Red Widow (Vivian Xu, Book 1)

by Nathan Wilson

  Another headache burrowed between his eyes, interrupting his concentration. He gulped down another pill, which was quickly becoming a daily routine. He suspected the migraines arose from his obsession with this peculiar case. Sometimes he pored over the evidence for hours at a time.

  How many women had this man killed? The forensics team didn’t turn up any bodies in the condemned house, but the walls were painted in blood.

  He looked down at the scraps of paper he collected from every murder scene. Diagnostic reports. Each one delved into explicit detail about the victim’s psyche, particularly their affinity for manipulation or abuse. He was able to confirm that Krista, Natalie, and previous victims had attended therapy at one point in their lives, but none of them intersected. He already questioned each therapist connected to the victims, but no one triggered alarm bells in his head.

  Nevertheless, there could be no doubt. The killer possessed access to a health care database, and he was scouring it for victims.

  He massaged his pounding temples as his daughter’s voice rattled in his head. Why did he have to think of her now? She always floated into his thoughts at the most inopportune times.

  Nikolai bolted up at the sound of a child’s laughter. He peeked out the window. A young girl came into view, skipping past cafes and trendy boutiques.

  She was being tailed by her mother, falling pitifully behind as she toted several shopping bags. No matter how she called, the child was oblivious to her demands. She waved at strangers across the street and tripped over her shoelaces.

  Nikolai chuckled. Emily was much the same way, too caught up in her fantasy world to heed authority.

  His eyes widened as the girl trotted toward the busy intersection. She was determined to cross to the other side, as though all traffic would magically grate to a halt. He wanted to scream when he saw the car swerving in and out of the lanes, careening toward the light. The driver was oblivious to the girl, gripping the steering wheel tight as he slammed his foot on the pedal.

  “Stop, you bastard!” Nikolai screamed. He punched the office window, pain radiating through his knuckles. Just as the girl stepped off the curb, he saw a vision of his deceased daughter.

  He remembered the moment of impact when he lost everything he treasured.

  Emily was only nine years old when her world was torn asunder.

  And Nikolai’s world went with her.

  * * *

  February 21, 1984

  Nikolai flinched awake. He glanced at the clock and then at the television buzzing at the foot of his bed. The news unfolded in a blur, replaying a barrage of footage from the ghettos.

  He recognized the blood-soaked streets plastered on the TV screen. After all, he set foot among the casualties there only hours ago.

  Fresh images of carnage and devastation had been tattooed into his mind, not so easily removed as ink from flesh. Racial riots had erupted like blisters across the ghettos three weeks ago, transforming the streets into a war zone

  So many bodies emptied of life and eyes that would never open again… The stench of carrion, mixed with the sweltering heat, formed its own biological weapon against both sides, whittling down the conflict. The city hall steps were paved in bodies hissing under flies. Soon the area would be quarantined, and the smell of burning flesh would imprint itself on everything within a five-mile radius.

  He tried to think of anything else, something more pleasant than eternal repose. Alas, a homicide detective could never completely divorce himself from death.

  Against his deepest wishes, he imagined the body he discovered in the federal van. The driver had been gunned down behind the wheel, obviously the handiwork of a high-powered rifle.

  Many immigrants set up camp in an abandoned factory to escape the violence. No doubt some of them were exploiting it as a base for operations against authorities.

  Shaking away the mental images, he glanced to his left, half-expecting to find someone lying next to him in bed. Her side of the mattress remained cold and empty.

  What had jolted him awake? Without warning, a feverish panic punctured his heart. It wasn’t the first time he was visited by such a visceral reaction, one that often portended trouble.

  He confronted danger on so many levels throughout his life, but this feeling attacked his psyche in ways that paralyzed him. He fumbled with the lamp, chasing away the shadows that danced around his bed. He scanned his room but the light didn’t betray the presence of any intruder.

  Tossing off the sheets, he crept down the hall. For a moment, he feared he was imagining this alien source of peril.

  His lungs shuddered inside his rib cage and a silent scream itched inside his throat.

  He clenched the door leading to Emily’s bedroom. He closed his eyes, picturing his daughter wrapped in velvety blankets and innocent dreams. With a tremor, he nudged the door forward. The bedroom window gaped open through the darkness like the gates to hell.

  * * *

  Nikolai punched the window again as the howl of the engine filled his ears. The girl stepped off the curb.

  “God damn it, no!” he screamed.

  The girl’s body lurched as someone yanked her back.

  “Never run ahead of me like that again,” her mother seethed. Her anger quickly dissolved into a loving embrace, determined to keep her daughter safe from harm.

  Nikolai melted in relief. To see child-like purity come so close to the brink of destruction nearly crippled him. He retreated to his desk, trembling from head to toe.

  If only he had protected his daughter before tragedy plucked her precious soul from the world. What penance could possibly cleanse him of his mortal failure?

  Was his dedication to this case merely an attempt to redeem himself in his own eyes, to convince himself he could save others? He couldn’t salvage his own daughter, but perhaps he could save someone else’s.

  His vision began to blur under exhaustion. He dangled by a thread to consciousness, encroaching on that dangerous slope to oblivion. Lukewarm beads of sweat dribbled down his forehead.

  His lips barely mouthed her name.

  Emily.

  Suddenly, his head lie on his desk, his cheek nestled against crime reports and newspaper clippings. Several words from the front page glared into his eyes.

  Sixth woman vanishes near apartments.

  THIRTEEN

  Vivian regarded the ominous cassette in her hand. Would it offer her a glimpse into the mind of this depraved killer? Would it leave her on the precipice of insanity once she peeked inside?

  “Shut up,” she said, speaking more to her relentless imagination than anything else. She almost considered leaving the tape in this hidden room, where no one would ever unearth it.

  Alas, her curiosity had been stoked and there was no cure for what ailed her except the naked truth.

  I guess I have no choice.

  Retracing her steps through the tunnel, she plodded up the rickety stairs.

  The den was barren all but for a faded carpet, a green suede couch, and a television equipped with a VCR. How strange that these objects were left behind in a house virtually stripped bare. She flipped the switch on a floor lamp and scarlet light doused the room.

  She shoved the cassette into the jaws of the VCR. Sinking into the depths of the musty couch, she punched play and stared at the screen.

  A strange droning emanated from the television, like a key stuck on a demented organ. It oozed through the room, burying the background noise of creaking walls and a sinking foundation. The screen faded to a funeral gray, interrupted by spasms of static.

  “December 6, 1997.”

  The sound of his voice sent her spinning as surely as if the couch electrocuted her. She tumbled to the floor and grappled for the gun in her waistband. The room was devoid of his unholy presence.

  “The subconscious is believed to be contained in the hypothalamus portion of the cerebellum and the temporal lobe of the cerebral cortex,” the voice said. She swung back toward t
he TV.

  “It’s him,” she murmured. The static melted away to reveal a research lab. Several MRI scans of brains flickered on a computer screen. She stared at gray gobs with nerves and blood vessels tunneling through spongy tissue.

  “The subconscious is a repository for secret desires, trauma, and fantasies expelled from the mind by psychological repression. The subconscious is also instrumental in functions such as breathing and heart rate. I have filed a patent for an innovative drug designed to delve into the realm of the subconscious to expose the origins of repressed trauma. This project has been dubbed Syllax.”

  She starkly remembered the way he spoke to her in the cellar, like a patient during therapy.

  “He was documenting his research. He actually is a psychiatrist,” she whispered. The camcorder panned toward a stainless steel table ornamented with trays. The lenses zoomed in on a set of needles.

  “If I can subdue the inhibitory reflex and access the subconscious, I may be able to reveal the source of a patient’s trauma,” he said. “I may even trace the origins of eating disorders and treat the symptoms.”

  Vivian leaned forward.

  “What is this? Did he actually think he could treat depression and anorexia this way? By digging around in the subconscious?”

  “It’s an exciting mystery, trying to unravel the patient’s mind and discover that pivotal event that changed his or her life forever,” said the silky voice. “What unnerves me is the fact that I may soon know them even better than they understand themselves.”

  Static resumed and the screen shifted to a woman in a barren room. Ginger hair flowed down her shoulders as she sat complacently in a chair.

  “January 6, 1998. Patient session with Eileen Slezakova. Eileen has graciously volunteered for a clinical trial to assess the effectiveness of Syllax.”

  The young woman smiled sheepishly.

  “Is anyone else going to see this?”

  “Just me and members of the research team. You can rest assured, Eileen, nothing you say will make it beyond these walls.”

  “All right.”

  “Now I want you to relax and close your eyes.” Vivian jerked when she saw the needle outstretch toward Eileen’s arm. An anonymous, gloved hand swabbed the site with alcohol and the needle finally pressed against the skin. A prick later and a bandage sealed the tiny hole.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. See, that didn’t hurt at all, did it? Nothing to worry about. Now tell me, has your mood improved since the last time we met?”

  “A little. I’m getting out of my room more often and spending time with friends. I actually went to a club last weekend with Amy.”

  “Eileen, that’s wonderful! I’m so pleased to hear that you’re branching out of your comfort zone. I can’t begin to stress just how important it is that you’re making the effort.”

  “Yeah, it’s growing clearer to me that I need to get out of the apartment and start interacting with people.”

  “So tell me about your experience at the club.”

  “Well, I’ve always felt kind of silly dancing in public,” she blushed, crossing her legs. “I feel exposed in club settings, if that makes any sense. I never know who’s looking at me, who’s laughing…”

  “You should live the life you want without fear of being judged. You can’t stop people from thinking ill of you, Eileen. As long as you don’t let that stop you from being who you aspire to be, it doesn’t matter what they think.”

  Eileen chuckled.

  “That’s what Amy told me, although her language is a bit more colorful than yours. I’ll admit, her advice didn’t sink in until I downed a few drinks. I guess I needed a dose of false confidence to hit the dance floor.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s a start. Hopefully, you don’t need a substitute for confidence in the future.”

  “I know. One more thing… Before we left, Amy introduced me to a cute guy named Kristian.”

  “You met him at the club?”

  “Yeah. We only talked for five minutes, but it felt like hours. I swear I met him somewhere before, even though I know it can’t be true. We just clicked instantly.”

  “Where do you see this friendship going? Are you imagining something along the terms of a relationship?”

  “I really like him but I’m afraid of letting him get too close because… after the incident… when…”

  “Yes?”

  “After…”

  Eileen fell silent. Fear smoldered in those brilliant eyes.

  “You,” she breathed.

  “Eileen, are you all right? What’s the matter?”

  “You!” She howled like a terrified animal confined to a cage. “What are you doing here?!”

  “Eileen, calm down! Focus on me, just focus on me and—”

  “No! Get away from me! Stop touching me!” She toppled to the floor, scraping her knees. Without warning, she grabbed her chair and lobbed it across the room. “Stop it! Just stop! Stop fucking touching me!” A silhouette scrambled toward the camcorder and the tape cut out.

  Vivian dug her nails into the couch, her entire body knotted in tension.

  “What the hell?” she murmured. The video resumed. At first, she couldn’t understand anything the voice was saying.

  “Eileen suffered a post-traumatic episode during clinical trials. Security was forced to restrain and sedate her until her caregiver arrived. The results of her session have been rendered void due to her lapse into the past.”

  Suddenly, his voice zipped along at a rapid speed, and the film deteriorated.

  “January 14. Syllax has shown promising results in the remaining clinical trials. Ten to fifteen milliliters of Syllax decreases activity in the left hemisphere of the cerebral cortex. This dose subdues the conscious mind’s inhibitory reflex. Activity increases in the right hemisphere of the cortex, which plays a role in creativity and imagination; this gives reign to the impulsive subconscious. In other words, I have replicated the effects of hypnosis. Syllax will be on the market very soon, I expect.”

  The audio dropped and resumed upon the next entry.

  “February 20. Syllax has adverse effects on the amygdala in the brain.” This time his voice sounded frantic, almost out of breath. The camcorder bounced to the left. “It heightens hostility and fear, inducing a trance of ‘fight or flight,’ accompanied by a flood of epinephrine. Erratic brain waves are present in the third week of exposure to Syllax.

  “A study of patients exposed to Syllax revealed tumor formation in the cerebrum, which analyzes sensory information and compares it to memories. Damaged cells continue to rapidly multiply in this region. The tumor applies pressure to the occipital lobe and begins to produce hallucinations. Long term brain damage is present. Syllax has begun to induce seizures, vomiting, sudden cardiac arrest, and violent tendencies.”

  The tape blacked out again. A white dot burned in the middle of the screen, swelling in size until a ghostly pall illuminated Vivian’s face. She blinked and saw a blur of mortgage papers, foreclosure documents, and court subpoenas. Bank statements of accounts bled dry were scattered on a desk. His voice rang out in a depressed, monotone sound.

  “June 14. What a fitting death.” The needle stabbed a vial and withdrew the amber-colored nectar. His jittery fingers flicked against the syringe, spattering a few drops. “To overdose on the drug that has stolen everything from me: my house, my practice, my reputation. A thousand words cannot express my sorrow for the harm I have caused. I never intended for this outcome. I thought I was helping others. I sincerely do not expect understanding or forgiveness.”

  Vivian stared hypnotically as he set down the camcorder. His shaking hand held the needle to his wrist.

  “I never intended for this, I swear.” His voice cracked as tears threatened to surge from a broken place inside his heart. “There is no way to undo my crimes.” He thought of the promising future that once beckoned him from behind a microscope lens.
How could something so small take away everything he fought so hard to achieve?

  How many souls had he salvaged compared to the ones he destroyed? He had accomplished much good during his practice, but he had also wreaked devastation. Perhaps no amount of reparations could atone for that. But maybe his life would suffice.

  The needle kissed his vein, ushering in a toxic dose of Syllax. Chainsaw static rippled across the screen, shredding the image of a man’s trembling hand. The tape cut out. The screen refused to yield its pull over Vivian, drawing her deeper into the pool of black. Then a voice cut through the jarring static.

  “Mother… you cannot hurt me anymore.”

  The breath caught in her throat.

  * * *

  The door swung open to Nikolai’s office.

  “You arrogant bastard!” Tatiana yelled, slamming her palms down on Nikolai’s desk. “Did you forget to tell me you were raiding the suspect’s house?! We’re supposed to be on the same team!”

  “I was just assembling a report for you,” Nikolai said, sliding it across the desk. The gesture did little to placate Tatiana, who viciously swept it aside.

  “I want to know everything you’re planning before you make such a rash move—not after! Did you stop to think about the possibility of hostages? What if the killer was keeping victims alive in his house? They would have been slaughtered the moment those armored vans rolled up!”

  “I can assure you we took every precaution before raiding the residence. I had to act fast before the suspect fled.”

  Nikolai bit his lip, not quite willing to disclose his findings. He recoiled as she thrust her face only a few inches away from his.

  “At least have the courage to look me in the eyes when you lie.” Nikolai managed a playful smile in light of her boiling fury.