Kill Her Again (A Thriller)

by Robert Gregory Browne

  She pointed to another card, showing an old bearded man. “But the Hermit crosses before you, representing caution. Fear. Prudence. Ignore him at your peril.”

  Then another card, this one showing a man hanging upside down from a tree. “The Hanged Man,” she continued. “The symbol of sacrifice. To achieve the goal you wish to achieve your sacrifice will be great. Perhaps greater than you’re willing to accept.”

  “What does any of this have to do with the stranger?” Anna asked.

  “Patience,” the woman said, then pointed to yet another card. A skeleton holding a scythe. “Here is your stranger. The Death card. He is the cause of these things. The reason you have been put to the test.”

  Anna sucked in a breath.

  “But do not fear,” Madam Zala continued. “This card merely represents change. Transformation. Your life has been altered in significant ways, and you must adapt and change or suffer the consequences.”

  Anna now wished that she had simply gone for the direct approach. She’d always thought of fortune-telling as a con game, designed to part unsuspecting fools from their money. What Madam Zala had just told her, however, was eerily accurate. Then again, it was also fairly generic and might apply to anyone who sat in this chair.

  Enough of this, Anna thought. Time to get down to business.

  Taking the photo of Chavi out of her pocket, she laid it on the table.

  “What about this one?” she asked. “What does she represent?”

  Madam Zala froze, staring at the photo, then her head jerked up, her gaze meeting Anna’s. “Who are you?”

  “A woman on a journey,” Anna said, then unfolded the Temptress and Slave print-out and placed it in front of Madam Zala, pointing to the boy in the wagon. “And this is the stranger I seek.”

  Madam Zala’s eyes widened. She jumped to her feet, nearly knocking her chair over as she backed away from the table. The candle wobbled, threatening to fall.

  “Jozef!” she shouted. “Jozef, get your ass out here! Now!” Her accent had mysteriously disappeared. “Hurry, Jozef! It’s her! She’s here!”

  They heard the pounding of heavy steps on a wooden floor, then the beaded curtain parted with a sharp snap as a large, twentysomething lunk stuck his head into the room. In a dark alley, Anna might have mistaken him for Red Cap.

  “What’s wrong, Ma?”

  “Get them out of here! Get her out of this house!”

  Clenching and unclenching his fists, the lunk moved toward them aggressively, and Pope rose to meet him. “Easy, pal.”

  But the lunk ignored the suggestion, grabbing a handful of Pope’s shirt as—

  —Anna quickly reached back and brought her Glock out, pointing it at him. “FBI! Let him go.”

  The lunk’s face went white at the sight of the weapon and he released Pope’s shirt, stepping back to join his mom, who was now flat against the wall, her eyes narrowed in anger.

  “What do want from us? Why did you come here?”

  “The photo,” Anna said. “Tell us about the boy in the photo.”

  “I don’t know anything about him.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I swear to you, I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Then why did you react that way? Like you recognized him?”

  “You startled me, that’s all. When I’m in the middle of a reading, I’m deep in concentration and—”

  —a shout from the back of the house cut her off. “Stop, Tatjana! Stop with the lies!”

  It was a woman’s voice, the interruption so unexpected that they all froze in place.

  “Bring her back to me,” she shouted. “I want to see her face.”

  “But, Mother—”

  “Don’t argue with me, girl! What have I told you about that?” Madam Zala, or Tatjana, or whatever her name was, lowered her gaze to the floor, then gathered herself, looking at Anna.

  “You won’t need the gun,” she said. “It won’t protect you from the truth.”

  44

  THE OLD WOMAN was the size of a small tent.

  Sitting on a daybed in a poorly lit room, she was so enormous that it would take a crane to lift her off of it. Anna had seen people like this on the news and in movies, but she wasn’t prepared for the real thing.

  The room had a gamey smell. A hint of urine. A walker stood at the foot of the bed, but Anna doubted it had been used in recent memory. The bedpan beneath it, however, obviously got regular workouts.

  The sight made Anna’s stomach churn with revulsion and she was pretty sure her expression showed it.

  “I am what I am,” the old woman said. “Think what you will.”

  She was close to eighty years old, with dirty gray hair and stark brown eyes. That she’d lived this long without succumbing to a heart attack or some obesity-related illness was a miracle.

  Glancing around, Anna saw that, unlike the previous room, this one was filled with framed photographs. On the wall, on tabletops. Photos of family and friends, including reproductions of some of the O’Keefe prints she’d seen online. But newer ones, too. A chronicle spanning decades. The old woman had surrounded herself with the history of her life.

  And on the wall, just to the right of the daybed, was a framed blowup of the photo of Chavi.

  “My name,” she said, “is Antonija Zala. Madam Zala to the gadje.” She lifted a finger and wiggled it at Anna. “Come closer, child. I want to see your eyes.”

  Anna glanced back at Pope, who stood near the doorway with the lunk and his mother. They no longer seemed to be a threat, having given themselves over to the will of the old woman. They were afraid of her. And Anna wondered if she should be afraid, too.

  As if reading her mind, the old woman said, “You’ve nothing to fear. Come closer.”

  Anna hesitated, another wave of revulsion passing through her, then did as she was told. The old woman stared intently at her eyes as she approached, recognition spreading across her face.

  “Ahhh, yes,” she said. “I knew he had found you again. He wasn’t certain at first, didn’t want to make another mistake, so he held back. But he knows now. He knows you’re the one.”

  Anna couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “How could you possibly know all that?”

  “I have the gift, child. How else?”

  “And he told you this?”

  “Not in words,” the old woman said. “And not in this world. But in the nether. In the spaces between time.”

  “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

  “That I can sometimes read Mikola’s thoughts.”

  “That’s his name? Mikola?”

  The old woman smiled. “You have so much to remember, my dear.”

  “Then quit being so goddamn cryptic,” Anna said, her frustration bubbling over. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Calm down, girl. You have no enemies here.”

  “Then answer my question.” She showed the old woman the print-out, pointing again to the boy crouched inside the wagon. “Is this him? Is this Mikola?”

  The old woman didn’t look at it.

  Simply nodded.

  “What does he want with me? My soul? Is that what he’s after?”

  Another nod.

  “But why?” Anna asked. “Who is he?”

  “He’s Roma,” the old woman said. “Blood.”

  “What do you mean he’s blood?”

  Antonija Zala smiled again, patiently, the folds of fat in her chins jiggling with the effort.

  “He’s family, my dear. He’s your brother.”

  ANNA SAID NOTHING.

  Feeling as if her legs might give out, she found a chair nearby and sat.

  Her brain felt numb.

  “Let me tell you a story,” the old woman said. She shifted on the bed, grunting with the effort. “It’s the story of two children, conjoined twins, you might say. But it isn’t a body they share. No organs. No limbs. But something far more vital than any human shell could e
ver be.”

  “A soul,” Anna said. “They share a soul.”

  Antonija Zala smiled again. “That’s right, my dear. They were born many years ago, to a family of Rom. Our family. The Zala family. The Zala clan had traveled for many a decade, then finally found their way back home to Slavonia, to a city called Osijek.

  “When one of the wives, my great-grandmother Natasa, became pregnant by her husband, Nikolai, there was much joy in the family. But at the moment of birth, those present knew something was seriously wrong.

  “There were two children in Natasa’s womb. One, the girl, was quite beautiful. Pristine, in fact. They named her Chavi.

  “But the boy, he did not fare as well during the birth. He was small, sickly, with a deformed face and body. He was, they thought, possessed by demons, and those who saw him that morning did not expect him to live.

  “He was taken into the forest and left to the elements, his father weeping as he laid the boy under a tree. And when Nikolai returned to camp, he found that little Chavi was crying as well, tears that had not stopped since her brother was taken from her side.

  “She cried through the night, her little face red with anguish. But the deed was done. The boy had been given to the angels.

  “Or so they thought.”

  The old woman paused, shifting again on the daybed.

  “When Nikolai returned the next day to the spot where he had left his son, he was surprised to discover that the boy was still alive. The temperature during the night had dropped below freezing, and Nikolai knew it could not be possible, yet there he was, crying angrily, just as Chavi had cried. And he knew that the boy had been warmed by Chavi’s tears.

  “Not knowing what else to do, Nikoli picked him up and carried him back to camp. At first the family celebrated. It was a miracle, given to them by God. But then the whispers started. Perhaps God did not have a hand in the boy’s survival after all. Perhaps it was the Devil. The demons that possessed him.

  “But all Nikolai and Natasa knew was that their little beauty, their Chavi, was no longer crying.

  “As the years passed, the twins became inseparable. It was said that they not only shared blood, but were two parts of the same wheel. The boy, Mikola, had trouble walking, but he would follow Chavi wherever she went. And while Chavi was doted on by members of the family and their friends, Mikola was often ignored, unless there was a chore to be done. A task to be completed.

  “The Zala family had always been a powerful clan. Tales of their magic were known throughout the region, some true, some exaggerations of the truth. And as she grew into a lovely young woman, Chavi discovered that she had powers far greater than anyone else in the family.

  “You must understand that it takes most Roma women many years to develop their supernatural skills. Some, like my Tatjana here, never develop them at all.

  “But Chavi was different. Special. By the time she was seventeen, she was a full-fledged chovihani, a witch, respected and loved by all those around her.

  “But Mikola was also special. It was unusual for a Roma male to develop any supernatural powers, but because he shared Chavi’s soul, he also shared many of her skills. But rather than use those skills for good, as Chavi did, Mikola was drawn to the dark side, and his days of tolerating insults were over.

  “When several gadje children pelted him with eggs one day, he felled them all with a curse. When a carnival barker caught him trying to sneak into one of his sideshows, and threatened to flog him, Mikola rendered him mute, and the man was later found to have swallowed his own tongue.

  “But the ultimate insult came from Chavi herself. When a young gadje photographer began traveling with the Zala family, Chavi found herself falling in love with the man and spoke of running away with him.

  “This was not only against Roma law, it did not sit well with Mikola. Chavi belonged to no one but him. She was, after all, his twin sister, the second half of the wheel. How could she think to abandon him? To leave him behind?

  “In an angry rage, Mikola put a curse on the photographer, who soon collapsed and died.

  “Heartbroken and distraught, Chavi confronted Mikola, but his rage continued to burn, all the years of pain and frustration coming to the surface. Chavi had betrayed him. She was no longer his sister, but a thief. The girl who had threatened to take away forever what was rightfully his. The part of his soul she had already stolen at birth.

  “And in a frenzy, Mikola grabbed a knife and stabbed Chavi, over and over again, then left her in the forest, under the very tree his own father had left him on the night of his birth.

  “Mikola had expected her half of his soul to migrate to him, to bring him strength, to cure his deformities, but with her dying breath, Chavi pointed a bloodied finger to the center of his chest and said a single word:

  “Mine.”

  THE OLD WOMAN lowered her head as if weakened by the telling of the story.

  Anna stared at her, waiting for more, but nothing came. It looked as if she had fallen asleep.

  Then she stirred. “This is, of course, a story that was told to me as a young child. There have been embellishments over the years, but the essence of what I’ve said is true.”

  “But you haven’t told me all of it,” Anna said. “Where does it go from there?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Mikola went looking for Chavi and found her in the next life, taking what he felt was rightfully his.”

  The old woman nodded. “He was convinced that the last word she spoke was a final curse. If he didn’t take his soul from her, she’d surely take it from him.”

  “But how did he know where to find her?”

  The old woman tapped her nose. “He relied on his instincts. With every new life, our souls naturally seek out those we have known in our previous lives. If he couldn’t find her directly, he would search for those who had been close to her. Like a lover. Or a friend.”

  “The photographer,” Anna said. “O’Keefe.”

  “Among others.”

  Anna turned, looking at Pope. Then she thought of Susan and it all made a kind of twisted sense to her.

  He’s always watching, Susan had said.

  Could Mikola have been watching them? And what about the Worthingtons? Did he watch them, too? Had their lives somehow intersected with the Fairweathers, causing him to zero in on Kimberly, thinking she might be the one?

  It was like some cosmic game of hide-and-seek, and Mikola sometimes got it wrong. Perhaps the eyes of those chosen were close, so close that he had to take a chance, only to discover that he’d made a mistake.

  I’ve made many mistakes, he’d told her.

  How many people, she wondered, had he killed? How many innocents? All of it on Chavi’s shoulders. Her shoulders.

  “I don’t understand,” Anna said. “If he wants my soul so badly, why didn’t he just take it from me the first time and get it the hell over with?”

  “Chavi’s curse,” the old woman told her. “Because of her refusal to let it go, he could take only a piece at a time. One new spoke for every successful kill. He started with eight, but he needed eight more to complete the wheel.”

  Sixteen spokes, Anna thought. Hadn’t Jillian Carpenter been the fifteenth? And didn’t this mean that she, Anna, represented the only remaining piece?

  “I’m the last,” she said.

  The old woman nodded.

  “But if he’s been hunting me from life to life, why doesn’t he get older? He should have been long dead by now.”

  “Ahhh,” the woman said. “According to the story, this is exactly what Chavi believed would happen. In that final moment, she thought she had outwitted him. But he began to study the black arts and came to know them intimately.” She paused. “He grows older, just as any man would. But to you and me, he does not seem to age because he is not of our time.”

  “What?”

  “He spends much of his life moving in the spaces between time. As we might travel from continent
to continent, he moves from year to year, decade to decade.”

  “Wait a minute,” Anna said. “Are you telling me he’s some kind of . . .”

  She couldn’t complete the sentence. It was too absurd.

  “Is it so hard to believe?” the old woman asked.

  “Frankly, yes.”

  “He’s a powerful soul. And with each new spoke, he becomes more powerful.”

  Anna felt light-headed. This was too much information, too fast. She was still trying to assimilate to this new world of blood rituals and gypsy witches and multiple lives. And this was one step she wasn’t sure she was willing to take.

  “But how?” she asked. “How is it possible?”

  “The mirrors,” the old woman told her. “It’s said that they are his pathway through time. That if he stands before them and looks beyond his reflection, when he ceases to see himself, he sees the world, all the way back to its very beginning, and forward, to eternity.”

  “Through the Looking-Glass,” Anna said softly, remembering the book she’d seen in the Fairweather house. “But how can that be? If all it takes is a mirror, he’d be popping up all over the place.”

  The old woman shook her head. “Not just one. They say he needs the strength of a thousand mirrors to make his passage.”

  Anna balked. Another ridiculous notion.

  Then it hit her.

  The house of mirrors. He had dragged her toward Dr. Demon’s House of a Thousand Mirrors.

  And hadn’t Jillian first felt his presence when she and Suzie were near the Miner’s Magic Mirror Maze? And what about the previous victim? Mary Havershaw? Hadn’t she mentioned seeing him at Coney Island?

  That was how he was doing it. What other explanation could there be?

  “When he was a child,” Anna said, “the sideshow he was caught sneaking into. Was it the house of mirrors?”

  The old woman nodded. “Such places have always fascinated him.”

  Anna stood up. “I have to go to Big Mountain.”