Red Widow (Vivian Xu, Book 1)

by Nathan Wilson

  “What? After all the danger you’ve gone through, he’s ready to … sacrifice you?” Her words stung because even Camilla could see she was just a pawn in Nikolai’s clutches.

  “I have you with me… so I won’t be alone.”

  “That’s true, but this is insane. How can he do this to you?”

  “He can do whatever he wants because he’s a cop and I’m the criminal.”

  “In my line of work, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to separate the cops from criminals.”

  Vivian shrugged and pushed one of the candles away, content to incubate in the oily shadows.

  “Well, he wields the power now. I don’t have any choice until this killer is dead or behind bars, whichever comes first.”

  The strength poured out of Camilla’s fingertips as they hovered above the keyboard. Finally, she sealed her laptop shut.

  “Vivian, I want to apologize for not being there. I said I would come with you to the outskirts, but I didn’t. Maybe all of this could have been avoided had I…”

  “You had an assignment.”

  “I know, but I could have made something up. I could have told my boss I was following a lead or something.”

  Vivian rose from her chair, itching to leave the manor and confront the man who abducted her. He was still lurking out there, fantasizing about his next victim as he prepared a ritual of fresh torments.

  She clenched her fists as rage boiled deep inside her core. He would regret laying a finger on her.

  “Well, if you really want to make it up to me,” Vivian said, “come with me to the outskirts. I need someone to watch my back when I return to the killer’s house.”

  “You’re serious about going back there?”

  “I already told you, I don’t have a choice. Either I do as Nikolai says or I’m downgrading from Vesely Manor to prison. Now you know as much as I do about this investigation, Camilla. I could really use your help this time.”

  Camilla nodded and smiled.

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Jezebel delicately held the syringe between her fingers, light scintillating off the finely honed tip of the needle. She had already brushed the syringe for fingerprints and found no trace. The perp had obviously used gloves—white, latex gloves that stretched up to his elbows, according to Nikolai’s informant.

  If that didn’t merit shock and awe, the killer wore a trench coat, back brace, rubber pants, knee-high boots, and a gas mask.

  When Jezebel inquired about Nikolai’s informant, he simply told her to analyze the syringe. He was not one to trade idle conversation, certainly not about criminal informants. She giggled and smiled. Cops always became so defensive when she asked about their sources. So many enigmas swirled around Nikolai that she longed to examine. He would not so easily spill his secrets like the corpses she sliced open on the autopsy table. Hell, she could even decipher a dead man’s last meal if she truly entertained the desire.

  Nikolai, on the other hand, was like a wall that repelled all questions. He wouldn’t even reveal his middle name to her, no matter how much she pouted. Regardless, the true reward was seeing Nikolai squirm when she teased him. She may never know the man under that mask of detachment, but she certainly knew how to irk him. What could possibly be more delightful?

  She lowered the syringe and squeezed out a drop onto a glass slide.

  At least this would distract her until the undead population of the morgue increased. Alas, there was never any shortage of empty shells that once roamed free under the sky, traveling from one destination to the last, ultimately joining billions of consciences in a vast network of souls.

  Jezebel leaned over the microscope, studying the mystery drug mixed with a sample of Krista LaCroix’s blood.

  An hour later, she powered down the microscope and rubbed her bleary eyes. She was no closer to understanding how it dispersed through the human body or targeted the nervous system. The next thought that flickered across her mind sent instinctive revulsion through her core.

  Should she test the drug to evaluate its effects? She would require a living host. She regarded her hand, composed of millions of skin cells with equally as many healthy blood cells. No, of course she couldn’t test it on a human, but there was one avenue still afforded to her. Perhaps an animal would suffice.

  Any animal experimentation would require approval by the Central Commission of Animal Welfare, but the legal process could drag on for months. Did she really have time for such bureaucracies when women were being mutilated?

  “No, I don’t,” she innocently said, looking at the syringe in her hand. She was sickened by the idea of animal experimentation, but this was an extraordinary circumstance. Unfortunately, the medical examiner labs lacked the capacity for testing. She could only think of one facility suitable for the task. Neurology Zikmund Institute.

  Jezebel spent twelve months there as a medical student learning forensic toxicology. It was one of the most exhilarating times of her life, learning the peculiarities of forensic analysis and human biology. But how would she ever gain access to that facility now?

  A mischievous idea tickled her brain.

  Minutes later, Jezebel was rummaging through the employee lockers. Andrea, the front lobby receptionist, was always prattling on about the exciting research she conducted at the institute. Jezebel could never deny the stab of envy she felt when Andrea opened her mouth.

  She was an insipid fool who could barely hold a vial steady. The best she could do was admit visitors to the medical examiner’s office, and even that was a modest accomplishment at the end of the day. Jezebel truly belonged at the institute, not her. Twisting open Andrea’s locker, she set her eyes on the black satin purse inside.

  Of course, it was a sin punishable by death to rummage through another woman’s purse. Perhaps the “punishable by death” part was a tad exaggerated, but Jezebel wouldn’t hesitate to destroy anyone who violated her belongings. Sifting through the chocolate bars and chapstick inside, she found a security card with the Zikmund logo. Jezebel peeked over her shoulder, ensuring the door was securely shut.

  If Andrea walked in on her, she would not only be forced to resign, she would also rack up a number of potent criminal charges. Why did that excite her so much?

  She smiled at the photo ID of a woman with ginger curls, nothing like Jezebel’s blonde hair. It was nothing a few minor adjustments couldn’t take care of.

  * * *

  The overcast sky hinted at rain. Fickle winds buffeted Prague, rolling over a numb population. Men and women traversed the square with their heads bowed low, too engrossed in their own whimsical fantasies to see the reality they resided in. Visions of better days dangled before them, delusions of a higher income, a reconciled marriage, a less daunting future for their children.

  Every now and then, the gasping wind would jerk them awake and nudge them toward their homes. In the midst of it all, a great basilica shielded the downtrodden from the swelling storm. The ancient church was dotted with statues, the likeness of Christ enthroned among his disciples. Minarets pierced the sky like ivory fingers in search of God. A great winged lion reposed on the steps leading to the entrance.

  Tatiana had always adored the statues that glazed the basilicas and churches, but they hardly compared to the girl wandering the streets. She wound past crowds of tourists toward the Basilica of St. Eurosia, her red hair popping up every now and then among the throng of people.

  Her milky white skin resembled the statues, although Tatiana doubted any Greek artist would adorn a statue in such provocative attire. A mini dress and a corset squeezed her voluptuous figure. To top it off, a neck corset encircled her swan-like throat.

  The girl paused before the lion statue, studying it as though the stone might melt into fur and claws.

  Tatiana wondered what significance she held to Nikolai. She was, without a doubt, the same woman consorting with Nikolai in the sewers. One look at her told Tatiana she didn’t fit the
profile of a typical sewer scavenger. Did that girl report the body to Nikolai?

  “Who are you?” Tatiana wondered aloud. The basilica doors boomed shut behind the girl, shielding her in the sanctuary of God.

  Tatiana lifted her eyes to one of the angelic statues leering from the parapets, forbidding her from trespassing with foul intent. She turned away, hardly keen on bringing war to the doorstep of God’s kingdom.

  She would seek out the girl in due time.

  * * *

  The organ hummed solemnly in the crevices of the basilica, milking the prayers from the lips of the faithful.

  Urns once host to precious relics paved the way inside. The basilica radiated with the musk of incense.

  Vivian tiptoed past an alcove, under the keen impression she was being watched. She turned to look into the glassy eyes of a female statue, crushing a serpent beneath her heel. What a humbling depiction of St. Eurosia.

  Even more hollow stares fell on her, except these eyes belonged to parishioners made of flesh and blood. The horrified priest looked like he might swallow his tongue. Vivian almost expected him to fly down the aisle and splash her with holy water to purify her soul. One of the curious couples shielded their daughter’s eyes. Vivian took an awkward step back from the wavering candlelight.

  “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to wear a corset to church,” she whispered.

  The filth of her sins stalked her all the way down the aisle. After all, how many prostitutes settled here on Sundays and sang God’s praise?

  She looked around to find only a few attendants with their heads bowed in reverence over beaded rosaries.

  Nikolai had instructed her to find a Bible containing her next down payment. The pews were lined with faded hymn books but very few Bibles. At this rate, she would be tempted to dip her hand in the donations box if Nikolai didn’t pull through.

  Before that temptation could evolve into more than just a thought, she noticed a book lying abandoned on the stone tiles.

  Vivian scurried down the aisle and reached under the pew. She gasped as a nest of brown moths burst forth, tickling her hair as they took wing in search of a new asylum. They floated past elaborate stained glass windows, casting fickle shapes in the candlelight.

  Vivian regarded the Bible and flipped through the ancient script. Her eyes widened when she saw the envelope surreptitiously tucked between moth-eaten pages.

  Taking a deep breath, she pried it open. Two thousand American dollars awaited her. She feverishly stuffed the cash into her pockets.

  She breathed a sigh of relief once the last bill was safely tucked away. She studied the gargantuan cross mounted on the wall, reminiscing of her younger days in church. She hoped God was still watching over her even if sin stained her flesh. Didn’t Jesus once forgive a prostitute who washed his feet? She could barely remember the parable from a priest’s daunting sermon.

  Vivian continued to gaze beseechingly at the cross, expecting His grace to wash through her.

  An image of Krista LaCroix crucified by wires and hooks flashed into her mind. She could feel those yellowed walls closing in on her, murmuring and groaning as the air shrank. More hooks lowered from the ceiling from tentacular wires, snagging her clothes, suspending her from—

  She blinked and the hallucination was replaced by the quaint church. She floundered onto the pew with a sigh. The organ had stopped, replaced by the murmurs of churchgoers petitioning for salvation.

  Vivian lowered the Bible, thinking about her own loved ones. Curiosity arrested her. She flipped the ancient tome open to Mark 5: 21, the passage Nikolai indicated.

  “Jairus’ daughter and the woman with a hemorrhage,” she read. “Feeling a bit morbid today, Nikolai?” She read on about a man named Jairus beseeching Jesus to save his ailing daughter from death.

  While Jesus was still speaking, people from the synagogue official’s house arrived and said, “Your daughter has died; why trouble the teacher any longer?”

  Disregarding the message that was reported, Jesus said to the synagogue official, “Do not be afraid; just have faith.” He did not allow anyone to accompany him inside except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When they arrived at the house of the synagogue official, he caught sight of a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly.

  So he went in and said to them, “Why this commotion and weeping? The child is not dead but asleep.” And they ridiculed him. Then he put them all out.

  Jesus took along the child’s father and mother and those who were with him and entered the room where the child was. He took the child by the hand and said to her, “Talitha koum!” The child, a girl of twelve, arose immediately and walked around. At that they were utterly astounded.

  Vivian closed the Bible and studied the scattering of the strangers. A young girl met her eyes and waved.

  “Talitha koum,” Vivian echoed. “What is it supposed to mean?”

  TWELVE

  The outskirts trembled in the sunset like the calm just before a storm.

  The killer’s residence awaited Vivian at the end of the street. She expected to feel Camilla’s hand on her shoulder any moment now, assuring her that everything would be fine.

  When that assurance did not come, she huffed and marched ahead. The newspaper demanded Camilla’s absolute attention, even when a friend’s life hung in the balance. Fortunately, she wasn’t too disappointed when Camilla let her down. She learned long ago to rely only on herself.

  She ducked under the yellow slashes of police tape stretched across the doorway. The house was virtually stripped to the marrow, void of carpet and furniture. Every object was considered potential evidence and hauled away to the forensics lab. Without the carpet, the house resembled a bunker sunken under decades of ruin.

  Her brain seemed to detach from her body with every step further into the interior. Dust rained from the exposed pipes overhead, powdering her face.

  Suddenly, her entire body lurched awake. She was perched at the bottom of the cellar stairs.

  The familiar sights mocked her. They were a mockery because they dared to still exist, even after all the torment she endured down there. The police should have razed everything to the foundation and cordoned off the destruction. Thankfully, the gurney had been removed. Forensic analysts were no doubt swabbing it for hair and tissue, trying to piece together the victims who sat unwillingly in this throne of torture. What did they think when they examined the skin samples she left behind? Did they speculate about her fate in voyeuristic detail?

  A faint light grabbed her attention from the corner of the basement. Pure scarlet rippled across the floor, oozing out of a narrow tunnel.

  She paused just beyond the edge of the red shadow. Would that bleeding light corrupt her mind when it washed through her? She planted her toes in the light.

  Nothing happened. With a heavy sigh, she crossed that threshold. The tunnel seemed to waver in the red daze, tilting drunkenly to the left.

  The light called out to her like a siren peeling at her brain. The only way to silence it was to reach the other side.

  She emerged into a chamber bathed in scalding red. The air was warm like a mother’s womb, sweet and soothing on Vivian’s skin; the sights that met her eyes were anything but heartening. Sinks were scattered throughout the room, undulating with black water. Leather hoses arched from the basins like the tentacles of a leviathan creature.

  What was he doing here? Surgical instruments dangled by chains from the ceiling, everything from curved forceps to bladed dilators. Vivian shuddered at the sight of the grisly devices once used to facilitate childbirth. Serrated clamps and pliers chattered like wind chimes in a foul breeze. She tiptoed across the greasy tiles with her face lifted to the ceiling, almost expecting something to pounce from above. A handgun dangled from a pair of razor-sharp clamps—the same gun Nikolai gave her.

  “Son of a bitch,” she spat, scanning the shadows for her captor.

  Vivian reached for the gun, but hesitatio
n gripped her. She dragged a stool across the floor until it was just below her prize. Taking care to avoid the skull-crushing forceps, she eased the clamps open just enough to remove the gun. Her finger slipped on the cruel edge, raking her skin open.

  “Shit!”

  Vivian tumbled from the stool, smashing her wrists like eggshells against the linoleum floor. The pain almost elicited a scream from her, but she bit her lip tight, refusing to exhibit any weakness.

  A piercing noise rang out behind her, and she turned to see something fall from the ceiling. A cassette tape snapped against the floor, bruising the silence. She eyed the clamps swaying overhead, expecting more surprises to come.

  When those horrors did not manifest, she grabbed the tape. She shuddered and stuffed it in her jeans. This tape may very well depict the last moments of another victim’s life.

  She was determined to scout the rest of the basement before letting down her guard. No, she couldn’t lower her defenses even for a second while roaming the killer’s domain.

  Vivian crossed the hidden chamber where another narrow passage awaited. A dizzy spell rolled perilously over her.

  She blinked against the harsh heat billowing down the passage, swelling with every step she took. A metal portal lingered at the end, outlined with glistening light.

  She reached for it with shaking fingers.

  The vaulted door hummed under her touch, perhaps hinting at something sinister on the other side.

  Vivian planted her shoulder against it and pushed. The door yawned open to the children’s playground coiled in mist.

  * * *

  Word of mouth passed quickly through the police department, bringing fresh tidings of Tatiana’s displeasure. She was thirsty for Nikolai’s blood because of last night’s raid. She wanted nothing more than to paint him as an incompetent firebrand who should be removed from the investigation. Nikolai scoffed at the warning. He had more important matters to attend than reporting to Tatiana. This investigation belonged to him, not her.