Red Widow (Vivian Xu, Book 1) (21 page)

An image of Krista LaCroix crucified
by wires and hooks flashed into her mind. She could feel those
yellowed walls closing in on her, murmuring and groaning as the air
shrank. More hooks lowered from the ceiling from tentacular wires,
snagging her clothes, suspending her from—

She blinked and the hallucination was
replaced by the quaint church. She floundered onto the pew with a
sigh. The organ had stopped, replaced by the murmurs of churchgoers
petitioning for salvation.

Vivian lowered the Bible, thinking
about her own loved ones. Curiosity arrested her. She flipped the
ancient tome open to Mark 5: 21, the passage Nikolai
indicated.

“
Jairus’ daughter and the
woman with a hemorrhage,” she read. “Feeling a bit morbid today,
Nikolai?” She read on about a man named Jairus beseeching Jesus to
save his ailing daughter from death.

While Jesus was still
speaking, people from the synagogue official’s house arrived and
said, “Your daughter has died; why trouble the teacher any
longer?”

Disregarding the message
that was reported, Jesus said to the synagogue official, “Do not be
afraid; just have faith.” He did not allow anyone to accompany him
inside except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When
they arrived at the house of the synagogue official, he caught
sight of a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly.

So he went in and said to
them, “Why this commotion and weeping? The child is not dead but
asleep.” And they ridiculed him. Then he put them all
out.

Jesus took along the
child’s father and mother and those who were with him and entered
the room where the child was. He took the child by the hand and
said to her, “Talitha koum!” The child, a girl of twelve, arose
immediately and walked around. At that they were utterly
astounded.

Vivian closed the Bible and studied
the scattering of the strangers. A young girl met her eyes and
waved.

“
Talitha koum,” Vivian
echoed. “What is it supposed to mean?”

TWELVE

The outskirts trembled in the sunset
like the calm just before a storm.

The killer’s residence awaited Vivian
at the end of the street. She expected to feel Camilla’s hand on
her shoulder any moment now, assuring her that everything would be
fine.

When that assurance did not
come, she huffed and marched ahead.
The
newspaper demanded Camilla’s absolute attention, even when a
friend’s life hung in the balance. Fortunately, she wasn’t too
disappointed when Camilla let her down. She learned long ago to
rely only on herself.

She ducked under the yellow slashes of
police tape stretched across the doorway. The house was virtually
stripped to the marrow, void of carpet and furniture. Every object
was considered potential evidence and hauled away to the forensics
lab. Without the carpet, the house resembled a bunker sunken under
decades of ruin.

Her brain seemed to detach
from her body with every step further into the interior.
Dust rained from the exposed pipes overhead,
powdering her face.

Suddenly, her entire body lurched
awake. She was perched at the bottom of the cellar
stairs.

The familiar sights mocked her. They
were a mockery because they dared to still exist, even after all
the torment she endured down there. The police should have razed
everything to the foundation and cordoned off the destruction.
Thankfully, the gurney had been removed. Forensic analysts were no
doubt swabbing it for hair and tissue, trying to piece together the
victims who sat unwillingly in this throne of torture. What did
they think when they examined the skin samples she left behind? Did
they speculate about her fate in voyeuristic detail?

A faint light grabbed her attention
from the corner of the basement. Pure scarlet rippled across the
floor, oozing out of a narrow tunnel.

She paused just beyond the edge of the
red shadow. Would that bleeding light corrupt her mind when it
washed through her? She planted her toes in the light.

Nothing happened. With a heavy sigh,
she crossed that threshold. The tunnel seemed to waver in the red
daze, tilting drunkenly to the left.

The light called out to her like a
siren peeling at her brain. The only way to silence it was to reach
the other side.

She emerged into a chamber bathed in
scalding red. The air was warm like a mother’s womb, sweet and
soothing on Vivian’s skin; the sights that met her eyes were
anything but heartening. Sinks were scattered throughout the room,
undulating with black water. Leather hoses arched from the basins
like the tentacles of a leviathan creature.

What was he doing
here?
Surgical instruments dangled by
chains from the ceiling, everything from curved forceps to bladed
dilators. Vivian shuddered at the sight of the grisly devices once
used to facilitate childbirth. Serrated clamps and pliers chattered
like wind chimes in a foul breeze. She tiptoed across the greasy
tiles with her face lifted to the ceiling, almost expecting
something to pounce from above. A handgun dangled from a pair of
razor-sharp clamps—the same gun Nikolai gave her.

“
Son of a bitch,” she spat,
scanning the shadows for her captor.

Vivian reached for the gun, but
hesitation gripped her. She dragged a stool across the floor until
it was just below her prize. Taking care to avoid the
skull-crushing forceps, she eased the clamps open just enough to
remove the gun. Her finger slipped on the cruel edge, raking her
skin open.

“
Shit!”

Vivian tumbled from the stool,
smashing her wrists like eggshells against the linoleum floor. The
pain almost elicited a scream from her, but she bit her lip tight,
refusing to exhibit any weakness.

A piercing noise rang out behind her,
and she turned to see something fall from the ceiling. A cassette
tape snapped against the floor, bruising the silence. She eyed the
clamps swaying overhead, expecting more surprises to
come.

When those horrors did not manifest,
she grabbed the tape. She shuddered and stuffed it in her jeans.
This tape may very well depict the last moments of another victim’s
life.

She was determined to scout the rest
of the basement before letting down her guard. No, she couldn’t
lower her defenses even for a second while roaming the killer’s
domain.

Vivian crossed the hidden chamber
where another narrow passage awaited. A dizzy spell rolled
perilously over her.

She blinked against the harsh heat
billowing down the passage, swelling with every step she took. A
metal portal lingered at the end, outlined with glistening
light.

She reached for it with shaking
fingers.

The vaulted door hummed under her
touch, perhaps hinting at something sinister on the other
side.

Vivian planted her shoulder against it
and pushed. The door yawned open to the children’s playground
coiled in mist.

* * *

Word of mouth passed quickly through
the police department, bringing fresh tidings of Tatiana’s
displeasure. She was thirsty for Nikolai’s blood because of last
night’s raid. She wanted nothing more than to paint him as an
incompetent firebrand who should be removed from the investigation.
Nikolai scoffed at the warning. He had more important matters to
attend than reporting to Tatiana. This investigation belonged to
him, not her.

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.