The Sixth Wicked Child

by J. D. Barker

  After crossing the bridge from Portsmouth to New Castle Island, he drove slowly through the charming old-world neighborhood, through the center of the island, and followed the signs to the Great Island Common, a quaint park on the shore of the Atlantic. There were only a handful of cars there, most likely belonging to the several joggers or the mothers with their children on the playground.

  Bishop got out and walked to one of the benches along the water’s edge. He drew in the salty fall air, savored it a moment, then took a seat next to a man reading the morning paper. The headline read: CHICAGO DETECTIVE IN 4MK CASE RELEASED, ON INDEFINITE SUSPENDED LEAVE.

  The man beside him turned the page and crossed his legs. He wore the most hideous red and green argyle sweater and glasses that made him appear far older than he probably was. When he looked up from the paper and out at the churning ocean waves, he took them off and let them dangle around his neck on a silver chain. “Beautiful view.”

  Bishop fought back the urge to smile. “You look ridiculous.”

  The man shrugged. “I thought you might help me say good-bye to Victor Wittenberg, Ph.D., before I burn the outfit.” He raised the glasses and slipped them over the bridge of his nose. “I’ve grown rather fond of these.”

  “It’s good to see you, Father.”

  “You too, Anson.” He glanced down at his watch. “You’re twelve minutes early.”

  “I’m sorry.” Bishop said this before he realized it wasn’t a criticism, simply his father pointing out the time.

  His father waved a hand dismissively. He folded the newspaper and set it down between them but continued to look out over the water. “I’m proud of you, son. I know that’s not something you’ve heard from me as much as you should have growing up, but I am. I’m proud of the man you’ve become and all that you’ve accomplished.” He patted the newspaper. “All of this, the people you took down. The world is a better place with you in it.”

  “The world is a cesspool.”

  “Less so now.”

  “Maybe.”

  Bishop’s father tapped the newspaper. “I haven’t seen any mentions of the bodies in our lake, not in the press anyway.”

  Bishop’s gaze had found a sailboat about a quarter mile off shore, bobbing in the water near an old lighthouse on a tiny rocky island. “Klozowski said they identified Mr. Carter, Welderman, and Stocks. They suspect Oglesby is another, but they don’t have DNA to make a match. The other two are a mystery to them, at least for now.”

  Father sighed. “You’re mother certainly had a temper back then.”

  They both fell silent for a moment. Then Bishop said, “Have you forgiven her? For running away with Mrs. Carter and Kirby?”

  He seemed to consider this for a long time, then nodded softly. “I think we both realized we’d come to an end. We were together for you, not each other, not anymore. The glue holding a relationship needs to be stronger than that. If things hadn’t ended when they did, I might have become number seven in that lake.” He fidgeted with the corner of the newspaper and grinned. “If you hadn’t already killed me in that little book of yours, that is. My clever boy.”

  “You look terrible in Christmas colors, Gerald.”

  Bishop and his father both looked to their left. They hadn’t heard her walk up.

  “Hello, Mother,” Bishop said.

  She wore a J. Crew sweater over a Loft dress. She’d lightened her hair to a dirty blonde. The color looked good on her.

  She smiled out over the water. “This is gorgeous, Gerald. You’ve been holding out on us.”

  “I go by Warren now. Warren Cray. I moved here about a year after Simpsonville. I tried a few other places along the way, but something about the sea has always drawn me. I own a small antique store in town now, going on twelve years. A quiet life. I like it.”

  “I’m looking forward to a quiet life,” she said.

  Father stood and looked her over. “You look well.”

  Mother smiled and hugged him. “You too. It’s been too long.”

  Someone honked a horn behind them, three long chirps. Anything but quiet.

  A golden retriever running with his owner barked twice.

  Bishop knew that horn. “I’m not the only one who’s early.”

  The three of them turned to see a white Ford Mustang with a black racing stripe down the center rolling toward them through the parking lot. The car came to a stop at a short fence a few feet behind the bench. Vincent Weidner got out of the driver’s side and stretched. “Had to jump the battery. She’s been sitting in storage for so long. Ran like a dream once we got out on the highway, though.”

  Bishop stood from the bench and walked over. “You look good, for a dead man.”

  “Not the only one, I see,” Vincent said, nodding at Father. He jerked a thumb back at the car. “This guy sang half the trip. I’m never driving with him again. When he wasn’t singing, he was screwing with his laptop. Nobody knows how to enjoy a road trip anymore.”

  “It’s not a laptop. It’s an Alienware 17 with an eighth-generation processor and GTX video. Don’t insult my hardware,” a voice called out from the car. “I’ve got a lot of balls in the air. I need to stay on top of things for a little longer.” The passenger door opened. Edwin Klozowski stepped out of the Mustang and nodded. “Hey, Anson.”

  “Hey, Kid.”

  134

  Bishop

  Day 203 • 9:58 AM

  “You shaved your head?”

  Klozowski ran his hand over his smooth skull, his long hair gone. “This is my Breaking Bad look. I’m still working on the goatee.”

  “Nobody’s looking for you. Not anymore. That was a big explosion.”

  Kloz looked embarrassed. “I may have overestimated the C4. They still haven’t found my body in that mess. I went through all that trouble to swap out DNA and fingerprints, and they don’t even have a thumb to match.”

  “They’ll find something; give them time.”

  “Doubt it.”

  Vincent came up behind him and squeezed Klozowski’s shoulders. “I, for one, am a fan of being dead. Student loan debt, gone. Credit card debt, gone. Ex-girlfriends, gone.”

  Mother had walked up, Father behind her. She was eyeing Klozowski’s bald head. “You’re sure about this?”

  Kloz nodded. “I combed every possible identification database and changed out every bit of information for all of us right down to old driver’s license photos on file at the DMV. The bodies we left match the lives we’re all leaving behind on every level. As far as the world is concerned, we’re all dead. All except for Anson, and he’s free and clear on double jeopardy.”

  “With everyone associated with BackPage either dead or in hiding, nobody is going to miss the few former employees we used here, the ones you swapped for us,” Father said. “The police and FBI look so bad at this point, they’ll do anything to make all of this go away. Nobody is digging, not anymore.”

  Reaching into the Mustang, Klozowski removed several leather-bound packages, each tagged with a name. He placed two on the roof of the car and handed the others out. “That’s your new identification and credit cards. Bank accounts and credit histories are all established. I set each of us up with multiple banks. Funds are courtesy of the coffers at BackPage. I cleaned them out.” He looked at Mother. “When added to the money you and Lisa Carter took from Talbot back in the day, we have nearly four million dollars each.”

  Somehow, the smile on Vincent’s face grew larger.

  Father produced a small bottle of Jameson whiskey from a coat pocket. “I’d like to propose a toast.”

  “I don’t drink,” Bishop said.

  “You do today, son.”

  Father uncapped the bottle and held it up between them. The edge of his lips curled in a smile as he looked at his son. “You cleaned house, champ. Eye for an eye.” He studied the faces of Klozowski, Vincent, and Mother. “All of you. I couldn’t be more proud.” He raised the bottle to his lips and took a hearty
drink, then handed it Bishop.

  Bishop looked down at the bottle for a moment, at the whiskey glistening on the lip. He handed the bottle back to his father. “Hold this for a moment.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he took out a piece of paper and unfolded it, held the drawing up so the others could see. The drawing was of a girl about fourteen wearing a red sweater, a mischievous little smile and a glisten in her eye. “A Paul Upchurch original. Maybelle Markel.”

  “You know that’s Tegan, right?” Vincent said, smiling down at the drawing. “He always had a thing for her.”

  Bishop nodded. He took out a lighter, and while the others watched, he lit the corner of the page. He held the drawing as long as he could, all of them watching as the flame crawled across the paper, the image slowly turning black and floating away on the wind. He dropped the last bit of it and let it burn on the ground. Nearly a minute passed before he spoke again. He took the bottle from his father and held it close to his chest. “To the ones we lost along the way, Paul Upchurch and Lisa Carter. Their memory will live on in all of us.” He took a drink and shared the bottle with the others. For the briefest of moments, he thought Mother might cry at the thought of Mrs. Carter. She didn’t, though. She never cried. Instead, she smiled up at him. “What do you plan to do now, Anson? Now that this is all over?”

  He considered this a moment. “I think I’ll write a book. I’ve always found it amusing, what people will believe when you slap a colorful cover over some text and tell them it’s fiction.”

  A yellow Volkswagen Bug rolled up behind them and parked near Vincent’s Mustang.

  Bishop glanced over and smiled. “That’s the girls.”

  135

  Bishop

  Day 203 • 10:08 AM

  Bishop rounded the side of the Volkswagen to the driver side. When the window rolled down, he leaned inside and kissed the driver. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey, you.”

  Libby McInley smiled up at him from behind a pair of giant Gucci sunglasses, much too large for her face. Her hair had grown longer since he last saw her, probably halfway down her back now. It had gotten curlier too. Her skin glowed with a healthy tan. She wore white shorts and a red tank top.

  Kristina Niven had her door open and bounded out of the passenger seat the moment she saw Vincent Weidner standing off to the side. She jumped up into his arms, wrapped her legs around his back, and kissed him.

  Tegan was sound asleep in the back, her legs curled up to her chest.

  “How was Florida?” Bishop asked.

  “Hot,” Libby replied. “Barbara says hello.”

  Barbara McInley had been the first death he and Klozowski had faked when Anthony Warnick and the others got too close. A trial run, of sorts. The body the authorities believed was Barbara McInley was actually a runaway named Loria Tutson. When Bishop found Tutson, she had been recruiting other children off the streets for BackPage, luring them in with false promises of money and stability, only to help get them to sale at the Guyon for a 3 percent cut. Bishop had enjoyed ending her.

  Libby had his hand in hers and was studying his fingertips. “What did you get into?”

  Bishop’s fingers were covered in soot.

  “I need to wash my hands. Then we should get out of here.”

  She tilted her head in the direction of a small clapboard building perched on the opposite side of the parking lot. “We passed the bathrooms on the way in.”

  He leaned back into the car and gave her another kiss. “Wait for me?”

  “Always.”

  As he ran toward the bathroom, he heard the others laughing and joking behind him. There was a time when he thought he’d never hear that sound again. It was nice.

  As he pushed through the door into the men’s room, a motion sensor turned on the light. The scent of lemons hung in the air, not heavy but present. For a public restroom, he found it immaculate. He washed his hands under the warm water and was busy drying them when he heard the stall door open behind him.

  Bishop felt his heart thud as he looked into the mirror, at the face looking back at him. “How did you find me?”

  Detective Sam Porter stepped out of the stall, a small black revolver in his gloved hand. “The janitor smoking at the courthouse. He called me with a description of your car. All taxis and town cars in the city are tracked by GPS. My Metro passwords all still work, so that was easy enough. I followed you from the hotel to the airport. Wasn’t hard to find out your flight. Fake name didn’t really slow things down. Funny how a little money will get whatever information you need, but you know all about that. I took a different flight to Logan, one that landed twelve minutes before yours. I thought for sure you spotted me when you were at the rental car counter, but I guess you didn’t. I waited in the parking lot when you went into Mike’s and got something to eat. That was tough. I’m still hungry. Then I followed you here.” He licked his lips and nodded toward the door. “I knew they were all still alive. I didn’t figure it out right away, but I’ve had some time to think while I was locked up in that little cell you put me in. When we were on the phone back at the Guyon, you told me, ‘she and I have a special place in our hearts for Mr. Franklin Kirby.’ Present tense, not had, you said have. Your game clicked, then. I realized all of it had been a smokescreen. With Kloz’s help, I’m sure you had no trouble making your friends disappear, reinventing them as someone else.”

  Bishop started to turn around, and Porter brought up the gun. “Don’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “Put both your palms flat on the counter.”

  “Sure, Sam.”

  Porter took a step closer. Bishop noticed he had plastic bags on his shoes. They were taped around his ankles.

  “Don’t do something you’ll regret, Sam.”

  Porter chuckled softly. “I don’t regret anymore. I don’t really feel anymore. You managed to kill that part of me. I would have shot you back at the Guyon if the feds hadn’t hit me first. That’s what you wanted me to do, right? Shoot you? Just another part of your plan—get the cop to shoot you in public as a final little black bow on your own box, win over those last few people who still thought you might be guilty—Porter tried to shut him down before he could go public, he must be telling the truth—it’s the dirty cop, always has been.”

  Bishop said nothing to this.

  The gun twisted in Porter’s hand. “Did Warnick actually kill anyone? Or was that all you too? The woman in the cemetery, the one on the tracks, the ones we thought were Tegan and Kristina—I bet those were you. You posed them and copied your own signature. You wanted the world to think your friends were dead, so you pinned those on Warnick, right?”

  “Warnick was as dirty as the mayor. As dirty as Talbot and all the others,” Bishop said quietly.

  “Maybe,” Porter interrupted, “but not guilty of killing them.”

  Again, Bishop said nothing.

  Porter nodded toward the door. “I saw your mother drive up. Who was the woman you left at the farmhouse? It wasn’t her, so who was it?”

  “I don’t know what—”

  Porter rushed up behind him, dug the barrel of the gun into the back of Bishop’s neck. “WHO THE FUCK WAS THE WOMAN AT THE FARMHOUSE?”

  “Easy, Sam.” Bishop’s voice remained calm.

  Bishop heard a familiar click—Porter pulling back the hammer on the gun.

  “Are you wired? Are you recording this?”

  “No,” Porter replied.

  “She was a nobody, Sam. A low-level runner with BackPage.”

  “Who happened to look like your mother.”

  Bishop nodded.

  Porter took several steps backwards, toward the stalls. He didn’t say anything for nearly a minute. “Poole gave me the rest of the diaries, the ones someone threw at him in the chaos at the Guyon. I didn’t leave that note, the one you found pinned to Stocks in Finicky’s car.”

  Bishop went quiet again.

  “It wasn’t me,” Porter insiste
d.

  In the mirror, Bishop looked up at him. “You’re as dirty as the rest of them. I saw you there, at the farmhouse. In the alley.”

  Porter rubbed the back of his neck, stared for several seconds, then took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. He tossed it onto the counter next to Bishop’s hand. “Read it.”

  At first, Bishop didn’t move. Then he reached for the envelope and pulled out the pages. “What is this?”

  “Hillburn’s suicide note,” Porter said flatly. “The real one.”

  In the mirror, Bishop’s eyes were locked on Porter. He held his gaze for a moment, then went back to the pages.

  “Out loud,” Porter instructed.

  Bishop nodded, cleared his throat, and began to read, “Dear Sam. I’ve done some things in my life I don’t expect you to understand. I’ve written this letter about a half dozen times, and every time I start over, I think I’m trying to find an explanation for the things I’ve done, and it’s just not there. I’d hoped for some a-ha moment, something to not only explain my actions to you, my wife, and those who will no doubt ask questions later, but to myself. I’ve come to the conclusion that those answers don’t exist. I don’t remember the moment my life went bad—there was never a choice between two doors. Instead, there were a bunch of small missteps, each one leading to another, and before I knew it, when I looked behind me, I’d traveled so far into the woods there was no going back. A couple hands at a poker game didn’t go my way, I borrowed a couple bucks from someone I thought was a friend, I tried to win that back with the ponies, had to borrow a little more. Those kinds of people, they’re all smiles when they’re handing over the cash, not so much when they ask for their money back. Stocks and Welderman, they worked Homicide, not the crew you ran with, so I’d understand if you didn’t know them. I met them at the poker games, Welderman’s regular Thursday night. Funny to think I almost invited you once, but I knew you weren’t into cards. Wonder what would have happened if I had? I bet you would have told me to fold on a two pair of Aces and Kings. If I did, my life would have gone in a very different direction. I didn’t invite you, though, and I didn’t fold, and a month later, in debt to my eyeballs, I agreed to let those two use my van. The second time, they asked me to drive the van. Little baby steps like that, steps into the mud. You don’t realize you’re sinking until you’re up to your ankles.