The Sixth Wicked Child

by J. D. Barker

  Poole found himself chasing after him, the handcuffs chafing his wrists.

  80

  Clair

  Day 5 • 10:14 PM

  Clair had fallen asleep, and she wasn’t happy about that. It was the damn virus, this foreign invader who had taken up residence in her flesh before commandeering resources and energy and leaving her to starve. She’d given up telling herself she’d be okay. She knew her fever had crept up to record levels—she felt like she was standing naked in the Arctic under a fan yet she was dripping with sweat. How her body was able to sweat, she had no idea. She was incredibly thirsty, probably dehydrated, yet her body betrayed her by expelling the water she so desperately needed. Her throat was a raw, angry beast not only from sickness but from the yelling. The yelling made her feel better, like she was doing something about her situation, although she was certain the only other person who could hear her was the man moaning next door.

  He’d gone quiet shortly before she fell asleep (passed out, actually, but that meant surrender, and she wasn’t about to admit to that, not even to herself). Prior to that, his own screams had peaked at a horrifying crescendo before tapering off, becoming something just a little worse than weeping, then the moans, then nothing.

  At some point, Clair wondered if the man in the black mask was out in the hallway listening to their chorus, and that’s when she finally stopped. If he took pleasure in their suffering, she had no intention of feeding the degenerate asshole’s appetite.

  Clair had discovered a vent in her room a few hours ago, and that vent seemed to be connected to the moaning man’s room next door. It was too small for her to climb through, but when she leaned down next to it, she could hear him again, muffled sobs. “Hey? Can you hear me?”

  The sobs stopped momentarily, then a weak voice replied, “Who are you?”

  This took Clair by surprise. She’d tried talking to him several times, but he’d never answered. She tried to clear her throat and immediately regretted that decision. It felt like someone shoved a Brillo Pad down her windpipe and yanked it back out. “My name is Detective Clair Norton with Chicago Metro. Who are you?”

  “She cut off my ear. That fucking cunt took my ear. I need a doctor.”

  She?

  “Who? Are you saying the person holding us here is a woman?”

  “The bitch from the escort service. Had to be her. She tied me up, that was all good, but then she stuck me with something, knocked me out. My ear is gone. Christ, it hurts.”

  Escort service? What was he talking about?

  “Does anyone know you’re here?” Clair asked, not sure she really wanted to hear the answer.

  “I don’t… Do you know where we are? I was at the Langham. I don’t know what this place is. I woke up here.”

  “The Langham Hotel?”

  “Yeah. My staff must be looking for me, right? You said you’re with Metro. Are they looking for me? Wait, you’re locked up, too. Were they looking for me before the crazy bitch grabbed you?”

  “Are you sure it was a woman?”

  “Are you calling me some kind of queer? Of course, she was a woman. I don’t go that way, and I can sure as shit tell the difference.”

  Dick.

  Grating. Egotistical. Clair knew his voice. Through the fever, it took a moment for her to make the connection, but she’d heard him on television more times than she could count. Old-school Chicago accent. “Mayor Milton?”

  His voice came louder— he must have moved closer to the vent. “She said her name was Sarah. I thought that was weird. They typically have names like Brandy or Hope or Tiffany. Sarah was different. She was different. A little older than the usual girl, a woman, really, but I didn’t send her back. I figured with age came experience. Maybe she’d be a little more fun than the others, a little more open. Then the bitch stuck me.”

  This was not the kind of thing Clair usually heard coming from the mayor, and she could live a perfectly full life without hearing another word of it, even if that life was extinguished soon. She felt so shitty. If her captor were to come in and offer to end things, Clair wasn’t so sure she’d fight that hard.

  “What did she look like?”

  The mayor grunted. “I don’t know. Short. Dark hair.”

  “Sarah what? Did she give you a last name?”

  “Ha. That’s funny. Yeah, she gave me her last name, showed me pictures of her kids. We talked about her goals and ambitions and climate change. It wasn’t that kind of party, Detective.” He dropped off for a second. “This is all off the record. Every word. You can’t repeat any of it to anyone, understand? You do, and I’ll have your badge. I’m only telling you in case it helps you get us out of here.”

  Clair gave him the finger. She knew he couldn’t see her, but it still felt good. “Tell me about the room you’re in.”

  “Stone walls. Concrete floor. Metal door with a small window. There’s this little vent on the floor, the one we’re talking through. Other than that, no ventilation.”

  Same.

  “Is your ear still bleeding?”

  “I don’t think so. She bandaged it.”

  “Leave that on. You don’t want to aggravate the wound.”

  “Sure thing, Nurse Nightingale. How about you focus on getting us out, and I’ll worry about my medical needs. I don’t suppose you have your gun, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You let them take you, take away your weapon, lock you up. You’re no better off than me. They got me when I was vulnerable, took advantage of me, but you’ve got training. You’re a cop. Obviously not a very good one, or you wouldn’t have let it happen.”

  “You’re not building a very compelling case for helping you,” Clair replied.

  “No, but you will. You’ll do your job. You don’t, and you’ll find yourself waiting tables if you get out of here.”

  Clair was beginning to wish she hadn’t spoken to him at all. She liked him better when he was screaming. “You said them. Did you see more than one?”

  The lights went out.

  All of them.

  Her room. The hallway. The other side of the vent.

  She heard a door open but not her door.

  “No!” the mayor said. “Don’t! Get the fuck away from me!”

  The mayor screamed again, louder than the first time. That wasn’t what frightened Clair, though. What frightened her was how abruptly those screams stopped.

  81

  Diary

  We woke to a clatter. Something horrible downstairs. When I heard the first shout, I thought I imagined it. My eyes snapped open, and at first I wasn’t sure where I even was. Libby stirred beside me. Her naked body was pressed against my own, her leg curled over my waist.

  It was Welderman who was shouting. Someone was crying, too. At first, I didn’t realize it was The Kid. He rarely spoke. I never heard him laugh. I certainly never heard him cry.

  “Oh no,” Libby said softly. She sat up, holding the sheet over her breasts.

  The two of us scrambled out of bed and into our clothes. When we opened Libby’s door, we found Paul across the hall, leaning out of our room. He’d been staring in the direction of the stairs, and when he faced us, he was ghostly white and his mouth hung open. His eyes bounced from me to Libby and back again, and I’m not sure if he looked that way because of us, because of something he heard downstairs, or both.

  “What’s going on?” I said as quietly as I could.

  Before he could answer, Finicky shouted up the stairs. “All of you—down here, now!”

  “Oh no, no, no,” Paul stammered.

  Libby squeezed my shoulder. “They must have found the note. The money. We’re dead.”

  “They won’t hurt us,” I reassured her. “They need us, remember?”

  This didn’t seem to make her feel
any better.

  Tegan and Kristina came out of their room, both yawning. Tegan wore a white robe, and Kristina was in a loose T-shirt and pink shorts.

  “What time is it?” Tegan asked.

  Paul glanced back over his shoulder. “Quarter after four in the morning.”

  “Now! Goddamnit!”

  This was Welderman.

  Vincent’s door opened—he had a wrench in his hand.

  Kristina’s eyes narrowed. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Whatever I have to.” He tucked the wrench into the back of his jeans and pulled the top of his shirt over it, then started down the stairs.

  The rest of us followed after him. About halfway down, Tegan leaned in close to me. “Did you get some?”

  Libby shot her a dirty look. Neither of us answered.

  We found them all in the parlor. Well, almost all.

  “Sit,” Welderman instructed. “Not a fucking word out of any of you.” His coat was open, and I could see the gun under his shoulder. Some kind of revolver.

  We worked our way around the room. Libby and I sat on the couch with Paul. Kristina and Tegan sat on an armchair together, the two of them holding hands. At first, Vincent remained standing, but when Welderman’s eyes landed on him, he pulled a wooden chair out from under the desk and lowered himself into it. I expected the wrench to drop out the back of his jeans and clatter to the floor, but it didn’t.

  Welderman and Ms. Finicky stood in the doorway leading toward the kitchen. Welderman’s free hand was on Weasel’s shoulder. Stocks wasn’t there. Neither was The Kid.

  82

  Poole

  Day 5 • 10:41 PM

  The CVS parking lot was empty, all lights off. This was the third place they’d stopped in hopes of developing the film.

  Porter drove.

  There was a moment when Poole followed him out of the alley at a run, when he considered fleeing, but that instant passed when Porter got behind the wheel and reached over to the passenger door and opened it for Poole from the inside of the SUV. He didn’t think Porter would hurt him, but he kept reminding himself that he might. Something about his actions, the crazed look behind his wide eyes. This could all be part of some kind of elaborate ruse. If Porter was somehow responsible for the dead body in that van, he’s had years to develop a cover story. If that were somehow true, if Porter really was responsible for all these deaths, he could turn on him in an instant. Poole also knew that if he let the man slip from his sights, he’d vanish. Sticking with him, seeing this through, was his only shot at bringing Porter in. And he fully intended to bring him in.

  Poole had gotten in the SUV and pulled the door shut with his cuffed hands, knowing in that instant an unspoken trust formed between them. A trust he could use.

  A Walgreens parking lot, also closed.

  “Dammit,” Porter muttered, looking up at the dark sign.

  “I’m not sure these places can even develop film anymore. I think they send it off somewhere.”

  Porter threw the SUV in reverse and squealed out of the lot, nearly sideswiping a white Toyota as he pulled back into traffic. “The one down the street from my apartment does. Heather refused to use a digital camera for important stuff. She said the camera on her phone could never compare to 35mm. I think I still have a coupon on the fridge for developing.”

  “You need to slow down a little.”

  Porter swung into the right lane. His hand absentmindedly swiped at the turn-signal knob on the steering wheel about a half second after he made the switch. Someone behind them held their hand down on their horn for nearly thirty seconds. “What were you implying back there? Are you saying Hillburn somehow planted that memory in my head?”

  Poole rubbed at his handcuffed wrist. “It’s called suggested cognition. For a very short moment, when the mind is coming out of a sleep state, the door between the conscious and subconscious is wide open. You know how when you wake up from a dream for a split second everything about that dream feels real? Then you realize you were sleeping and the thoughts are properly categorized as fiction or forgotten altogether. Your brain is capable of determining that information is false because your brain created the dream. If you’re exposed to external information when that door is open, regardless of the source, your brain can improperly categorize. You’re not quite awake, so you don’t necessarily remember the experience, but your brain stores it anyway, stores it as a memory. This is one of the reasons most repressed sexual experiences discovered during hypnotherapy sessions have been debunked—the therapist unknowingly planted false memories when the subject’s mind was open to suggestion. Whether intentional or not, Hillburn telling you what happened in that instant when you woke may have planted that memory.”

  “Or all of that might just be coincidence, and I’m remembering it wrong now.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or I’m lying to you about what I’m remembering to try and cover my own ass.”

  The bluntness took Poole by surprise. “Yeah, or that.”

  A phone rang. Porter removed a burner from the center console before he realized the sound wasn’t coming from there. He turned to Poole, his face growing dark. “Do you have another phone?”

  Poole saw no reason to lie. “I carry a personal phone and one issued by the Bureau. The one you destroyed was my FBI phone.”

  “Christ, do I need to strip search you? Hand it over, now. Don’t answer. Take it out with two fingers and hand it to me.”

  Poole did what he asked. He removed the Samsung from his jacket pocket and passed it over to Porter as it rang for the third time.

  Porter answered the call on speaker with his best impression. “Poole.”

  “This is Granger. Is he with you?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Okay, don’t say anything. Hillburn’s widow recognized Porter from television. News that Weidner’s body was found at his apartment has gone national, so his photo is everywhere. When your phone went dark, alarms went off. We’re tracking GPS on this line right now. We just missed you back on Cumberland. I’ve got them holding back out of line of sight. I’ve got a chopper inbound. We’re not sure which vehicle—”

  Porter lowered his window and tossed the phone out as they rolled through a yellow light at the intersection of Klondike and Mortin Avenue. He then swung a hard right and doubled back the way they came and quickly took a ramp onto I-526.

  The burner phone had fallen to the floor during the turn. Porter reached down and scooped it up, shot Poole another dirty look, then dialed a number. Poole didn’t recognize the male voice who answered. Porter said, “We’re coming in hot.”

  “Understood. Get as close as possible.”

  Porter disconnected the call, tapped out a text message, and dropped the phone back into the center console before turning back to Poole with a scowl. “That was really stupid.”

  “You would have done the same thing.”

  “Give me your identification.” His free hand had slipped back into his jacket pocket, the one with the gun.

  “Why?”

  “Badge, ID, driver’s license. Give me all of it. Right now.”

  “Sam, I don’t think—”

  “Give me all of it, right fucking now!”

  Poole took his badge and FBI ID from his jacket pocket and handed it to Porter, then he pulled out his wallet, removed his driver’s license, and handed that over, too. Porter threw it all out the window.

  “That was another mistake,” Poole told him.

  “Seems I’m making a lot of those lately.” He rolled the window back up and increased speed. “What did they find in my apartment?”

  Poole told him about Weidner’s body, the pieces of drywall. He held nothing back.

  Porter listened without speaking. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror. When Poole looked in his own mirror, he saw it too—a South Carolina State Trooper, three car lengths back. He wasn’t sure how long the car had been there.

  83
<
br />   Poole

  Day 5 • 10:53 PM

  “You should just pull over, Sam. Turn yourself in before someone else gets hurt.”

  Porter glanced in the rearview mirror. The state trooper had fallen back four car lengths but was still behind them, one lane over. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “If you’re innocent, we’ll figure this out.”

  Porter had both hands on the wheel again, no longer holding the gun. He nodded over his shoulder. “There are two file folders on the floor in the back seat. Put them both in that green duffle and be ready to move.”

  The SUV was picking up speed again. Poole wasn’t sure he wanted to unfasten his seat belt.

  “Do it now!”

  “Try not to kill us until I’m back in my seat.” Poole released the belt and twisted awkwardly between the two front seats. He saw the folders on the floor behind Porter, reached down with both hands, fell forward, then braced himself with both hands before tumbling completely over. “This would be a lot easier if you’d take off the cuffs.”

  “Hold on.” Porter jerked the wheel hard to the right and shot across three lanes of traffic toward another exit.

  Poole pushed himself up high enough to see the state trooper attempt the same maneuver behind them, but he was too slow. He shot past the exit, braked, and started backing up before disappearing from view. “If they weren’t following you before, they definitely are now.” He scooped up the two folders and fell back into his seat. A sign for the Charleston Airport flew by on the right. “Where are we going?”

  “Shit, shit, shit.” Porter’s eyes were on the mirror again. No sign of the state trooper, but there were two Charleston PD cars behind them. Their lights were off, but that could change. They were on an airport perimeter road. The speed limit dropped to twenty miles-per-hour. Porter had slowed to just a little above that. Some vehicles peeled away for ramps leading toward long and short-term parking, but for every car that left, it seemed three more merged in to replace them. Traffic grew thick as they neared the terminals, and the patrol cars fell back. Another Charleston PD car pulled in from an access road a few hundred feet ahead of them. Porter spotted another already in his lane a quarter mile up. “They’re going to try and box us in.”