Red Widow (Vivian Xu, Book 1) (28 page)

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.

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.

Martin tensed in his seat, expecting
the door to swivel open to a murky realm infested by his foulest
nightmares. That horror did not come to pass, but his heart still
beat frantically in his breast. At first, he didn’t even realize he
had crossed the kitchen, reaching hypnotically toward the door
handle.

The door yielded under his fingertips,
revealing a staircase that delved deep underground.

The first step screamed in protest
under his weight, and he winced. Was that what he heard earlier?
Someone insidiously creeping up the stairs?

He halted at the bottom of the steps
like a deer paralyzed in the headlights.

The cellar was mercifully free of the
appalling Victorian décor that caked every inch of the household.
It looked like any other basement, fashioned with plain cement and
bedizened with cobwebs. Yet, there was something vaguely amiss
here.

“
Nikolai?” An overpowering
stench steered him toward the corner. “The hell is this…?” He
craned his head and peered down a narrow tunnel. Scarlet light
oozed out in tendrils, flowing from the heart of a sickly, diseased
nebula. “Nikolai, are you there?” An eerie ambience answered
him—like a distorted instrument howling from the sewers.

Martin planted his foot in the passage
and began to shimmy his way through. The sound of his breath
resonated off the walls.

The passage seemed to extend for
eternity, shrinking toward the point of origin. Martin swore he was
only steps away from the end when it stretched on for another
twenty feet. A jarring pain met his hips and he could move no
further.