I’m so lonely by myself in my tiny room. I would do anything to have a friend to play with. Since Daddy left, the only person I see is Mommy. But when she looks at me, she frightens me.
Everything has changed since we started living alone. We don’t eat as much. Mommy is always angry and she doesn’t hug me anymore. She says I look too much like my father and she doesn’t like that. She says I better not turn out like him.
I don’t know what she means “like him.” Was Daddy a bad man?
September 8, 1968
I brought a friend home today. I found him in the forest. He was all alone just like me. I named him Jasper.
Mommy was furious when she found him under my bed. I cried when she took Jasper away and said I would never see him again. She tells me I shouldn’t bring vermin into our house. Then she says I’m just like Jasper. A rodent in human form. I didn’t eat supper that night and I couldn’t leave my room.
I had a terrible nightmare last night about Jasper. I dreamt he was sick and no one was there to help him. I could tell just from looking in his eyes he was in pain. He was going to die all alone. I woke up to the sound of Mother screaming my name. My bed sheets and my underpants were wet. Mommy forced me to bathe in boiling hot water to wash away my filth. I’ve never felt pain like this before. After a while, the pain stops and you don’t feel anything. My skin is red and tender from the hot bath. Mommy told me to lie down and go to sleep, but I can’t. Everything hurts.
Viktor continued to detail the unusual punishments his mother forced him to endure when she saw fit. Each one delved into more explicit detail than the last, bludgeoning Vivian’s conscience.
October 27, 1971
Pain was always my friend. I’m wise enough recognize that now. It is something I’ve become well-acquainted with over the years. I hardly feel the pain anymore when my mother strikes me. In fact, when she beats me, I don’t even scream or cry. I simply stare at her. And when she looks into my eyes, I think I sense fear. I believe I understand now why she beats me. She can’t punish my father for abandoning her, but she can punish me. I’m a part of him.
I’m learning to enjoy the pain. No, I don’t enjoy it—I’m simply adapting to the pain. It is a distraction from the trauma inside.
I found an old back brace in the cellar that I frequently make use of. It looks frightening and ugly with metal rods that mold to the throat and the back of the head. I feel caged inside it, almost safe and secure from my mother’s fury. I also found my father’s military gas mask among the items he left behind. It makes it very hard to breathe.
Somehow, when I wear these objects, I feel like a different person. I feel removed, as though Viktor isn’t here anymore. I take on a different identity—someone who isn’t beaten, starved, and imprisoned on a daily basis. When I wear these items and look in the mirror… I shudder at what I see.
Vivian shut the frayed journal. The emotions contained in those words rammed through her heart.
Just as she set down the book, she noticed a framed photograph on the window sill. It was a portrait of a younger Agate, with blonde before the first sliver of gray infiltrated those golden curls.
She looked so much like Krista. And Natalie.
* * *
Camilla had expected better from an ex-cop like Martin. He didn’t bother to lock the windows to his derelict house, granting access to any would-be intruders. Of course, Camilla had no intention of pillaging and plundering. What petty things would she steal from a man like Martin in the first place?
She had set foot inside his house only a few times when she interviewed him—and it was everything she had come to expect from a long-time bachelor who scorned responsibility and high maintenance; just the necessities and a few indulgences. The linoleum fridge was always stocked with plenty of beer, the kitchen reeked of disaster, and home décor didn’t even factor into his priorities.
“Martin?”
She forayed up the stairs, searching for the man who seemed hell-bent on avoiding her. She would almost like to see him try to outrun her. Camilla threw open his closet to find it overflowing with soiled shirts, slacks, jackets, and police uniforms. If he had indeed left, he didn’t bother packing a measly wardrobe change. She jumped as an alarm clock wailed in the darkness.
“Martin? Damn it, where are you?” She almost smacked the alarm clock from its perch when she noticed the voicemail machine blinking. Martin had twelve unheard messages.
She pressed play and was stunned to hear her voice coming over the machine in a robotic buzz.
“God, do I really sound that annoying on the phone?” she murmured. She skipped past the next few messages she left.
“Last message sent on September 14 at 10:51 P.M.” She leaned closer.
“Martin, I know you’re there.” Nikolai, she thought with a stab of panic. “I’m waiting in the house right now. I hope you’re on your way. You can’t afford to miss this opportunity. You wanted to know the truth behind the abductions, didn’t you?”
Camilla couldn’t believe her ears. What truth could he possibly know? Didn’t she and Vivian know everything?
Speaking of that rambunctious girl, she wondered what had become of her. Camilla had kept a watchful eye out for Vivian at Vesely Manor, but she was nowhere to be found. She could only pray Vivian was somewhere safe and warm.
“Remember what we agreed to, Martin. No more interviews, nothing. I’ve already taken care of that bitch from the newspaper.”
I knew it.
Camilla always got the distinct impression that he preferred criminals over journalists. Every time she called him, he would only tease her with nibbles of information, barely enough to scavenge a story. Plus, his quotes sucked, interrupted by far too many “um’s,” “ah’s,” and “off the record’s.”
She would stake her salary on Nikolai phoning in the bomb threat to the TV station. Is that how he got under Martin’s skin?
“You would do well to show up soon before matters escalate,” Nikolai growled. “I can only do so much to help you understand.”
Camilla pulled out her recorder and began to record the message from beginning to end.
* * *
Nikolai leaned against the sterilized autopsy table, waiting for Jezebel to sign in for her shift. He drummed his fingers on the surgical steel, his patience wearing thin.
He didn’t encounter Martin in the killer’s house last night. Nikolai waited almost an hour before dialing his number, only to be sent to his nasally voicemail. Did Martin flee Prague? It wouldn’t be the first time he tended toward cowardice.
He supposed it was just as well. If Martin chose to disappear from existence for a while, he wouldn’t stand in his way—so long as he remained out of sight and out of mind. He didn’t want Martin to so much as even pick up a newspaper or tune in to the local news. He could benefit from sticking his head in the sand and shutting up every now and then.
Nikolai perked up as a disheveled Jezebel strolled into the morgue. The telltale signs of exhaustion rimmed her eyes with luscious red.
“I have the results from the clinical trials,” she announced. A folder stuffed with charts and graphs landed on the table.
“Clinicals?” Nikolai said. “What do you mean?”
“I took the liberty of performing clinical trials with the drug you found in Viktor’s basement. I had to study the effects on a living host. As you can imagine, the results weren’t pretty. Take a look at this.”
“You should have told me you were evaluating—”
Nikolai bit his tongue. He had picked up nuggets of medical knowledge from Jezebel over the course of his career, but he hadn’t the faintest notion what he was looking at now.
“Are these… skulls?”
“You’re looking at the brain scans of the test specimens. There are cancerous tumors growing in their brains, specifically grade 4 astrocytomas. They’re the most aggressive and malignant type of brain tumor.”
Nikolai couldn’t tear his eyes a
way from the malformed lobes of yellow tissue.
“They formed tumors of this size already? How is this possible? Could this happen to a human?”
“Grade 4 tends to grow rapidly and multiply throughout the body, but I suspect it would take longer to develop in a human host. To be honest, I’ve never seen anything quite like this. There may be a catalyst agent I’m overlooking that accelerates the process.”
“What else?”
“I’ve been wrong about this drug from the start. I originally thought it was salvia because of the hallucinogenic properties, but the chemical structure is similar to cocaine because of the tropane ring—”
“What is it, Jezebel?!”
She looked at a loss.
“Scopolamine.”
Nikolai’s heart sank. Long before he joined law enforcement, Czechoslavak communist secret police used scopolamine to extract confessions from prisoners. Scopolamine had since been debunked as a “truth serum,” but Viktor obviously thought it still contained mental properties worth exploring.
“Scopolamine…” Jezebel hesitated. “It can produce vivid hallucinations like salvia. But it’s a tropane alkaloid like cocaine. Nonetheless, scopolamine doesn’t produce these tumor formations. This has been synthetically modified. You’d need a state of the art lab to produce this.”
Nikolai fell silent.
“Is there any left?”
“Just a little,” Jezebel said, offering up the syringe in a biohazard bag. They both regarded it like a radioactive bomb.
“I’ll drop it off at the evidence locker,” Nikolai murmured, hypnotized by the exotic liquid. He could only imagine the havoc this drug might reap on a young woman’s brain.
* * *
Vivian backed away from the eerie portrait.
A younger Agate reflected behind the glass with long blonde hair, green eyes, and an icy complexion. Just like Krista. And Natalie. Only then did it begin to dawn on her.
“Oh God,” she whispered. “When he overdosed on Syllax, it didn’t kill him; it brought out the repressed trauma from his childhood. It must have driven him insane. When he selects a victim, he sees only his mother. He thinks he’s killing her over and over again.”
She shuddered at the thought.
Viktor was like a child trapped in a man’s body, albeit a child who craved offerings of torture and death. She had to believe there was some semblance of a conscience in him. Enduring abuse wasn’t an excuse to slaughter and maim innocent women as he pleased. But as far as he knew, they weren’t innocent. In his dazed eyes, all of his victims were his mother.
She numbly emerged from Viktor’s bedroom.
“Where have you been?” Vivian jumped at the grating sound of Agate’s voice. The harsh matron stood in the doorway to the living room, remarkably imposing for her small stature.
“I’m sorry, I needed to use the bathroom,” Vivian babbled. “I wasn’t feeling well. I’m… I’m in my second trimester. In fact, I think it’s time for me to go home and rest.”
“You certainly don’t look like you’re with child.” Agate looked at her belly with a predatory gaze. “I suppose we all can’t be quite as lucky as you… and retain our natural shape.”
“Thanks, I guess. I may have my shape but that’s bound to change in a few months. Plus, the morning sickness doesn’t spare me.”
“Try eating some dry crackers in the morning to calm your stomach.”
“Thanks. I’ll give it a try.”
Soon, Vivian was standing on the doorstep outside. Agate looked at Vivian’s belly again.
“Are you married?”
“No.”
Agate inflated herself with a deep, vehement breath, but she didn’t speak a word. Vivian quickly scuttled off the porch, anxious to leave before she was dragged into a storm of righteous wrath. Agate’s voice brought her screeching to a halt.
“You forgot about the book. Should I make a quick scan of Viktor’s room?”
“No, that’s okay,” Vivian said, feeling the journal weigh heavy in her pocket. I already have the book I need.
“Well, in any case, good luck being a mother. It takes a certain strength and discipline to nurture a child.”
Is that how you justify beating your child? To build up his character? She clenched her fists as she glowered at the vile woman.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” Agate watched Vivian vanish into the mist. Finally, she shut the door to a house filled with a child’s tormented memories.
A swirling miasma drenched the neighborhood. Almost on instinct, Vivian’s hand dove into her pocket to retrieve her cell phone. A few clicks later and she was listening to it ring.
“Hello?”
“Nikolai, I’ve come across something amazing. I think I know why Viktor is murdering women and how he selects his victims.”
“How?”
“I found Viktor’s diary in his mother’s house. He was a practiced psychiatrist with a long history of psychological research. He was working with a pharmaceutical company to mass produce a drug called Syllax. It’s the drug he’s been injecting into all of his victims!”
Nikolai began to stammer incomprehensibly. Vivian had never heard him sound so confused.
“He injected—why?!”
“Here’s where everything gets fucked up. Syllax was designed to medicate patients with severely repressed trauma. It unlocks the subconscious and induces a sort of hypnotic state. Syllax would supposedly help patients open up about their repressed memories.
“The disturbing thing is Syllax was only recently taken off the market. It was prescribed at multiple clinics around Prague. Viktor overdosed on Syllax but instead of killing him, it evoked repressed memories of his abusive mother. All of his victims physically resemble her. That’s how he chooses them! He must think he’s killing his mother over and over again—”
The signal died. Vivian looked down at her phone in confusion.
“Nikolai?” Only static replied.
Nikolai’s thumb rested on the end button. He stared at his phone as his entire body quaked. That sensation reached deep down into his core, compressing the breath in his chest. He found it difficult to comprehend anything in that moment. What had she just uttered to him?
Syllax.
Vivian knew far too much. This revelation could spell the end of his career, even his life. He snatched his car keys and teetered toward the door leading to the alley.
* * *
Camilla kicked in the door to Nikolai’s house.
“Ouch!” she said, hopping forward and clutching her foot. “Stupid door!” She immediately shut it behind her and looked around. Even though his car wasn’t parked outside, she half-expected Nikolai to come bounding down the hall.
“Well, Nikolai, let’s see what’s got you so riled about the LaCroix investigation.” She glanced across a house that felt anything other than a home. Radiators groaned from the kitchen and muted light glossed over the walls. Somewhere in the background, a broken TV hummed blissfully. Photo frames dangled from the walls, but the pictures had been mysteriously removed. Camilla never would have guessed someone actually ate and slept in this house.
A strange smell tickled her senses as she ventured up the stairs. She sniffed again and drew it deeper into her nostrils. Something was burning. She galloped up the stairs and sprinted down the hall. Those flames could be consuming evidence for all she knew—or a young woman’s body. Her shoulder rammed against the bedroom door, surprising herself when it nearly flung off the hinges.
She was greeted by dozens of burning candles in the darkness. On a chest of drawers, a teddy bear cradled a portrait of a young girl between its fluffy arms, showing the pride and joy of Nikolai’s life.
Kindergarten drawings surrounded the portrait, crudely depicting a smiling girl with her arms wrapped around a man. I luv you, Daddy was scrawled in red crayon around the smiling pair. Camilla could only look on with wonder at the shrine dedicated to preserving the memory of a young g
irl.
She reached out to stroke Emily’s portrait, imagining how beautiful the girl must have been when she glowed with life.
In that moment, Camilla felt guilty for invading the sanctity of her bedroom, even if the little girl would never return. She affectionately adjusted the portrait in the teddy bear’s arms before abandoning the shrine.
The hazy aroma of candles clung to her clothes as she swept into the hall. One room yet remained that begged to be explored. Her hand closed around the handle to Nikolai’s bedroom. The door swung inward and the stained carpet leaped out at her.
A mess of half-emptied beer bottles sprawled across the floor. She could almost smell the depression oozing across this sanctuary of vice.
Perhaps she erred in coming here. Nikolai lent the impression of a broken man consumed in guilt over the loss of his daughter, not a homicidal killer. Nonetheless, she was certain he had sent her that threatening letter about the LaCroix investigation.
She needed to know why.
She approached a nightstand and pried open the drawer.
“Tokens of his memories?” she wondered, ogling a collection of keys, rings, and a weathered journal. It was hard to imagine this stingy man attaching sentiment to anything. Camilla retrieved the journal and opened to the silk bookmark. A black and white photo slipped out of the pages, landing at her feet. Stooping down to retrieve it, she studied a portrait of a much younger Nikolai, his arm tangled around the waist of a glamorous woman. She was struck by the boyish smile on his face.
Camilla set the journal in the drawer and instantly realized something was amiss. She ran her fingers along the inside of the compartment.
“There’s a false bottom,” she whispered. Digging out the tokens of Nikolai’s past, she flung them onto the bed. With trembling hands, she pried open the hidden compartment.
Syringes.
Her heart convulsed. An orange substance swam inside. She remembered what Vivian had told her about the injection sites on Krista and Natalie, and the strange drug the killer injected in her.
Red Widow (Vivian Xu, Book 1) Page 21