Red Widow (Vivian Xu, Book 1)

by Nathan Wilson

  In the end, she knew Nikolai was not one of these men. Despite slapping handcuffs on her, he blessed her with a sliver of mercy. She knew that he was risking his own career for her sake, ignoring proper protocol.

  And Vivian intended to prove she was worth the investment. Her slender hand burrowed into her pocket and retrieved a silver key. The cold steel seemed to pulsate between her fingers as the rain continued its mourning.

  This key leads to the manor on the corner of Francouzká and Hvězdová, Nikolai’s voice echoed in her mind. You’ll know what to do when you arrive.

  TWO

  The gnarled gates creaked open to reveal the dark splendor within.

  From the crystalline lake to a marble gazebo laced with ivy, there was beauty to be found in every crook and crevice. Vivian’s head swiveled back and forth across an army of statues; angels, demons, headless torsos, even lions petrified in mid-roar.

  The crowning jewel of the estate lay just beyond the petal-strewn path. Vivian gawked at the chateau that reigned over this twisted dreamscape. Her toes tingled in anticipation as they followed the cobbled path.

  Vivian could hardly believe she was approaching the Vesely Manor. She skipped past the structure numerous times during her childhood, constantly wondering what lurked beyond the confines of those archaic doors. Even now they seemed so far away, reluctant to bare their secrets.

  According to rumors, the neo-Gothic manor fell into the possession of an eccentric heiress who neglected every aspect of the estate. That is, except for the gardens. Tending to the flowers was her sole passion in life, pouring more of herself into the gardens than her very own children. While the old-fashioned bleeding-hearts and chrysanthemums would never perpetuate her genes, she would always be eternalized in those petals as they bloomed to fruition every spring.

  After she passed away, a Romanian gang infiltrated the quaint haunt and began to traffic drugs and women.

  Their secret industry continued uninterrupted for several years until the police swept in and silenced the operation. The manor had since been relinquished to the cruel hands of time. Sturdy chains sealed the gates, and the double doors were bolted shut.

  Until now.

  Vivian twisted the key and the doors hurled open. For perhaps the first time in twenty years, light sliced through the entrance, engraving Vivian’s shadow across the antechamber.

  Not even the mice that scurried frenetically could distract her from the view.

  “Bless you, Nikolai,” she whispered, feeling a tear tug at the corner of her eye. To go from living in an apartment to virtually inheriting a manor inspired all sorts of dizzying pleasures in her brain. It didn’t matter that decades of disrepair marred the interior. Everything inside now belonged to her.

  Swallowing her hesitation, she ascended the spiral staircase. With every step she climbed, she felt as though she was leaving the mortal world behind. She could see a lake beyond the window, christened the “Sea of Fire.” It was aptly named, its mirror-like surface painted with the blush of city lights.

  She didn’t even realize it existed until now, discretely tucked behind the chateau.

  The city winked back at her from a distance as she strolled down one of many Gothic halls. Somehow she knew she would find solace at the end of this passage.

  Vivian finally bolted the door shut behind her. A newfound sense of security embraced her. She felt transported to another time and place detached from reality. An intoxicating cocktail of cyberpunk, Victorian, and noir influences bedecked her bedroom. It was an aesthetic style adopted throughout Prague, permeating the dance clubs, cathedrals, and universities. Even the government institutions could not resist indulging in Victorian culture à la dystopia. Some might say Prague evolved differently than the rest of the Czech Republic, bringing its own unique scourge of problems and challenges.

  Do psychotic killers rank among those problems? Vivian silently asked. She dropped her key next to the untouched folder on the table.

  She hesitated to pry open the folder Nikolai left, wondering what horrors it concealed. A prepaid phone was included with her new home, courtesy of Nikolai. A text message gleamed on the screen, begging her to respond.

  She smiled and glanced away. Let him grow accustomed to waiting on her. Her eyes roamed over the centerpiece phonograph set against the backdrop of an ornate mirror. The record player itself was crowned with a remarkable statue of a woman. Her lifeless eyes gazed out the window with refined dignity.

  Vivian followed its hypnotic stare to a sight that took her breath away. Beyond the window, the streets pulsed acidically like veins innervating the city.

  Her attention drifted once more to the folder gathering dust on the table. Vivian was not well acquainted with the details of this case, but that was bound to change in the next few minutes. As far as she knew, a killer had emerged from the urban jungle and wreaked devastation on three women’s lives.

  Yet they needn’t fear any further assault. Their flesh could no longer feel pain in the city morgue, although they would be exposed to indignities under the scalpel. Adding to the overall sense of danger, wealthy figures had wormed their way into this investigation. And in the midst of it all, Vivian was just a pawn to be wielded with precision.

  She ran her fingers along the needle of the record player. A quiet piano tinkled forth like the melody of a forlorn creek.

  At last, she pried open the folder with a flip of her wrist. Instead of feasting her eyes on autopsy reports, several newspapers were splayed before her. Nothing quite like devouring salacious crime stories before nodding off to sleep. So Nikolai expects me to blindly pursue leads until I stumble upon a revelation, she thought. Skipping past the latest financial crisis, Vivian’s gaze fell on the ominous headline.

  Search for missing student leads to condemned apartments. Naturally, the story was embellished with an alluring portrait of a young woman to rouse the public’s attention. A beautiful woman in distress never fails to entertain the masses. Sandy blonde hair fell past her shoulders and her green eyes sizzled with energy.

  “The mystery surrounding three local women takes on an urgent tone as Krista LaCroix, 22, vanished from her apartment on September 3,” she read. The words rolled like velvet off her tongue, although it hardly made the details less menacing.

  “Authorities canvassed a condemned apartment complex on the city outskirts, where LaCroix’s last cell phone signal was traced. Police remain tight-lipped about the ongoing investigation, refusing to comment on the possibility of foul play. The same shroud of secrecy has marred the disappearances of three women who vanished within the last three months. Chief of Police Josef Láska attempted to explain LaCroix’s disappearance as an escape from a troubled life.

  “Many members of the community say they are not swayed by the authorities’ explanation in light of so many coinciding disappearances. All of the missing persons are Caucasian females in their twenties.

  “LaCroix was last seen by her boyfriend Patrik Nedbalek at eleven p.m. before she left to tend bars at a notorious cyberpunk club The Toxic Mistress. Nedbalek remains a suspect in the investigation, having accumulated a criminal record in high school, ranging from domestic abuse to battery. Relatives will hold a candlelight vigil outside LaCroix’s apartment with a small gathering of friends on September 9.”

  The piano continued to envelope Vivian in its solemn spell, sapping the soul out of her core.

  She remembered how her mother always warned her about strangers who might see opportunity in her naivety and “take her.” Reportedly, many children were murdered within twenty-four hours of abduction. How did that statistic compare to young women? Her imagination began feed her trepidation.

  The peril Nikolai hinted at was manifesting with astonishing clarity in this article. What if she got sucked into this killer’s demented playground?

  Vivian glanced at the reporter’s byline: Camilla Vesely, crime reporter for Blaze. She rifled among the magazines on a nearby table until she un
earthed a worn phone book.

  Scanning the directory, she stopped at Vesely. She heaved a sigh and sauntered onto the balcony projecting over the humming city. The tingling air inflated her lungs as she rested her hands on the balustrade.

  She gasped as the wind’s fingers snatched the newspaper on her bed and flung it into the sky. Obituaries, crime stories, and local scandals scattered to the wind like autumn leaves bearing tragic news.

  Vivian found herself reaching for her cell phone. The late hour did not deter her from making the initial contact. She feverishly punched the numbers and listened to the phone ring. What would she say to Camilla when she answered?

  Hello, I’m a streetwalker being extorted by a homicide detective. Will you help me track down a serial killer? She hadn’t the slightest idea where to begin.

  The ringing quickened in synch with her heartbeat and she impulsively hung up. She sighed in relief. As the silence deepened, she let out an exhausted laugh.

  “Nikolai, you son of a bitch,” she chuckled in defeat, her words dripping with scorn. “You’ve trapped me. I guess I have no choice but to play along for now.” She jumped as the phone rang. Her eyes riveted on the number displayed. Camilla. Gobbling up a deep breath, she swung the phone to her ear.

  “Hello?” Silence answered her. “Is this Camilla Vesely?”

  “Yes. Who am I speaking to?”

  “My name is Vivian Xu and I’m—” She bit her tongue. “—a former classmate of Krista LaCroix. I saw the article about her disappearance in the paper. We went to high school together.”

  “Krista?”

  “Yes, you wrote about her disappearance in Blaze. Didn’t you?”

  An excited “Oh!” whooshed out of the phone. “Sorry, I’m on deadline and my mind is being pulled in every direction. Yes, I remember writing about Krista LaCroix. I’m so sorry to hear about your friend. I’m following a string of local disappearances, and the faces and names tend to blur together. Unfortunately, the police refuse to supply me with any further details. If you continue to read Blaze, I promise you’ll learn more about the investigation as soon as I do.”

  “Thank you, I would appreciate that.”

  “So you attended high school with Krista?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Unfortunately, that seems to be my niche lately… I was wondering, Vivian, maybe we could meet for coffee sometime and you could tell me more about Krista? If there’s any information that might lead to her whereabouts?”

  She was struck by the journalist’s line of questioning. She expected brash questions about Krista’s ex-lovers, family fallouts, or potential meth abuse. A journalist’s genuine concern was foreign and refreshing.

  Vivian glided across the balcony, her fingers stroking the bony, marble railing.

  “Yes, I can answer your questions. But I called you because of the article you wrote. I wanted to attend the candlelight vigil outside Krista’s apartment. I haven’t seen her for years and I owe this much to her, when she needs me—and everyone—the most. Could you tell me where to find her apartment?”

  “Of course.” Vivian quickly scrawled the address. She certainly didn’t enjoy using her acting talents to gain the confidence of innocent men and women. Even feigning kinship to a girl who could be dead for all she knew felt unforgivable.

  “Thank you,” Vivian said, and her finger hovered over end.

  “Wait!” The pitiful plea stayed her hand. “Can I reach you again at this number?” Vivian wrestled down the misgivings in her heart as she mulled the request. Perhaps she could consult Camilla again for more information as new leads arise. Yes, a relationship with a resourceful journalist could certainly come to fruition in the near future.

  “Of course. Good night, Miss Vesely.”

  With those words, she disconnected. A sigh unfurled from her lungs as she reclined on the bed.

  At last, she opened the text message from Nikolai.

  Do you like your new home?

  Vivian shut her scarlet eyes as the record player recited another piano-laced eulogy.

  “Yes,” she voiced to the shadows. “Yes, I do.”

  * * *

  Razor-sharp terraces and Parisian statues flourished across this unholy Garden of Eden, harkening back to an ancient era that technology could not silence. It smoldered in every corner of Prague, merging with exotic, bold styles that set this hub apart from the rest of civilization. Parapets with leering statues, miniature chateaus, sandstone balustrades, these accounted for only a handful of elements that shaped the streets.

  A delightful empire of vice outstretched around Vivian in all its rampant glory—but perhaps the most endearing components were the cathedral gardens laced with vines.

  She walked past a burbling fountain toward a nest of apartment buildings. The complex was only a few blocks away from Sazka Gymnasium. Vivian keenly remembered her senior year at that institution, so anxiously awaiting college.

  She couldn’t wait to say good-bye to political science classes and learn something that actually pertained to her career. What she wouldn’t give to be back in a classroom, doodling on her Maturita exams.

  A sea of candles twinkled at the end of the street, beckoning Vivian. The closer she came, the more voices mingled with the night. She could tell by the number of strangers assembled that Krista LaCroix held a special significance to the community. Every so often a whisper would float from someone’s lips to her ears.

  “What do you suppose happened to her?”

  “I’m in the dark just as much as you are.”

  “Dvorak claims he’s seen Krista walking past his shop early in the morning.”

  “He sees a lot of strange things early in the morning. Doesn’t Krista work late hours at the clubs? Besides, Dvorak loves to exaggerate everything.”

  “I’m talking about Krista coming home at four in the morning, looking over her shoulder like someone’s following her.”

  “Who knows? Maybe she finally grew a spine and ditched her deadbeat boyfriend.”

  “That still doesn’t explain the other missing women. You honestly think they all walked out of bed and left without telling their families?”

  “Excuse me,” Vivian blurted. “How do you know Krista—?”

  Suddenly, a giggling girl cut through the crowd, clipping Vivian as she ran past. A boy came chasing after her with a burning candle, wearing a broad grin that hardly fit the solemn occasion. Even a funerary vigil couldn’t dampen the child’s spirit, it seemed.

  Vivian looked up to find the man and woman sending her unwelcome stares. With cheeks burning nearly as hot as the flaming candles around her, she spun away.

  Vivian glanced down at her own hands, bearing a vanilla candle she “borrowed” from Vesely Manor. Without giving another thought, she gravitated toward the hub of activity in the courtyard.

  She felt like an outsider who infiltrated a closely knit community, masquerading as a mourner. She paused in front of an elderly woman with hair that fell in stringy lengths. She peered above the horned rims of her glasses at Vivian, looking into those lively, red eyes. Perhaps she could distinguish Vivian from those who genuinely mourned Krista’s loss.

  Vivian gawked as the woman offered her candle. Flames licked the waxy stump in her hands, wisping to life. Vivian nodded meekly and scurried away. Once she cleared the silent procession, she let out a deep breath.

  What am I doing here? she wondered. I’m not even sure what to look for.

  Her eyes fell on the framed portrait of a young woman nestled in the grass. Krista LaCroix. Twelve calla lilies surrounded the portrait and, one by one, family and friends set candles next to various articles of affection; photos, stuffed animals, and childhood letters.

  Murmuring swept through the crowd as a statuesque woman with brown hair waded forward.

  “I want to welcome you all here and thank you for joining our community tonight as we pray for Krista LaCroix. My name is Daniel. W
e are gathered here at this hour to pray for the safe return of a precious friend. For some of you, Krista was the girl who stayed after class to help you with homework. For others, she is a friend, a cousin, a sister. A daughter.”

  Her eyes fell on a woman mopping tears from her cheeks.

  “Few of us can truly appreciate what it feels like to lose a member of our family. That being said, we are also here to support Krista’s family through this ordeal. Like so many of you gathered tonight, Krista touched my life from the moment I met her. She is an amazing, vibrant, young woman who has contributed so much to society… and… so much to me personally. She sensed our needs and responded with that needed hug, word of support, or just listened to our troubles.”

  Her eyes swept across a portrait of a much younger Daniel and Krista playing in a sandbox. Those rich days of summer seemed so long ago, now replaced with the icy chill of autumn. For the longest time, silence captivated the vigil.

  “Our gathering here is not a surrender of our hope,” she adamantly declared. “We have united as a community with prayers in our hearts for her safe return. I know deep inside that Krista is still out there, looking for her way home. Her family and friends will be here with open arms to welcome her when she journeys back. Thank you.”

  Daniel dipped her gaze to the candle gleaming in her hands.

  The woman next to Vivian began to hum a quaint melody. It simmered in the dead of night. At last, a chorus of voices merged with hers and lifted up in song.

  Vivian refused to add her voice to the chorus. The notion of singing at a candlelight vigil, nonetheless a funeral, always struck her as morbid. She pledged to haunt anyone who sang at her burial.

  The chants and humming soaked into every pore of Vivian’s body. As the voices weaved back and forth, she began to lose track of time. She could scarcely tell whether minutes or hours had passed.

  One by one, the song diminished until a single woman remained. She set her candle on the ground, joining dozens of other burning candles to form a cross. Vivian stood alone in the vacant courtyard. She blew out the flame in her hands and the ensuing darkness wrapped her in its embrace.