn’t seen before. Nothing useful.

  The refrigerator hummed.

  I found it odd that Ms. Finicky didn’t keep the refrigerator locked. Aside from mealtimes, Mother always locked our refrigerator—that had been the case my entire life—I assumed all refrigerators came with a lock as standard fare. I opened the door, peered inside at what amounted to nothing as tasty as the Snickers bar already in my possession, and closed it again. The list of our daily chores fluttered, held in place with a heavy magnet, a calendar featuring kittens beside it. A small, red star marked today’s date. Previous days had been crossed out. Many of the other days had red stars, too. I didn’t find any writing to speak of, but the twenty-ninth of August was circled, also in red ink.

  Through the kitchen window, far across the field, the barn loomed. This dark stain on the night sky. The moon looking down on it through a veil of black clouds.

  A moment later, I was out the door and walking toward the barn with no memory of leaving the kitchen.

  28

  Nash

  Day 5 • 10:06 AM

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” Captain Dalton’s face burned so red that Nash felt the heat from across the room.

  He didn’t need this, not now.

  With two flat tires, he had to leave his car parked back on McCormick. If it wasn’t already picked clean and up on blocks, it would be soon. Poole gave him a ride back to Metro in his Jeep—they followed behind the SWAT van holding Bishop, a trail of reporters following them. They found more reporters waiting at the front of Metro; he radioed the van and told them to go around back. More reporters were there, too. Not as many as in front, but enough to block their path, cameras everywhere. They’d draped a black jacket over Bishop’s head as they shuffled him through the crowd and into the building. Dalton had cornered him the moment the door closed at their backs.

  “You kicked a suspect!”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  Oh, that wouldn’t help.

  Dalton somehow grew a shade redder. “The moment Bishop is secured, I want you up in my office!”

  He stomped off before Nash could respond with one of the many arguments that popped into his head—

  He resisted. He taunted me. He threatened the people of our fair city. He wouldn’t give up the virus. He’s Anson Goddamned Bishop—if you put him on the sidewalk, half the city would line up to take a shot. He—

  The truth was, he had no legitimate reason for kicking Bishop, and he knew it. He wished he could take it back, but he couldn’t. Camera or not, it shouldn’t have happened. He’d answer for it, he deserved to, but not right now.

  “Where do you want him?”

  This came from Espinosa, the SWAT agent on Bishop’s right.

  Nash turned to Poole behind him. “You sure about this?”

  Poole nodded.

  Nash eyed him for a moment, then turned back to Espinosa. “Interview Room Two. Across the hall from Porter.”

  Poole waited for them to disappear down the hall, then pulled out his phone and handed it to Nash. “I’m going to get a call from my supervisor wondering why we’re here instead of down at Roosevelt. He may insist we bring Bishop down there. I need you to run some interference and buy time.”

  Nash took the phone. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who disobeys your boss.”

  “As long as he doesn’t give me a direct order, I’m not disobeying anything,” Poole said matter-of-factly. “We’ve only got one chance at questioning these two like this. If Porter is officially arrested, if Bishop is taken into federal custody, it’s over. Outside these walls are a million moving parts all ready to pull this case in different directions. If we want the truth, it’s now or never.”

  Nash knew he was right. They’d discussed it in the car, but that didn’t change the fact that it felt like they were sitting in the middle of several ticking bombs all ready to blow.

  Crowds had started to form in the halls. Law enforcement and staffers all trying to catch a glimpse of Bishop as he passed. Nash and Poole made their way through. They arrived at the interview room as Espinosa was stepping back out. He closed the door behind him and looked at Nash. “He’s secured, in full restraints, not going anywhere, but I’m perfectly happy stationing one or more of my men outside the door here.”

  “Leave two,” Nash told him. “And maybe
clear everyone from this hall?”

  “You got it.”

  Poole told Nash, “You know you can’t go in with me, right?”

  “I figured as much. I’ll be in observation. If I get called out, I’ll leave your phone with one of the SWAT guys.”

  “Keep it on you,” Poole said. “If I can’t find my phone for the next few hours, all the better.”

  With that, Poole opened the door, stepped into the interview room, and closed the door behind him.

  Nash stepped into the observation room.

  He found Anthony Warnick from the mayor’s office already in there standing over the officer operating the recording equipment. They didn’t exchange words. The glance that passed between them was enough.

  Espinosa from SWAT stepped in a moment later and leaned in close to Nash so Warnick couldn’t hear. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

  “Numb right now. I don’t think I’ve processed all this yet.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Brogan called in sick with a 103 fever. His wife said if it goes any higher, she’s taking him to the ER. He came into contact with both those girls at Upchurch’s house before we knew what we were dealing with. I can’t get Tibideaux on the phone at all—that’s not like him—he was one of the first guys through the door there. Do you feel sick?”

  Nash shook his head. The motion only reminded him of the achy feeling in all his bones and joints and the chill he couldn’t shake.

  In the interview room, Poole sat down at the aluminum table with Bishop opposite him. Nobody would move for the next two hours.

  29

  Clair

  Day 5 • 10:07 AM

  The scream came from down the hall on the far side of the cafeteria. Clair ran toward the sound—Stout, Klozowski, and Dr. Barrington on her heels. More people behind them. In the hallway, they found a woman in her twenties with her hands over her mouth and her eyes glued to the restroom door. A cart with cleaning supplies stood beside her. When she saw Clair, she pointed at the door. “In there.”

  Clair took out her gun. “All of you wait here.”