The Sixth Wicked Child

by J. D. Barker

  Warnick paced across the tile behind them. “You’re wasting time.”

  “You’re a tool.”

  “Nice,” Warnick chuffed. “With that video of you kicking Bishop in heavy rotation, you’re going to need a friend like me. I’m not someone you want to piss on.”

  “I’m not into that kinky shit, so quit fishing around, asshole.” Nash tilted his head up again, then asked Kloz, “What’s your read on that Stout guy? Do you think he could be involved?”

  “What, like lured her to the stairs so he could hurt her?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kloz bit his lip as he thought this over. “He’s former Metro. Seems like a he was a good cop, but I guess that doesn’t…” His voice trailed off. “I should have checked him out, vetted him, but I just didn’t think about it. He obviously knows this hospital. He’s someone who could have taken her and got her somewhere unseen for sure. He knew the two hospital victims, but so did half the staff. What’s his motive, though? I’m not sure why he’d take her.”

  “Maybe she saw something. Got a little too close.”

  This seemed to rattle Kloz. “At this point, I know more about the case than she does. He may come after me.”

  “We can only hope.”

  “I need a gun,” Kloz said.

  “I’ve seen you shoot. You’ve got no business with a gun.” Nash paused for a moment, then turned to Warnick. “Are you carrying a gun?”

  Warnick took several steps back. “He’s not taking mine.”

  “What do you have?”

  “.380.”

  “Are you licensed? Show me your license.”

  “Of course.”

  The moment Warnick reached for his back pocket, Nash pounced. Leading with his elbow, he slammed into Warnick’s stomach, knocking the air out of him. With his free hand, he reached under the man’s jacket, got the gun, and pressed the barrel under Warnick’s chin. Warnick dropped his wallet and reached for Nash’s arm with both hands. Nash dug the barrel deeper into the other man’s skin. “Don’t.”

  Warnick’s hands fell to his side. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  Klozowski’s eyes were wide. “I don’t need a gun, Nash. It’s fine. Let him keep it.”

  Nash leaned in closer to Warnick, twisting the .380. “203. WF15 3k LM. What does that mean to you?”

  Warnick said nothing.

  Nash thumbed off the safety. “When I asked the woman at Carmine’s Pizza about it, she told me to ask you, so I’m asking you. What does it mean?”

  Warnick slowly caught his breath. If he was even slightly frightened, he didn’t show any outward sign. “What do you think it means?”

  “White female, fifteen-years-old, three thousand dollars, with the initials L.M., maybe Libby McInley,” Nash told him. “Someone is selling kids.”

  “How do you know what it means?” Warnick said calmly.

  “Because I work in law enforcement, and I’ve seen this kind of thing far more often than anyone should.”

  Warnick tried to nod, but the gun under his chin made the movement difficult. “And I know what it means because I work for the mayor’s office, and we monitor everything law enforcement does. I see the same reports you do. More, actually. Human trafficking in this city is a problem.”

  “I think you’re part of the problem. I think you’re profiting from it.”

  “Well, you’re wrong about that.”

  “I think the mayor is profiting from it too. That’s why Bishop took him and left the photos.”

  “Bishop didn’t leave the photos. The woman working with Porter did. If the mayor was part of something like that, I’d know about it. He’s not.”

  “Why would some two-bit madam running an escort service tell me you were?”

  Warnick waved dismissively, sucked in a little more air. “Because she’s a two-bit madam running an escort service. She knows my name, knows you would know my name, so she threw a bone in your direction to get you off her back. This is someone who has spent a lifetime manipulating men. She’s good at it. She played you, Detective. She played on your stupidity and misplaced judgement. You just can’t see that.”

  The two men stared at each other for nearly a minute, neither willing to break eye contact. Nash finally lowered the gun. “I’m giving this to Kloz because I don’t trust you. I will figure out how you’re involved in all this, and I’ll take you down. You try something stupid, and I’ll shoot you myself. I would absolutely love to shoot you, so please, give me a reason.”

  Warnick leaned closer and straightened his jacket. “Are you done?”

  Nash flicked the safety back on and handed the gun to Kloz.

  Kloz pinched it between two fingers. “Seriously?”

  “Tuck it in your pants and try not to shoot yourself. You may need it.”

  Kloz stared at the weapon for a moment, first put it down the front of his pants, shuffled awkwardly, then moved the gun to his back, slipping it under his belt so it stayed in place. “This isn’t very comfortable.”

  Nash ignored him and looked back up the stairwell. “Could Stout have left the hospital and gotten back inside unnoticed? Could anyone?”

  Kloz quit fiddling with the gun and attempted to stand up straight. “That was Clair’s first thought too. She brought up those old bootlegging tunnels under the city and said Bishop used them to move around undetected for years. She searched the basement but didn’t find anything.”

  “She searched the basement? Alone?”

  “Well, no. Stout was with her, two or three security guards, and a maintenance guy she said worked down there. Ernest Skow, I think his name was. They all looked.”

  “If Stout or one of the security guards is involved, they might have just pretended to look. Maybe even steered her clear of a tunnel until she gave up.”

  “I suppose.”

  Nash nodded at Warnick and pointed down the stairs. “You first.”

  Warnick frowned. “Then give me my gun back.”

  “You can either walk down or I can push you, your call.”

  “How do I know you’re not working with Porter and planning on killing me down there?”

  Nash smiled. “That’s an excellent suggestion. I like where your head’s at. Or maybe we’ll find your mayor. Either way, you’re going first. There’s no way you’re walking behind us.”

  “Your career is so over,” Warnick finally said before turning and starting down the steps.

  102

  Clair

  Day 6 • 5:12 AM

  “Goddamn, baby Jesus, son of a whore, come on!”

  Clair jumped for the fourth time and missed for the fourth time.

  “What are you doing in there?” the mayor said, his voice muffled.

  Clair glanced over at the vent, swore under her breath, then turned her attention back to the fluorescent light fixture above her. She jumped again, swung, and missed.

  “Fuck me,” she grumbled.

  She’d taken her shoelaces and tied them together to make one long rope. Holding one end in each hand, she swung the giant looped lace above her head and tried to catch it around the corner of the light fixture. There was only about a half inch of space between the fixture and the ceiling, and the laces kept missing, sliding over the metal, or falling short. The ceilings here were around ten or eleven feet.

  She tried again.

  Again.

  Her strength was far from normal, and she was beginning to feel like she might pass out. She bent over for a moment, rested her hands on her knees, and drew in a deep breath.

  Clair closed her eyes, forced her brain to visualize the lace flying through the air just right, catching the light fixture. She pictured this over and over, and when she felt she had it perfect in her head, she counted down from three and tried again.

  And missed.

  “Dammit!” she shouted.

  The mayor must have been watching her through the vent, because he said, “You’re swinging too fast. Instead of
swinging when you push off, wait a half beat, then try.”

  “What?”

  “I can see it—you’re jumping and swinging at the same time, you’re swinging too fast and not getting enough height. You’re close, but you keep coming up a little short.”

  Clair sighed, bent at the knees again, coiled the lace—

  “Put the lace behind your back, then swing it up over your head, like you’re jumping rope.”

  Clair turned to the vent. “Anything else?”

  “Nope, that should do it.”

  Knees still bent, Clair positioned the long lace behind her back, one end in each hand.

  Like jumping rope.

  She pushed off the ground, waited, then swung the lace up from behind her back, up over her head. The loop caught the top of the light, in the small space between the fixture and the ceiling, and when she came back down to the ground, she pulled the fixture with her. She felt the screws tear from the drywall, felt the fixture swing down in a heavy arch, and somehow managed to get below it as it swung down and toward the door, cracked against it, and swung back, suspended above the ground on a long coil of wires. One of the fluorescent tubes shattered with the pop of a gunshot. The other flickered momentarily but remained in place, remained lit. Dust rained down from above, and Clair coughed.

  “Told you,” the mayor said. “Now what?”

  Clair reached up and steadied the swinging fixture. She studied the way it was wired. Her father had been an electrician, and when she was younger, he’d drag her to the various side projects he’d pick up on nights and weekends to help make ends meet beyond his work with Carmichael Electric. Typically, little jobs for people around the neighborhood. Fifty dollars here, a hundred dollars there…every bit helped. Clair had hated it; she’d much rather have spent that time with her friends. Growing up on the South Side, the last place her father wanted her was out with friends. He’d put her to work sometimes, taught her the basics, and while she wasn’t a fan at the time, she was grateful as she grew older and realized she was perfectly capable of understanding and performing many of the tasks people like her neighbors would hire out to people like her father. Looking down at the backside of the fluorescent light fixture, she found exactly what she expected—the two four-foot bulbs were wired in series, and the electrician who installed the fixture had left a substantial amount of spare wire coiled at the top on the off chance someone would want to reposition the fixture somewhere else in the room at some later date. Splitting the wire would require the installation of a junction box, but this was cleaner and safer. The fixture itself also had nearly eight feet of wiring inside—more than enough.

  Clair traced the white wire through the fixture, found the soldered connection, and tore it free. The light went dark, and the room was lit only by light streaming in through the small window in the metal door.

  There was a metal hook centered at the top of the door, meant to hold a jacket. Clair squeezed the tip of the wire between the door and hook, then wrapped the long shoelace around both as tight as she could to secure both in place. Because the door opened into the room, there was enough slack in the wire. The hook was above the window, so she was fairly certain her handiwork was not visible from the outside.

  She went back to the light fixture and pulled out the black wire. She tugged out as much slack as she could, managed to stretch it to the floor. With the mayor’s nail in hand, Clair took off her shoe, knelt down on the ground, and used the shoe to pound the nail into a crack in the floor. Not all the way, just enough so it was standing straight up and immobile, about a foot in front of the door. She then took the black wire from the light and coiled the exposed copper around the nailhead.

  Returning to the light fixture, still dangling from the ceiling by several screws and torn drywall, Clair grabbed both sides and yanked it down. She placed it in the corner off to the left of the door, out of sight.

  “What exactly are you doing in there? I can’t see,” the mayor asked.

  “Creating a circuit. The black wire is hot and the white wire is neutral. The door’s metal, so it should conduct electricity. If this works, when he opens the door and the frame of the door contacts the nail with black wire, the circuit should complete. As long as he’s still holding the doorknob, he’ll be part of that circuit. This won’t be enough to kill him, but it should stun him.”

  Clair found her water bottle and poured out the contents, forming a puddle at the door where the man had stood earlier. Can’t hurt to have a Plan B.

  The mayor thought about this for a moment. “What about his gloves, won’t they protect him?”

  Shit. Maybe. I don’t know.

  The broken fluorescent bulb was lying at her feet. She scooped that up and studied the jagged glass edge.

  A Plan C couldn’t hurt, either.

  103

  Porter

  Day 6 • 5:23 AM

  Porter put all the photographs back in the envelope. He couldn’t look at them anymore.

  He grabbed the green duffle bag from the seat across the aisle and stuffed the envelope inside it, buried the photos under the filthy, bloodstained clothes. He recognized the blue shirt, black slacks, loafers, even the tie. He’d been wearing all of it the night he was shot. He didn’t know how they ended up in this bag, hidden in Hillburn’s van for all these years. He wasn’t sure how they got shredded, either, but he suspected they’d cut the clothing from his body at the hospital.

  The composition book seemed familiar, too, but that might be because it was the same kind Bishop used for all his diaries. Those diaries had occupied Porter’s every waking thought for months. He flipped through the pages, read some of the text—dates, times, observations—most written in some kind of shorthand. His gut told him it was a logbook of some sort—14F, 1k, CH. Paid.

  Fourteen-year-old female, one thousand dollars, Carriage House.

  The word paid was followed by a checkmark on some, the initials DB on others.

  Dozens of entries, more of the same.

  DB…debit?

  Porter had no idea why that popped into his head, but it did.

  Some paid when services were rendered, others carried a balance. The good customers, the repeat customers, were permitted the use of credit.

  He found the name Tegan on one page.

  Porter uncapped the pen again and brought the tip to the page. He wrote the name Tegan beside the original.

  He didn’t have to be an expert to recognize his handwriting was close but not a precise match. He didn’t remember writing it.

  Not a log. A receipt book. A record of transactions.

  My record of transactions?

  Porter closed the book and shoved it back into the bag, crammed it under the clothing with the photographs, cash, all of it. He put the diaries in there too.

  His file from Camden was gone. Bishop’s too.

  Dammit, Poole.

  The jet lurched as the wheels chirped against the tarmac. Wingflaps extended and the airbrakes screamed.

  As instructed, he powered up the phone and it rang immediately.

  Unknown.

  “What?”

  “Welcome to Chicago, Sam. Sorry I had to go.”

  Sarah.

  “Why did you run?”

  “You know why.”

  “I’m sick of this cryptic bullshit.”

  “That’s just the guilt talking,” she replied. “Guilt eats at you, devours you from the inside. That’s what that pain you’re feeling in your stomach is. Admitting your crimes is the first step in healing, moving beyond. Are you ready to do that?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “So you still don’t remember?”

  I remember some.

  “No.”

  “You ran those kids, Sam. You, your partner Hillburn, Stocks, Welderman, all of you. You sold them for sex. Children. Sold them to anyone willing to pay. The Carriage House Inn was your primary location in Charleston. That’s where you operated. Stocks
and Welderman provided the transportation. Hillburn stayed close to ensure the transaction went smooth, and you watched from a distance as backup. You kept the other cops away, the few good ones who came sniffing around. Once each year, those children were brought to Chicago—the less fortunate ones were sold into the larger trafficking market, the others went back to Finicky’s. You brought my boy into that mess—that’s your sin. That’s why Heather died. That’s why you were shot.”

  Hurry, they’re coming.

  “You’re full of shit.”

  Sarah sighed. “Is there a television in that fancy plane of yours?”

  Porter fought the urge to hang up and glanced around the cabin. A thirty-six inch monitor hung on the wall near the closed cockpit door.

  “Turn it on,” Sarah said before he even told her there was one.

  Velcro held the remote in place on the table. Porter picked it up and pressed the power button.

  “Find a news channel.”

  Porter looked around the cabin. “Can you see me right now?”

  “Find a news channel,” she repeated, ignoring his question.

  Porter flipped through the various networks. It didn’t take him long to find what she wanted him to see. He turned up the volume.

  Through fluttering snow highlighted by bright lights and the rising sun, a reporter stood in a parking lot crowded with people. The wind caught his dark hair, and he brushed it back. “…started gathering about three hours ago. Although temperatures are hovering in the teens, they seem completely unperturbed. While some are here answering Anson Bishop’s call for support, others only want to witness whatever happens, the numbers continue to grow with the size of the crowd becoming problematic. We’ve seen a large influx of law enforcement personnel as well as federal, local, and state employees all attempting to secure the scene here at the Guyon in anticipation of Bishop’s surrender, now less than two hours away. Citizens have torn down fencing and moved barricades aside in an effort to get closer, but the building itself appears to still be sealed. There’s been talk of closing off the surrounding streets, but that idea was shot down because those in charge appear to have no idea how Bishop plans to get to the Guyon. They don’t want to risk blocking his passage or compromising his surrender.”