The Sixth Wicked Child
Published by:
Hampton Creek Press
P.O. Box 177
New Castle, NH 03854
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental unless noted otherwise.
Copyright © 2019 by Jonathan Dylan Barker
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Hampton Creek Press is a registered Trademark of Hampton Creek Publishing, LLC
Cover Design by Stuart Bache
Book design and formatting by Maureen Cutajar, www.gopublished.com
Author photograph by Bill Peterson of Peterson Gallery
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-0-9906949-7-7
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9906949-8-4
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-9906949-9-1
For Truth
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Welcome to the final show.
Hope you're wearing your best clothes.
—Sign of the Times, Harry Styles
Daddy what else did you leave for me?
Daddy, what'd'ja leave behind for me?
—Another Brick in the Wall, Pink Floyd
1
Tray
Day 5 • 5:19 AM
“Hey, shithead, this look like a fucking bed-and-breakfast to you?”
The voice was gruff, gravelly. At this hour, it had to be a cop, security guard, or maybe just an angry homeowner. Whoever it was, Tray Stouffer didn’t move within the folds of the musty quilt. Sometimes, when you’re still enough, they go away. Sometimes, they get bored.
The boot came again—fast, hard. Direct hit to the stomach.
Tray wanted to shout out, to grab the leg and fight back. Didn’t, though. Remained perfectly still.
“Goddamn it, I’m talking to you!”
Another kick, harder than the last, right in the ribs.
Tray grunted, couldn’t help it. Pulled the quilt tighter.
“Do you have any idea what you and your friends do to resale value when you camp out here? You scare the kids half to death. The older folk won’t leave the building. They shouldn’t have to step over a piece of garbage like you just to run to the store.”
Homeowner, then.
Tray had heard it all before.
“Do you know what I’m doing out here at five in the morning while you’re taking a nap? While you’re all snug on our front stoop? I just got off a ten-hour shift at Delphine’s Bakery. Did twelve hours the night before in that devil’s asshole of a kitchen. Gotta go back in another ten. I do that to pay for this place. I do that to contribute. You’ll never catch me living on the streets like you lazy shits. Get a damn job! Make something of yourself!”
At fourteen, there was no work. Not the legal kind. Not without some kind of parental consent, and that was never going to happen.
Tray braced for another kick.
Instead, the man grabbed ahold of the quilt and yanked it away, tossed it to the side. The quilt landed in a slushy puddle of half-melted snow at the base of the steps.
Tray shivered, coiled up, ready for another kick.
“Hey, you’re a chick. You’re just a kid,” the man said, the anger dropping from his voice. “I’m really sorry. What’s your name?”
“Tracy,” she said. “Most people call me Tray.” She regretted the words the moment they left her lips. She knew what happened whenever she talked to one of them. Best to keep her mouth shut, stay invisible.
The man knelt down, a paper sack dangling from his left hand. He wasn’t very old, maybe mid-twenties. Heavy coat. Brown hair tucked under a navy blue watch cap. Hazel eyes. Whatever was in the sack smelled delicious.
He caught her looking at it. “Tray, my name is Emmitt. Are you hungry?”
She nodded. Knowing this too was a mistake. But she was hungry. So hungry.
He reached into the paper sack and took out a small loaf of bread. Steam floated from the crusty surface through the icy Chic
ago air, and for a moment Tray forgot about the bitter wind coming off the lake, howling through the street each time it kicked up.
Her stomach gurgled, loud enough for both of them to hear.
Emmitt tore off a piece of bread and handed it to her. She devoured it in two bites, barely bothering to chew. Possibly the best bread she’d ever eaten.
“Do you want more?”
Tray nodded, although she knew she shouldn’t.
Emmitt let out a breath. He reached out and stroked her cheek with the side of his pointer finger. Drifting from her face to her neck, slipping beneath the collar of her sweater. “Why don’t you come inside with me? You can have all the bread you want. I’ve got more food, too. A warm shower. A comfortable bed. I’ll—”
With both arms, Tray slammed the man in his shoulders. He had been precariously balanced, kneeling down on one knee like that, and he wasn’t prepared for the blow. He rolled backward, the sack tumbled from his hands, and his head slammed into the metal railing of the building’s staircase.
“You little bitch!” he shouted.
Before he could get up, Tray was on her feet. She grabbed the paper sack, scooped up her backpack, and raced down the five steps, snagged her quilt, and took off down Mercer. He wouldn’t chase her; they rarely did, but sometimes—
“Stay the hell away from here! I catch you again, I’m calling the cops!”
When Tray did risk a glance back, Emmitt had stood, gathered up his things, and was pushing through the door into the building. Even from this distance, she imagined she could feel the warmth of that hallway.
She didn’t slow until she reached the gates of Rose Hill Cemetery. At this hour, they were locked, but she was thin, and a moment later she had wriggled through the wrought iron bars to the other side, pulling her backpack and quilt behind her.
Chicago had its share of shelters, but she’d gone that route before. At this hour, they’d be locked tight. They all locked their doors somewhere between 7 p.m. and midnight, and none would admit you after hours. Even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. They’d be full. Sometimes the lines started as early as noon, and there was never enough room. Besides, Tray felt safer on the streets. There were “Emmitts” everywhere, especially in the shelters, and the only thing worse than running into an Emmitt on the stoop of some building or in an alley shielded from the wind was being locked overnight in a shelter with one. Sometimes more than one. Emmitts tended to stick together and hunt in packs.
Tray wasn’t afraid of the cemetery. After two years on the streets, she’d slept in them all at least once. Rose Hill was one of her favorites on account of the mausoleums. Unlike Oakwood or Graceland, Rose Hill didn’t lock the mausoleums at night. And while there were several security guards, on a cold night like tonight, they’d be in the office playing cards, watching television, or even sleeping. She’d seen them enough through the windows.
She stomped up Tranquility Lane through the fresh snow. She wasn’t too worried about the tracks behind her; she knew the wind would take care of those. There was no reason to take chances, though, so when she reached the top of the hill, rather than making the left at Bliss Road, she cut across Tranquility and ducked down into the small patch of woods running along the side of Bliss.
Although there were no lights, the moon was nearly full, and when the reflecting pond came into view, Tray couldn’t help but stop and look at it. The icy surface glistened under the thin layer of fresh snow. Marble statues stood silently along the edge of the water, stone benches between them. This was such a peaceful place. So quiet.
Tray didn’t see her at first, the girl kneeling at the water’s edge, facing away. Long, blonde hair trailing down her back. She looked like one of the statues, unmoving, facing the pond like that. Her skin was so pale, nearly white, almost as colorless as her white dress. She wore no shoes on her bare feet, no coat, only the white dress made of a material so thin it was nearly translucent. Her hands were clasped together near her breasts as if lost in prayer, her head tilted to one side.
Tray didn’t speak, but drew closer. Close enough to realize the thin layer of snow that covered everything else covered this girl, too. And when she circled around to her side, she realized it wasn’t a girl at all but a woman. The stark whiteness of her, every inch of her, was broken by the thin line of red stretching from under her hair down the side of her face. There was another line from the side of her left eye, a stream of red tears, and yet a third from the corner of her mouth—this one painting her lips the brightest rose.
Something was written on her forehead.
Wait, not written.
At her knees, sitting in the snow, was a silver serving tray. The kind you might find at a fancy dinner party, a high-priced restaurant, the sort of place Tray already knew, even at fourteen, she’d never see in her lifetime outside of television or the movies.
On that tray were three small, white boxes. Each sealed tight with black string.
Behind the boxes, propped up against the woman’s chest, was a cardboard sign not unlike the ones Tray had held to raise money for food. Only she had never used these three particular words before. The sign simply read:
FATHER, FORGIVE ME
Tray did the only thing she could do. She ran.
2
Poole
Day 5 • 5:28 AM
Hello Sam,
I imagine you’re confused.
I imagine you have questions.
I know I did. I have. I do.
Questions are the foundation of knowledge, learning, discovery, and rediscovery. An inquisitive mind has no outer walls. An inquisitive mind is a warehouse with unlimited square footage, a memory palace of infinite rooms and floors and shiny pretty things. Sometimes, though, a mind suffers damage, a wall crumbles, the memory palace is in need of a renovation, rooms found in dire disrepair. Your mind, I’m afraid, falls into the latter category. The photographs around you, the diaries to your side, these are the keys that will aid you as you dig from the rubble, as you rebuild.
I’m here for you, Sam.
I’ll be here for you as I always have been.
I’ve forgiven you, Sam. Perhaps others will, too. You’re not that man anymore. You’ve become so much more.
—Anson
“What am I looking at?” Special Agent Frank Poole grumbled, setting the printout aside. He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms against his temples. He had the worst headache. He tried to sleep on the jet back from New Orleans, but that proved impossible. The sat phone rang off the hook. There was the FBI’s New Orleans field office, still crawling over Sarah Werner’s law office and the apartment above—only nine hours ago, Poole had discovered the attorney’s body staring up at him from her couch, watching him through milky eyes, the rotten remains of dinner across her lap, a small, black bullet hole in the center of her forehead. The medical examiner confirmed she had been dead for weeks, much longer than Poole initially thought. Positively identified as Sarah Werner, this meant the woman seen with Detective Sam Porter over the past several days, who claimed to be Sarah Werner, was not. She was some kind of imposter, a plant. Together, they broke a female prisoner out of the local jail and transported her across the country to Chicago.
Between calls with the New Orleans field office, Porter’s partner lit up the sat phone line. They found Porter in the Guyon, an abandoned hotel in Chicago. The female prisoner he helped escape was in the lobby, shot dead. Porter sat nearly catatonic in a room on the fourth floor, surrounded by photos of himself with known serial killer Anson Bishop, the Four Monkey Killer, a stack of composition books at his side, and a laptop with the above message on the screen.
From what he had been told, Chicago Metro tied the laptop to a bizarre round of killings over the past several days—several young girls drowned and resuscitated until their bodies finally gave out, and adults murdered in a multitude of ways, all of them associated with the medical care of a man named Paul Upchurch, currently in surgery at
Stroger Hospital.
When Poole wasn’t on the sat phone with the New Orleans field office or Detective Nash, he was on with Detective Clair Norton, who was at the hospital, fielding some kind of outbreak. An outbreak triggered by Bishop, Upchurch, and possibly others.
The only person who hadn’t called the sat phone was his immediate supervisor, SAIC Hurless, and Poole knew that that call would come soon enough and he damn well better have some answers before it did.
“Let me talk to him,” Detective Nash said from somewhere behind him in the observation room.
Poole’s head remained buried in his hands. “No way.”
On the other side of the one-way observation window, Porter sat slumped in a metal chair, his body hunched over the matching metal table. He wasn’t handcuffed. Poole was having second thoughts about that.
“He’ll talk to me,” Nash insisted.
Porter hadn’t spoken to anyone. He hadn’t uttered a word.
“No.”
“Sam’s not a bad guy. He’s not part of this.”
“He’s knee deep in it.”
“Not Sam.”
“The woman he broke out of prison was found dead of a gunshot wound from the gun found with him. GSR all over his hand. He made no attempt to hide the weapon or run. He sat there waiting for you to arrest him.”
“We don’t know he killed her.”
“He’s not denying that he did,” Poole countered.
“He wouldn’t kill her unless it was self-defense.”
Poole ignored him. “He called Detective Norton at Stroger Hospital and gave her information he simply could not possess unless he was involved. He knew Upchurch had glioblastoma. How did he even know Upchurch’s name? He knew about both girls. Details he couldn’t possibly know if he were straight.”
“You heard Clair. She said Bishop told him.”
“Bishop told him,” Poole repeated with frustration. “Bishop told him that he injected the two missing girls with the SARS virus. Left them in that house with Upchurch like some kind of Trojan horse.”
Poole was still trying to wrap his head around that part, too. Kati Quigley and Larissa Biel, both missing, both found in Upchurch’s house. Porter claimed they had been injected with some variation of the SARS virus. The entire hospital was on lockdown while they ran blood work to determine whether or not the claim was true. At best, it was some kind of hoax. At worst…
“Bishop is playing him,” Nash said. “That’s what he does.”