Red Widow (Vivian Xu, Book 1)

by Nathan Wilson

  “Already? What did you learn?”

  “Come, take a look.” She arranged the blood slides under a dual-piece microscope, allowing both she and Nikolai to view the sample simultaneously. After futzing with the knobs, Nikolai focused on the microorganisms stained pink.

  “Okay, I give up. What is this?”

  “See the fuzzy-looking white blood cells?” Nikolai squinted like a jeweler ogling a freshly cut diamond. “The purple ones, Nikolai. They indicate hairy cell leukemia. The cause of HCL is unknown, but some premature studies have linked it to exposure to industrial and pharmaceutical chemicals. HCL accounts for only two percent of adult leukemias, so you’ll be hard pressed to find many cases like this. I thought for sure I would find a positive match in our offender index.”

  “I take it you didn’t?”

  Jezebel shook her head.

  “I was looking in the wrong place the entire time. I didn’t find a positive match in the offender index, nothing even close.”

  “If not the registry, then where?” Jezebel floated past a rack of blood tubes and reached into a drawer.

  “Two months ago, a man was admitted to Zamecka Hospital. He had been mauled in the streets by a dog or a vicious animal. Several of his ribs had been snapped and the skin had been stripped from his face. Not to mention, he lost quite a bit of blood…”

  Nikolai swallowed hard. It wasn’t an animal that ripped him apart. It was a girl.

  “What did you learn about this man?”

  She returned with a folder under her arm, brimming with answers to questions he was too afraid to ask.

  “The man who suffered this attack was thought to have died or gone missing months ago. No one even knew he was still alive until he was admitted to the hospital. His name was Viktor Rezník.” Nikolai stared numbly as Jezebel flipped open the folder. He gazed upon the photo of a man lying in a hospital wing, cocooned in bandages and tape. His face was obscured by blood-soaked wraps. “Lucky for you, I pulled a few strings at Zamecka Hospital and took a peek at Viktor’s records. It just so happens he was diagnosed with HCL in 1996. And his DNA profile matched the blood on the walls.”

  “But …why? Why would he mutilate himself?” Nikolai murmured.

  “Are you familiar with sadomasochism?”

  “Vaguely. I had a strange experience with a homicide once. The defendant claimed he accidentally murdered his girlfriend in a sadomasochist fantasy. I have a hard time believing she enjoyed being stabbed twenty-seven times.”

  Suddenly, he remembered his encounter with Tatiana, the fierce sexual energy writhing for release under her skin. Even he felt a strange desire to submit to her voracious appetite and surrender absolute reign over his body. Was he no different than the deviants who traded pain for pleasure?

  He cracked a smile, dismissing his foolish imaginings. No, he was nothing alike.

  “Sadomasochism explores the bond between dominance and submission, sometimes withholding gratification,” Jezebel said. “Bleeding may be a form of sexual release for him, the way it looks and feels. He may have entertained masochistic fantasies. We can’t confirm it without accessing his therapist records.”

  Nikolai shook his head in disbelief.

  “I don’t know what to make of this.”

  “No one’s asking you to understand why. Just to end his reign of torture.”

  FIFTEEN

  An amber sunset burned through the blinds, gilding the inside of Camilla’s apartment. Her workspace was cluttered with notebooks, journals, a laptop, and, of course, a steaming mug of hot cocoa. Vivian’s eyes roamed over various articles tacked to the wall, a thriving journalist’s form of wallpaper.

  Salacious headlines leaped out from across the room. Ancient cemetery unearthed under basilica, senator confesses to affair with student intern…

  “Would you like some hot cocoa, too? There’s plenty more!” Camilla called from the kitchen. Unlike Vesely Manor, her apartment gleamed immaculately and every surface was polished to perfection. Most of all, roaches and other uncouth denizens were not welcome in her home. The sight of one would send Camilla into a stomping frenzy until she wiped their existence off the face of the earth—or at least the third floor of the building.

  “How can I resist?” Vivian studied the placid refuge Camilla had enshrined herself in. A lamp glowed next to the bed frosted with cream-colored sheets. Overhead, silly photos of the girl and her coworkers hung from a board. Vivian chuckled at a picture of Camilla trying to lick snowflakes off her nose.

  Another sepia photo was framed by the bed, that of a young man with wild, charcoal hair. The homely backdrop of a university laced with snow faded behind him.

  Love interest? Hell, maybe she just likes his lame scarf.

  “Make yourself at home,” Camilla said. “I probably don’t have to tell you twice. I mean, you practically hijacked my family’s manor.”

  “Careful, I might decide to move in with you.”

  Vivian settled behind the desk as the kindling sun dipped behind the cityscape. She sifted among the faded newspapers, searching for any reference to Syllax or its discontinuation. Based on what little she gleaned from the killer’s confessional video, the pharmaceutical company came under fire shortly after Syllax was released. She was already experiencing the haunting side effects that sealed its demise.

  But who exactly was Viktor Rezník before madness claimed him?

  “Camilla, have you heard about a drug called Syllax?”

  “It sounds familiar. Wasn’t it a pharmaceutical company or something?”

  “Let me rephrase that. Have you ever written about Syllax?”

  “I haven’t, but maybe someone else did. I’m the crime reporter, remember?”

  “Technically what was going on in that company could be considered a crime—”

  She choked. A headline popped out among dozens of others, one that sent her reeling from shock.

  Red Widow weaves lust and pain, by Camilla Vesely. Vivian hesitantly reached toward it, refusing to believe her eyes. It was dated nearly two months ago. She clutched the newspaper and lifted it to her eyes.

  Sometimes in the fragile hours of dusk, those roaming the streets may peer down the alleys and see a pair of searing, red eyes reflecting in the shadows.

  These eyes don’t belong to a demon, but some men say they may as well. They belong to a girl barely past the threshold of womanhood. Christened Red Widow by those who dare approach her, she caters to the morbid appetites of men with padded wallets.

  According to a client who wished to remain anonymous, an hourglass-shaped birthmark adorns her belly. If that doesn’t give her the right to claim Red Widow as her moniker, surely her attitude toward her male clients does.

  Like the female black widow spider, she preys on her mate with total disregard for the pain she inflicts. Dominance and submission are the tools of her craft, which she wields with an expert hand.

  Some say the disappearances of women from their apartments are linked to Red Widow.

  A blurry photo of Vivian adorned the pages. No matter how much she tirelessly tried to escape her past as the Red Widow, it somehow found a way to surface from the abyss and slap her in the face. She wanted to rip the newspaper apart, douse it in lighter fluid and set it ablaze, as if those charring flames would cleanse the stigma from her life.

  “I found her!” Camilla chimed, walking into the room. “Agate Rezník.” She gleefully brandished a piece of paper with the address. The expression on Vivian’s face gave her pause.

  “What is this?” Vivian stabbed the article with her finger. Camilla’s silence spoke volumes, the cruelest sound of all. Betrayal erupted inside Vivian’s chest.

  “Is this your idea of entertainment? A girl’s tragic downfall from aspiring nurse to street whore?!”

  Furious tears pooled in her eyes like blood against her rosy contacts.

  “That’s not it at all!” Camilla exclaimed. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how! I wrote t
his before I even met you!”

  “That doesn’t excuse what you’ve done! Whether you knew me or not, it’s disgusting! It’s wrong!” She threw up her hands in unbridled fury. “Tell me, Camilla, are you just accompanying me so you can write another tell-all about the Red Widow?”

  “No! Vivian, I want to help!”

  “Bullshit! Did you even stop to consider why someone would lower themselves to this? Did you honestly think I enjoyed it?!”

  In truth, Camilla entertained only one desire when she hammered out the story. She had been so eager to prove her worth to the editor in chief and unearth something no one else had. Vivian suddenly seized the recorder on the desk and clubbed it against the surface.

  “Hey!”

  “I’m destroying the recordings you surely have of me—”

  “Stop it!” Camilla tried to wrestle the recorder out of her hands, but Vivian shoved her back. The recorder sailed across the room, recoiling off the wall with a sizzling crack.

  For a moment, Vivian looked down at Camilla sprawled on the floor, and the latter wondered if the Red Widow’s cruelty extended to women.

  Instead, Vivian was fighting back tears.

  “I thought you were my friend.”

  “I still am, damn it!”

  “How can you expect me to believe you? After this?” She crumpled up the newspaper and bounced it off the floor. Vivian snatched the note with Miss Rezník’s address and stormed out.

  Camilla climbed to her feet, paralyzed in the blanket of dusk. She finally stooped down and retrieved the wad of newsprint. She flattened it against the desk as her tears pecked away at the ink.

  Vivian’s words echoed in her head, ringing of betrayal.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Tears streamed down her face as the apartment door slammed shut. “I’m so sorry, Vivian.”

  * * *

  The TV screen flickered like spasms of lightning in the evening tint of Nikolai’s office.

  Another long day at the office had passed, and Nikolai couldn’t remember the last time he felt so triumphant and weary. He leaned back in his chair, still trying to process the twists and turns that now defined his investigation.

  At last, he could put a name to the man he was hunting.

  Viktor Rezník.

  What a foul name, two words that when paired together virtually oozed with vice. One needn’t stretch the imagination to picture the disgusting creature this name was attached to. It was all too fitting that “Rezník” translated into “butcher.”

  He chuckled and shook his head.

  What remained to be solved was the motive in Viktor Rezník’s untouchable heart.

  “Frustration has reached a boiling point with the local police department,” the news anchor resounded from the TV. “Chief of Police Josef Láska has refused to hold a press conference in regards to the string of local disappearances. However, we have found someone who claims to know the reason behind the series of abductions.”

  Nikolai immediately seized the remote and pumped up the volume.

  “After the commercial break, former police officer Martin Slavik will join us to reveal the answer to the local vanishings.”

  “No! You’ve got to be shitting me!” Nikolai snapped, nearly kicking the chair out from under him. He scrambled toward the television.

  “Months have gone by since the outbreak of vanishings began, and the police’s unresponsive behavior has only raised more questions about the eerie incidents. As more communities have begun assembling neighborhood watches, the public has turned to the police without receiving any support. Tonight, the mystery of the disappearing women will finally be laid to rest.”

  “No, it won’t,” he snarled. The phone began ringing, portending the first of dozens of reporters seeking comment from the local homicide detective. After all, abduction inevitably culminated in murder. He slammed the door shut behind him as the phone screamed unanswered.

  Nikolai marched down the sidewalk past a giggling, drunken couple. He once had the misfortune of collaborating with Martin Slavik on a botched rescue operation.

  “Former police officer,” he scoffed. That was a fancy way of saying “terminated for reckless manslaughter.” The blundering fool had snapped off a warning shot in the air to intimidate a burglar holding a woman hostage. Instead, the bullet ricocheted off the ceiling and struck the hostage, severing her carotid artery and cutting her life tragically short. The death was downplayed to negligent manslaughter, but Martin didn’t escape a dishonorable discharge. As far as Nikolai was concerned, he deserved to rot in prison for his cavalier recklessness.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the police station fading into twilight. Láska was likely tearing his office apart right now, searching for Nikolai.

  “Hey, buddy! Got any smokes?” Nikolai jerked to a stop before the scrawny teenager. His hands were outstretched in search of entitlements. Nikolai ignored him and continued on his way.

  He reached the pay phone booth and rammed a coin in the slot. He breathed vehemently as the line buzzed in his ear.

  “You’ve reached news station Nova TV 10, this is Erika Stankova speaking. How can I help you?”

  “I—” The words were painfully lodged in Nikolai’s throat. And the same pesky teenager was orbiting the phone booth.

  “Hey, can you lend me some money?” One venomous glare from Nikolai sent him scurrying into the alleys.

  “Excuse me, is anyone there?” Erika asked. Nikolai struggled to force the words past his tongue. What if this call was somehow traced back to him? Was that man across the street watching him? A squad car slowly rumbled past the booth, closely tailing a driver. No matter, this was the only course of action available to him now.

  “A bomb will detonate within the Nova TV 10 office in the next ten minutes. Get out while you still can.” He slammed the receiver on the hook, feeling his stomach knot.

  The streets pulsed like a cyber night club as blue and red lights doused the city. Hundreds of Nova TV 10 employees spilled into the streets in a tidal wave of terror. Within minutes, the bomb squad was trawling the streets and being jerked along by bomb-sniffing hounds. Adjacent buildings had been emptied as a precautionary measure, including the Prague City Council.

  In the midst of the orgiastic chaos, a lone figure slipped through the fray.

  Martin Slavik kept a close eye on Nova TV 10 headquarters, expecting glass to erupt from the windows in a blossom of fire. The room where he had once been sitting in with all those fancy video cameras would be incinerated in a flash. Not even a tremor rippled through the building. He was slightly disappointed.

  Martin shrugged and wandered several blocks before hailing a taxi.

  “12 Nezamyslova,” he murmured as he sidled into the seat. He rolled down the window a crack to expel the stench of cigarettes and sex. The glossy street passed by in a red and yellow hue for the next ten minutes. He barely even glanced at the taxi meter as it ticked toward 200 Czech crowns.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that the bomb threat had been intended for him. Someone had called it in minutes before he was set to reveal intimate details of the investigation on live TV. Had the serial killer himself commissioned such a brazen threat?

  Martin allowed himself to close his eyes just for a second, sedated by the view. Maybe he would opt for an interview with the newspaper instead. That first bite of fame is always so addictive.

  “We’re being followed.” Martin perked up at the sound of the taxi driver’s voice. He squinted through the back window into the hazy night. Sure enough, a pair of headlights floated down the road.

  “Turn right,” he barked. The tires spun as the taxi swung around the bend. Martin’s pupils dilated when those familiar headlights cropped up on the horizon. Maybe it was just a motorist who happened to be going the same way. There was no need for Martin’s heart to beat this fast.

  “Turn left when possible.” The driver did so without question, and they pulled onto a remote country road
. They rocked over a cobbled bridge, and for a moment, Martin sighed in relief.

  The headlights stalked them around the turn. No, this wasn’t any mere coincidence. Martin’s hand instinctively fell to the gun by his side.

  “Pull over.”

  “What do you mean pull over—?” A wad of bank notes flashed before the driver’s eyes, and suddenly those misunderstandings were dispelled.

  “Pull over near a ditch if possible.” Catching his drift, the driver swallowed his misgivings and stuffed the money in his pocket. They continued for a few more miles down the murky stretch of road as Martin pondered the lurker. He almost didn’t realize the taxi had grinded to a stop.

  He sucked in a deep breath when he saw the submachine gun in the driver’s hand.

  “I served in the Gulf War,” the man said in a strong accent, offering the weapon. Martin smiled at the generous offer and pulled out his own gun.

  “I couldn’t betray my Silvia like that,” he said, affectionately cocking the hammer on his pistol. He kicked open the taxi door and sauntered onto the streets. The door popped open to the stalker’s vehicle and a silhouette emerged. His jacket fluttered in the slashing wind.

  “Martin Slavik, former police officer with dishonorable discharge,” the voice said. Martin tried to peer through the blinding headlights, but the man’s identity remained ambiguous. “Two months have passed since we’ve come face to face. Unfortunately, it hasn’t been long enough to forget what you’ve done.”

  A disturbing scenario played out with crystalline detail in Martin’s head. His face had been televised across Prague shortly before a bomb threat was called in. Perhaps someone he arrested saw him on TV and seized the opportunity dangling before him. Who else would know about his less than reputable past?

  “I may be an ex-cop but my trigger finger hasn’t lost its touch.”

  “I would be disappointed if it did.”

  “Who the hell are you?” The silhouette stepped forward until the red brake lights of the taxi illuminated his face. “Nikolai?” he gasped.