The Sixth Wicked Child

by J. D. Barker

  “We don’t know how big their ‘little circle’ really is,” I pointed out.

  Vincent’s eyes met mine. “And we won’t know until we try to run, until we test their limits.”

  “They’ll kill us,” Paul said. “Think of the pictures in the house. Where do you think those kids are?” He turned back toward the door and looked out over the large field, at the tall blades of grass, weeds, and patches of wheat waving in the wind. “I’ll tell you where—they’re all out there somewhere, eating dirt with Anson’s buddy Bernie. Finicky’s got a revolving door on this place. How many others have we seen come and go? They leave one night and don’t come back. There are hundreds of kids on those walls.”

  I looked up at him. “Last night they argued about taking me to a hospital for my arm. I heard Welderman say if it wasn’t set properly, they’d lose money on the back end. They could have killed me, just like you said, but they didn’t. They were more concerned with making sure there was no permanent damage.”

  Paul’s eyes narrowed. “What, like you can’t sell a car easily if it’s got a dent?”

  I hadn’t thought of it like that, and I don’t think I wanted to.

  Kristina went pale. “They’re planning to sell us? What, so the things they make us do at that motel, that’s not enough? No way. Sell us to who? You guys are crazy.” She’d gotten down off the bumper and began pacing the barn. She kept talking, but I couldn’t make out the rest; she said it too low.

  “August twenty-ninth,” I said in a quiet voice.

  Vincent, who had been watching Kristina, turned back to me. “What?”

  “August twenty-ninth is circled on Finicky’s calendar in the kitchen. Same with Dr. Oglesby’s calendar at his office. Whatever they have planned, that must be the day.”

  “What’s today?”

  This was Libby. She’d been silent through most of the conversation.

  “The eleventh,” Kristina said.

  Libby ran her hand over the plaster cast on my arm. “That’s only eighteen days from now. This won’t heal that fast.”

  “She’s right,” Vincent said. “I broke my arm a few years back, and the cast stayed on for six weeks. No way that thing is coming off in less than three.”

  Paul grunted. “They probably don’t care if it’s completely healed. Sounds like they’re more concerned with healed enough to look normal. The last time mine got broke, the plaster came off in two weeks, and I had to keep it in a sling for another two.” He raised his left arm up over his head and twisted it around. “Healed up fine. I just had to be careful with it.”

  “How many of you have broken bones?” I asked.

  Everyone’s hand went up. Even The Kid leaned out over the edge of the loft and held a hand out.

  “Welcome to foster care, Mr. Bishop,” Paul muttered.

  I’d never broken anything before, and I certainly had no plans to let it happen again. My arm hurt something awful. Not as bad as last night, but still bad.

  “I’ve had six broken bones,” Libby said beside me. “When it happens, they just move you to another foster home, like that’s gonna solve everything. Fill out a couple forms and bury it at the back of your file. Maybe a couple of therapy sessions to sort out the details. I’m sure there are good foster homes out there, but there are lots of bad ones, too.”

  Paul spun an imaginary roulette wheel. “Sometimes you land on black, sometimes you land on red, sometimes your ball stops smack in the middle of black and blue.”

  Vincent broke a clump of dirt off the truck bumper and tossed it at him. “You’re an idiot.”

  Paul sidestepped, and the dirt flew through the open door. “Watch it. I’ve got to stay pretty for the big sale.” He slid his hands down his sides. “I’m not gonna let all this go to some bargain basement shopper.”

  “You’re a serious fucking idiot,” Vincent said, shaking his head.

  “August twenty-ninth,” I said again. “Can you get the truck running before then?”

  Vincent didn’t look up. “I don’t know. I’ve got most of the engine cleaned out. The carburetor was a bitch, but I think I got it. I think the tires are okay, but I won’t know until we try to get air into them, and we can’t do that without a pump. I need to replace a bunch of hoses and belts, the spark plugs—”

  “We got you money,” Kristina pointed out.

  He gave her a sideways glance. “You did. Turns out money isn’t really much of a problem anymore. I found something.” He slid off the bumper and crossed the barn to a stack of crates near the back corner and pulled several away, then tugged at the floorboards. They came up far easier than they should. The rest of us followed over.

  Paul was the first to whistle. “Oh, man.”

  There were dozens of bundles—stacks of cash wrapped in plastic. Some loose, others in bags.

  “Are all of those bags filled with money?” Tegan said quietly, barely audible.

  Vincent blew out a breath. “I wish they were.”

  He grabbed a red backpack and pulled the zipper open. The bag contained girl’s clothing, damp with mildew. “About half are filled with clothes, boys’ and girls’. The rest have money. Might be a few hundred thousand dollars here. I tried to go through everything without disturbing it much. We don’t want them to know we found all this.”

  “From the other kids,” Paul said.

  “Yeah, some of them, anyway.” Vincent sealed up the red backpack and put it back where he found it. “Doesn’t really matter if we have all the money in the world if we can’t buy what we need.”

  “There’s a Discount Auto across the street from the motel, about a quarter block down from the gas station. I saw it last night,” I said.

  Vincent’s eyes were back on the ground. “Yeah, I’ve seen it too. Can’t get to it, though. Not with those guys hovering over us. It might as well be a thousand miles from here.”

  Father would tell me to puzzle it out. He always said every problem has multiple solutions, and even though they may seem distant or impossible to grasp, those solutions were only a thought away.

  Beside me, Libby said, “Who’s going next? To the motel?”

  Kristina pointed up at the loft. “Those two, tonight. Tegan said that’s why Finicky wanted to go to town today. Finicky was mad because nobody told her she was supposed to buy clothes for them. She could have gotten something when she bought that stuff for Anson. Had to run back out today.”

  Turns out, I wouldn’t be the one to puzzle it out. It was Libby.

  73

  Poole

  Day 5 • 9:51 PM

  Poole knew he’d need to make a phone call. Sifting through someone’s discarded life under the radar was one thing, but he was certain there was a body wrapped in that plastic, and that was not something he was prepared to go alone. At a length of only five feet or so, this was either a child, a woman, or someone dismembered. He was fairly certain it had been here as long as the van—the dust told him that. If the van had been here first and the body placed later, the dust wouldn’t be so evenly dispersed. Subtle disturbances, the remains of tracks, that sort of thing would be visible. Aside from his own, he saw none of that.

  There was a good chance Hillburn killed himself because of that body.

  Poole backed up slowly, doing his best to place his feet and knees in his existing tracks to avoid further contaminating the scene. When the dust tickled at the inside of his nose, he sneezed into the crook of his elbow, not once but twice, and he couldn’t help but think about how sick Nash looked the last time he saw him. How Nash had promised it was just a cold or the flu.

  At the green duffle, Poole settled back on his knees and ran the beam of the flashlight over the material. Like everything else inside the van, the dust formed an undisturbed coating—thicker and gray at the top, fading to the original green down the sides. He took several photos from various angles with his phone, then reached for the zipper and forced it open. Inside, he found a light blue dress shirt, black slacks,
a pair of loafers, a dark-colored tie, socks, and underwear. The clothing had been shredded, some torn, other pieces cut, but all in rags. Nearly all of it was covered in dry, crusty blood. Under the clothing, he found an old Canon with a telephoto lens. There was also a black and white composition book identical to Bishop’s diaries held together with a rubber band. The band snapped when Poole tried to peel it off.

  He brought the light closer and peered down at the first few pages.

  Dates, times, random notes and observations. This was some kind of log, possibly from a stakeout. Poole didn’t recognize the handwriting. A closer inspection would be necessary, but from what he recalled, this wasn’t a match for Bishop. He didn’t think it was Porter’s writing, either. Maybe Hillburn, maybe someone else entirely. These things were always difficult with the passage of time. A person’s handwriting was fluid, always evolving. An expert might be able to match similarities with proper study. Inside the bag, there were also three bundles of cash. Hundred-dollar bills. If the number on the band was correct, each bundle held ten thousand dollars.

  Poole stared down at all of this for a moment, then packed everything back in the bag, tugged the zipper closed, and tossed the bag into the front seat before climbing out after it. With the bag in hand, he exited the van. Standing in the driveway, he drew in several breaths of fresh air, then dialed a number.

  “Granger,” a gruff voice answered.

  “Hey, it’s Frank. Are you still out at that lake in Simpsonville?”

  “We wrapped up there a few hours ago. I’m back at the hotel. Why?”

  Poole knew the moment he told SAIC Granger where he was, it would get back to Hurless, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He turned back around, faced the garage, and ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve got a secondary crime scene. It may be connected.”

  “Where?”

  “Charleston. Sam Porter’s old partner.” He explained what he had found.

  Granger took this all in, then said, “Do you have anything tying the Simpsonville body back to Porter? The one at the courthouse?”

  Not yet.

  “No,” Poole replied.

  “We’ll need to reexamine everything from that angle. If Porter is a suspect, we need to reexamine everything.”

  Poole didn’t reply to that. His phone vibrated with another incoming call. He glanced at the display. It read South Carolina State Police. “I need to take this.”

  “Secure the scene—I’ll call the local field office and get a team there. I’ll drive in, but that will take me a few hours,” Granger replied before hanging up.

  Poole accepted the other call. “Special Agent Poole.”

  “This is Lieutenant Miggins with SCSP. My office just picked up an alarm call from that old psychiatric facility, Camden. Possible break-in. Description of a man leaving the scene matches your BOLO for Sam Porter. I’ve got a unit out there right now—he said one of the offices is covered in blood. The lobby, too. No body, no reported injuries… nothing yet, anyway, but it’s clear something bad happened there. I’m heading out there myself but figured best to give you a call first. You’re listed as the contact on the BOLO.”

  “How sure you are you it was Sam Porter?”

  “A security guard called it in—said he recognized Porter from television. 100 percent certain. He said Porter left in a dark SUV, got a partial plate. I’m texting it to you now.”

  Poole looked down at the duffle bag beside him, then into the garage.

  He caught a movement from the corner of his eye—at the end of the driveway. He turned back around. “Lieutenant? Let me call you back in a few minutes.”

  The lieutenant said something else, but Poole hung up.

  The floodlights cast the man in shadow but Poole could tell who it was. He stood silently at the edge of the driveway. “What are you doing here, Sam?”

  Porter took a step closer. “I thought Robin might know something about the night I was shot. Maybe something Derrick told her.”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “I’d like to ask her myself.”

  Poole tried to keep his voice calm. “Maybe you should put the gun away first.”

  Porter’s left arm was extended, pointing some kind of small revolver. .38 or .22—he couldn’t tell from this distance. Poole regretted leaving his gun in Chicago.

  Porter stepped closer. “You’re digging around through someone else’s possessions in the middle of the night. Someplace you have no business being. This has nothing to do with the case.”

  “I have a warrant.”

  “No, you don’t. You wouldn’t be alone.” Porter glanced back at the house. “Where’s Robin? What did you do to her?”

  “She gave me permission. Put the gun down, and we can talk about it.”

  Porter shook his head. “Take out your gun, slow and easy, by the butt, and toss it off into the grass.”

  “I don’t have one on me.” He told him he flew commercial.

  “Take off your jacket, then turn in a slow circle. All the way around.”

  Poole dropped the jacket at his feet, then shuffled through a full turn until he was facing the other man again.

  Porter pointed the gun down toward his ankles. “Lift up the bottom of your pants, both sides.”

  Poole did that, too, showed him he wasn’t carrying any kind of weapon.

  “Those were cuffs, right? Attached to the back of your belt?”

  “You don’t want to go there, Sam. You’re already pointing a gun at a federal agent.”

  “I’m pointing a gun at a rogue law enforcement officer who took advantage of a grieving widow to conduct an unlawful search of her deceased husband’s possessions in the middle of the night.”

  “I’ve got backup on the way. I already called this in.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Then you also know there’s a body in there.” Poole nodded back toward the van.

  “I don’t know anything about that.” He glanced down at the green duffle, squinting as he read his name. “That’s not mine. I hate green. What’s in it?”

  Poole told him.

  “Did you bring that bag with you? Were you about to plant it in the van? That’s what this looks like. You planting evidence.”

  Poole forced himself to maintain eye contact. “Why would I do that? I found it. In the van.”

  “Somebody’s trying to frame me—Bishop, somebody working with Bishop. Maybe multiple people working with Bishop.”

  “I have no reason to frame you, Sam.”

  “I’m not stupid enough to leave a bag with my name on it with a body inside in my partner’s old piece-of-shit van, so how exactly did it get there? Who put it there if it wasn’t you?”

  “It’s been there for a long time. As long as the van’s been parked.”

  “Bishop, then. I haven’t killed anyone.”

  Poole started to lower his arms but froze when he saw Porter’s finger tighten on the trigger. He stared down the barrel. “If you’re not guilty, put the gun away and we can talk.”

  “I’m going to keep the gun on you to make sure you listen. I can’t risk getting locked up right now.”

  “You’re making a big mistake, Sam.”

  Porter waved the revolver. “Take out your handcuffs and put them on. Cuff yourself in the front so I can see.”

  Poole considered running. If he dove to the side, out of the light, he had a chance at hitting the ground and getting to cover before Porter could get off a good shot. Revolvers were only accurate at about ten feet, and Porter was nearly twice that far from him. He had to assume Porter was proficient with firearms, though, not the average shooter, and he seemed oddly calm.

  “You called this in seven minutes ago. The local field office is a little more than twenty minutes away. If agents are coming in from their homes, they might be closer. I’ll give you one minute to do as I say. If you don’t, I’m putting one in your leg and taking you out of this fight. I can’t risk getting locked up rig
ht now,” Porter repeated before glancing up and down the empty street.

  Poole eyed him. “I do this, then what?”

  “I take you with me. We figure this out together.”

  Poole didn’t answer.

  “If I wanted to kill you, I could do it right here, right now. You know that. There are no witnesses. Your team would show up, and I’d be willing to bet they wouldn’t find any forensic evidence. My prints aren’t even on these slugs. I’d be in the wind before you finished bleeding out.”

  “You wouldn’t kill me.”

  This time it was Porter who said nothing.

  Poole reached behind his back.

  Porter’s arm grew stiff. “Slow.”

  Poole’s handcuffs were in a leather case on the backside of his belt. He unsnapped it and took them out. Moving carefully, not willing to spook Porter, he first locked them on his left wrist, then his right.

  “Tighter.”

  Poole did as he asked. If Sam noticed the light turn on in the second-floor window of the Hillburn house, he didn’t acknowledge it. Poole saw a shadow in the window as the curtain moved aside. “Now what?” he asked Porter.

  “Now you get that bag and come with me.”

  Poole nodded and did as he was told.

  74

  Nash

  Day 5 • 10:02 PM

  Nash woke in his car, no recollection of getting behind the wheel. He didn’t even remember leaving Porter’s apartment. He was still parked on Porter’s street; thank God he hadn’t tried to drive. Through the layer of snow on his windshield, he could still see the various Metro cars, federal vehicles, and CSI vans parked about half a block up the road from him. His engine was sputtering, coughing heat through the vents with sporadic gasps. He was thankful he had at least had the good sense to start the car at some point, even if he had no recollection of doing so. Every bone in his body ached. He couldn’t breathe through his nose, and his throat felt like a wild cat spent an hour in there sharpening its claws. It was his phone that had woken him, an incoming call. The iPhone danced in his cup holder as it rang again.

  Klozowski.