The final chapter of J.D. Barker’s 4MK trilogy rewards its readers
Warning: Do not delve into J.D. Barker’s “The Sixth Wicked Child,” the final installment of his 4MK trilogy, without having read the first two books. (And stop reading this review; unless you like spoilers.)
“The Sixth Wicked Child” bangs into existence with a fresh new murder, and then immediately resumes where its predecessor, “The Fifth to Die,” left off: Alleged mass murderer Anson Bishop is threatening to unleash a SARS virus “bomb” on the citizens of Chicago.
His primary pursuer, detective Sam Porter, is holed up in his apartment, surrounded by photos and memorabilia that link Sam himself inextricably to the murders he is convinced were carried out by Bishop.
As the evidence against Sam mounts and the body count rises, the FBI, the Chicago Police Department and Sam himself sprint to uncover the true identity of 4MK and capture the killer before the entire population of Chicago becomes the victim of biological warfare. The possibility that Sam, and not Bishop, is the mastermind of this multiyear crime spree grows increasingly probable with each turn of the page.
Readers who steamrolled through the first two novels in the series will not be surprised to learn that the final saga continues to be plot heavy, relying on a multitude of storytelling twists and turns, some implausible, others spot-on.
Bishop, the possible criminal mastermind behind it all, continues to be a fascinating, possibly murderous, psychologically warped person. Dialogue between characters maintains the snappy, movie-worthy edge exhibited throughout the series. And, although some of the secondary characters remain relatively interchangeable, the story itself takes over, with that page-turning quality so evident in the first two books.
As always, Mr. Barker has done his homework. Added to the crime and investigative jargon of the prior books, this time around readers are introduced to medical terminology, from body-language kinesics discourses through tutorials on the uses of poisonous succinylcholine, a favorite for medical doctors seeking to murder their spouses.
The nefarious ways of politicians and their jaded, favor-seeking hangers-on are knowingly spotlighted. Chicago neighborhoods and buildings are effectively described. One run-down neighborhood was so crimeridden that detective Nash, Porter’s partner, closed the car doors but intentionally didn’t bother to lock them. “In a neighborhood like this, it was best to provide easy access to the interior. Otherwise, you’d find yourself shopping for a replacement window.”
The death toll in this final installment mounts to alarming levels, far beyond the neat trios of boxed body parts supplied in the first novel. Bishop, Porter, and FBI sleuth Frank Poole chase each other like carousel horses galloping on a merry-go-round that has no stop switch.
The pace never slackens; there is no middle-of-thebook slump. To the contrary, so many events occur in the two (?!) days of chasing the bad guys, in so many farflung locations, that a reader may justifiably feel that they were a passenger on that seemingly never-ending merry-go-round, whirling ever-faster, with people, places and events becoming fuzzy and unfocused.
As the bewilderment grows, Mr. Barker thoughtfully provides some advice. “If Father were here,” muses Anson Bishop in one diary entry, “he’d tell me to puzzle it out. He always said every problem has at least three possible solutions, and even if you think you know the perfect solution, you should spend the time to determine the other two so you could weigh them all against each other. Sometimes the easy or obvious wasn’t the best, and sometimes the best wasn’t obvious or easy.”
Readers who forge through the confusion to the book’s conclusion will be rewarded. Many mysteries will be solved; many plots will be resolved. And, as an added bonus, it is possible that endings are not always what they seem to be.
Past the final page of the final chapter, in the final two sentences of the author’s Acknowledgements and Notes, is what sounds like a promise: “[My Post-it notes, scattered around my house] can come down now, go in a little white box secured with black string. Maybe one day I’ll give them another look. Until next time J.D.” Here’s hoping.