Red Widow (Vivian Xu, Book 1)

by Nathan Wilson

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Excuse me?” Nikolai jabbed a finger in his face and growled:

  “Is it not enough that your stupidity cost one woman her life? Now you want to do the same thing to more?”

  “What are you talking about?!”

  “Your interview on TV!” Nikolai snapped. “What are you trying to prove by going on the air and spewing lies?!”

  “Lies? I’m giving them the truth—”

  “You know nothing about what’s going on!”

  “I know Josef Láska is concealing this threat, and he’s making a mockery of everything you and I used to stand for. What are you so afraid of?”

  “We don’t want public hysteria and we certainly don’t need the media harassing us for information. I’m trying to quietly handle this investigation without turning it into a feeding frenzy. The last thing I need is 24-hour hype about a freak hunting down women in the dead of night. I already have a BIS agent shadowing my every move, just waiting for me to slip up. Next thing you know, they’ll drag the Office of Foreign Relations and Information into this mess over an imaginary sex ring! We’ll have agents flooding Prague, eating up our resources while they’re chasing human traffickers who don’t even exist—”

  “Nikolai, the Office of Foreign Relations and Information investigates terrorist threats, not sex rings.”

  For a moment, Nikolai looked at a loss for words, caught in his tangled web of hyperbole.

  “You’re afraid of losing jurisdiction, aren’t you?” Martin smiled. “All your hard work will slip through the cracks and someone else will bask in the glory.”

  “Maybe glory matters to you, but I don’t much give a damn. You have no idea know how much the investigation has evolved since your dismissal. You aren’t relevant anymore.”

  “I know enough to scare you out of your musty office. You’re responsible for that bomb threat, aren’t you?” The accusation rolled imperviously off Nikolai.

  “What will it take to shut you up?”

  “Since my termination, I’ve been struggling to find decent employment. You can imagine how a police officer with a dishonorable discharge might raise a few eyebrows during interviews. I haven’t exactly received a call back yet.”

  “It’s your own fault for whipping out your gun and putting a bullet in the hostage.” Martin batted aside the jab with a flick of his wrist.

  “The media came to me. I didn’t solicit them asking for an interview. They offered a hefty sum for information related to the disappearances.”

  “Who asked you to give this interview?” he fumed. Martin swelled, feeling once more in control, privy to information Nikolai didn’t possess.

  “Camilla Vesely.” Nikolai only stared into space, not about to reveal any emotion in front of Martin. “I’ll pay you off to keep silent.”

  “Really? Nikolai will descend from grace to buy my silence? Isn’t that amusing…”

  “This isn’t a game you’re playing, Martin. We’ve seen what happens when the media runs with a story like this. They regurgitate it as some sick form of entertainment, feeding society’s fascination with murder. Before you know it, another sadist wants to stand in the spotlight and the same freakish murders suddenly manifest. I don’t want any copycats. Do you?”

  “The public will find out sooner or later what’s happening to their daughters.”

  “Not today. And not tomorrow.”

  “This investigation is a bomb waiting to go off,” Martin teased. “And it’s going to blow up in your face sooner or later.”

  He bit back his next remark as Nikolai thrust a piece of paper in his direction.

  “What’s this?”

  “The killer’s address. I’m heading there tomorrow night. Once you see what we found inside, I think you’ll be persuaded to keep quiet.”

  Martin regarded it for a moment before swiping it from Nikolai’s fingers.

  “Fine. I’ll be there. Now, I have a taxi waiting for me.”

  Martin trudged back to the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him. Nikolai watched as the brake lights streaked into oblivion, mulling the uncertain turn of events.

  “I’ll be expecting you.”

  * * *

  Camilla sat staring at her computer, waiting for the words to flow from her fingertips. No matter how hard she racked her brain, she couldn’t stop thinking about last night.

  Vivian had vanished since their argument, just like the many women who fell into Viktor’s clutches. She prayed Vivian was still walking the streets somewhere, trying to salvage her future. Maybe she managed to hitch a train far from Prague.

  The blank screen hummed in front of Camilla, mocking her as she grappled for inspiration. She glanced at the telephone, almost afraid to hear it ring. What if she received a call about a sixth woman who faded from the city streets? She could imagine it now…

  The body of a young Asian woman with luscious, red hair was found on the city outskirts, naked and mutilated. The words “you cannot hurt me anymore” were carved into her belly, just above a peculiar hourglass-shaped birthmark…

  Camilla snapped to attention as her boss swept through the door.

  “Something for you, Camilla.” He tossed the letter on her desk, and Camilla pounced like a cat teased with a ball of yarn.

  She poured the letter out of the envelope, wondering whether it contained stinging scorn or praise for her recent editorial. No doubt she ruffled a few feathers with her criticism of the police’s handling of the investigation. Regardless of which tone the letter adopted, she felt ecstatic just knowing someone read her work.

  She scanned the letter and read it again, feeling her heart batter her ribs.

  Dear Ms. Vesely,

  If you value your career, stay away from the Krista LaCroix investigation.

  Camilla let the letter slip through her fingers. Swallowing her fear, she knitted her eyebrows in a fierce scowl.

  “Is that so?” she growled.

  She instantly realized her boss was watching her.

  “Something to add to your fan club mail?”

  “Yeah… Just another creepy guy asking me to have dinner with him.”

  “Wouldn’t you know? I have coupons for that new restaurant just down the street! Maybe you should give the sorry fellow a shot and tell us all about the horror stories in your next editorial.”

  “Not likely.”

  She turned the letter over, not surprised to find it lacking an address. She was accustomed to receiving letters from lunatics raving about conspiracy theories or the Antichrist, but she had never received threats. She buried her face in her hands, wondering what had become of Martin Slavik.

  How did the police learn she goaded him into giving an interview on TV?

  Martin had become a prized asset since his dishonorable discharge, divulging the details of local gangs, crime syndicates, and cold cases. He seemed to thrive on the attention of an attractive woman. Oddly enough, he refused to comment on the nature of the vanishings around Prague, no matter how sweet her voice sounded or how high she hiked her skirt.

  It seemed there were even some things that could unnerve Martin.

  Only when she revealed what she had seen with Vivian did his tongue unravel. He began to recite a string of grisly murders that chilled Camilla to the marrow.

  As she jotted down those details, the most innocent idea crossed her mind. Maybe she could push Martin into revealing the police cover-up on live television, Nikolai’s role most of all—deceiving the community while a monster preyed on their women. Maybe she could force the police’s hand to reveal the truth behind the abductions. The calls for Nikolai’s resignation would resound across the country, freeing Vivian from her indentured servitude to him.

  As much as she disliked sacrificing such a ripe story to a media rival, Nova TV 10 would reach a broader audience, and do so in a scandalous fashion. Of course, her boss would never forgive her if he learned of her betrayal.

&nbs
p; He was still standing in the doorway, looking at the letter on her desk.

  “Something on your mind?”

  “There’s always something on my mind.”

  “You’ve been staring at your computer screen for the past two hours. I can’t tell if you’re toughing out a hangover or concentrating on a breaking story.”

  “It’s just writer’s block,” she assured him, and it felt like it took every muscle in her body to plaster that empty smile across her face. “I’m trying to break my addiction to caffeine. Sorry if I appear a bit frazzled.”

  “Well, I’m about to head over to that new bistro café and pick up some lunch. I’ll grab you something.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Meanwhile, I expect to see you typing away when I come back with a steaming cup of brew. Don’t disappoint me, okay? I’m expecting big things from you.”

  She smiled. Once he left, her worst fears resumed their assault on her conscience.

  She glanced at a front page article about the bomb threat lobbed at Nova TV 10.

  Since that shocking incident, Camilla couldn’t reach Martin, no matter how many times she punched his number. She was beginning to suspect he deliberately ignored her calls. He couldn’t have fled Prague, right? No, Martin wasn’t one to hide in the face of adversity.

  He would meet it head on with little regard for the consequences, like a stubborn bison running into a wall.

  Camilla ruefully set down her phone, sent to Martin’s voicemail for the fourth time. She was accustomed to haughty politicians and police ignoring her calls, but this was more than she could take.

  She pulled on her jacket, pocketed her recorder, and headed out the door. She didn’t even bother to leave a note explaining her absence.

  Martin couldn’t remain underground for long. Fortunately for her, she had developed a knack for unearthing those who didn’t wish to be found.

  * * *

  Dusk invaded reality, and Vivian could no longer recognize the city around her. She had been wandering the streets for what seemed an eternity, although she could barely remember what she was searching for. Sanctuary? Strength? Love?

  Perhaps she wasn’t searching but merely running away.

  The wind picked up and tossed litter down the alley in an explosive wave. The increasing number of Western tourists left their footprint behind in trash, tarnishing the once sacred city in their waste and excess. Newspapers crawled over the ground or hurled through the air like the clipped wings of foreign creatures.

  She flinched as one of those newspapers slapped against her chest.

  No matter how she tried, she couldn’t take her mind off the article Camilla wrote. How many had ravenously devoured that story and recognized her on the streets? How long had Camilla known she strayed into the infamous Red Widow’s web?

  After she left the apartment, she walked as far as her feet would carry her before curling up on an abandoned mattress.

  Camilla served her purpose in the end, and that was all that mattered.

  She gave a start when she saw a figure slouched next to a dumpster. Stringy, wet hair wreathed his face, and his back was bowed low in defeat. She had seen many young men like him haunting the alleys, little more than souls stranded in between heaven and hell. They were almost always male citizens from broken homes, further crippled by drug abuse. They carried the label of “vandrák” or “tulák,” meaning “vagrant” or “bum.” In some ways, they were like kin begotten from different mothers. After all, there was no end to the labels lobbed at her as a Chinese immigrant.

  Suddenly, she felt vulnerable with $2,000 growing heavy in her pocket.

  Vivian held her breath as she inched past him. Don’t look into his eyes, just don’t make eye contact—his moan paralyzed her. One ill-placed move might set him off, provoking an animal that wouldn’t hesitate to rend her to pieces. The man sighed boisterously and nestled his head against a garbage bag.

  Vivian couldn’t believe her luck. Once she slipped past him, a strange feeling began to knot in her stomach. Guilt. She was judging him as so many had done to her simply because of her status as an immigrant. She may not regard him with disdain, but she was profiling him based on his appearance. She slowed to a stop.

  “Excuse me.” The beggar tilted his head to the sky, gazing deep into her molten red eyes. “Here.”

  A $100 bill floated from Vivian’s fingers to land at his feet. He stared at it in sheer wonder.

  “You need this more than I do,” Vivian said.

  She tingled with satisfaction as a smile creased his lips. He didn’t speak a word, but his gratitude shone wetly in his eyes. She continued on her way, feeling liberated by her act of kindness.

  She knew more intimately than anyone how it felt to be disenfranchised by society. Never again would she judge the downtrodden as lepers.

  She looked down at the streets as a long shadow joined hers. Is someone following me? She peeked over her shoulder and saw the vagrant walking in her footsteps. His presence immediately ignited concern.

  Oh God. I never should have given him that much. Now he wants more.

  She continued to walk as if nothing was amiss. Maybe he wasn’t following her. Perhaps he was returning to his sleeping bag curled up in the alley. Yes, she would often see them dozing in the side streets on piles of newspapers and blankets. He was just returning “home” to stash the money, maybe to make a quick stop at the bakery to buy a fresh loaf of bread. She stole another glance over her shoulder.

  A pipe was clutched in his hand.

  “I just want to thank you,” he whispered.

  Vivian bolted around the corner. As she barreled down the alley, she was perversely reminded of the saying “no good deed goes unpunished.” A grotesque chain link fence greeted her, crushing any hopes of escape. Her body bounced against the fence, trying feebly to reach for society on the other side. She felt like a caged animal moments away from slaughter.

  His shadow trickled into the alley, swelling as he approached. Finally, his face peeked around the corner, the whites of his eyes burning in the fading sunlight. Vivian yanked the gun from her waistband.

  “Stay back!” she screamed. The vagabond didn’t alter his course, limping closer by the second. “Stop!” The pipe dragged along the ground with a whining screech that seemed to possess neither beginning nor end. It simply was.

  The sound imprinted itself on time and reality, carving deep into her brain.

  The gun slipped from her palm and ricocheted against the concrete. Vivian blinked against the searing explosion.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw only scarlet.

  Blood streamed angrily between his fingers, a river burbling from his perforated lung.

  “Oh my God,” Vivian gasped. “Oh my God…”

  She watched slack-jawed as the vagrant crumpled to his knees. His voice came out in a garbled retch, as if his soul was being expelled in an exorcism.

  She reached for him, imploring him to stand up, to gather up the bits and pieces of his bloodied flesh, and leave her in peace. Instead, he chose to die in front of her, his face disfigured with contempt.

  “No,” Vivian breathed, staggering back. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t mean to—” She slipped in a puddle and fell to her knees.

  His eyes no longer blinked, glazed over in the dull sheen of the sunset.

  Vivian scooped up the gun and ran.

  * * *

  The sound of hissing rain against a sturdy oak door always set Martin’s nerves at ease. It was the sound of the outside world being held at bay, a strange and foreign place fogged with uncertainty.

  He could never explain what frightened him most about the world. Perhaps it was the immeasurable “unknowns” beyond the borders of his room. As a child, he used to peek out the window and watch the rain fall like icy daggers, always accompanied by a sea of inky shadows.

  He wondered where the darkness came from, and why it chased away the beautiful sunshine.
Was there a seed at the center of the world that birthed all the rancorous evil and pain into existence?

  He had never felt more uncertain than he did now as the same perverted evil cloaked him in its wet embrace.

  He reached for the brass latch on the door and twisted it shut. It echoed with a finality that permeated every wall of Viktor Rezník’s house, announcing the latest in a string of unfortunate visitors.

  Martin shuddered and beads of rain flew like barbs from his jacket. The moment his eyes adjusted to the blackness, he felt the instinctive need to shudder again.

  A compilation of Gothic crosses, flocked wallpaper, chandeliers, and vanity mirrors swam before him. It evoked distinct revulsion that sent him edging toward the door.

  Martin never cared for the stale Victorian and Gothic influences that paved the city. Its presence left him feeling trapped in another time and place that should never have been resurrected.

  He would only stay long enough to hear out Nikolai’s request. He wondered what the surly homicide detective could possibly offer to secure his silence. After all, he wouldn’t turn a blind eye to injustice without a little incentive. If Nikolai didn’t sate his thirst for reward, he would inevitably come crawling back to the media.

  “Nikolai?”

  Martin poked his head inside the kitchen. Nikolai wasn’t seated at the table, boring into him with that loathsome stare he reserved for criminal interrogations. A shame, as it would have been mildly entertaining to see Nikolai put on a brave face before groveling at his feet. Martin shrugged off his disappointment and plopped down at the table. He did his best to kill the time as the seconds ticked into eternity; tapping his wristwatch, counting the cracks in the ceiling, massaging the fresh stubble on his chin. He sighed and kicked the table.

  “Where the hell are you, Nikolai?”

  He leaped as a moan emanated from somewhere in the kitchen. He swerved to the cellar door as the same noise pulsed through the floor, riding up his toes all the way to the neck of his spine.