The Mortality Principle (8 page)

There were plenty of shadows for them to explore, though they didn't venture deeply into any of them. She was fairly sure that Turek wouldn't be settling down in one place this early, especially if he had managed to gain the trust of the vulnerable people on the streets. He would keep moving, talking to the disenfranchised around the inner city. Most would be young, she reasoned, drawn to the capital by the promise of a better life, of excitement. Some would be like the girl she'd just seen paraded naked through the street, too. Exploited. Others might have had a good life and lost it, or suffered a breakdown or simply not been able to cope and have turned their back on society, not wanting to be a part of it. There were as many possible stories out there in the night as there were people to tell
them. Only one of them would help her get closer to the monster she hunted.

Did Turek have any idea where the killer might strike next? Was he working on a divinable pattern? Chaos versus order. Chance versus predestination. But there were ways to limit the randomness of that chance. There were ways to help exert order on a chaotic city. Annja checked her street map a few times to be sure that she was still heading in the general direction of one of the major landmarks she'd marked, a church that kept its doors open to offer hot soup, sandwiches and salvation all night.

How many times had people accepted a mug of soup in exchange for their mortal souls? The thought put a smile on her face and for the first time that night she found herself thinking of Garin and Roux and their unique longevity. She was pretty sure they hadn't bought it with soup.

They turned the final corner and saw the lights in the distance like a beacon to all who were looking for shelter.

Her cell phone rang.

Annja didn't recognize the number.

“Hello,” she said, barely breaking her stride. “Who is this?”

“Is that Annja Creed?” the voice asked without answering her question.

“It is,” she replied. “Is that Jan Turek?”

“I've been told that you wanted to talk to me.”

“Yes. Yes. Absolutely. I'd like to pick your brains.”

“And not to be too blunt about it, but is there money in it for me?”

“I can't make any promises.”

“And you're the same Annja Creed who does the television show
Chasing History's Monsters
?”

“That's right.”

“I've never seen it,” he said. “But I did a search on the internet to find out who you were. Seems you're quite the celebrity.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” she replied.

“You're too modest,” he said. “You get more hits on your name than our own prime minister does.” She heard his laugh, but wasn't sure she was meant to laugh along. A man could laugh at his own country, but from an outsider it could come across at worst as mocking, at best condescending.

“Can we meet?” she asked. “Tonight?”

“Where are you?”

She stopped under a streetlamp and checked her map, giving him the name of the street and the church they were heading toward.

“I know it,” he said. “I'll meet you there in ten minutes. Don't go inside. They won't know you, and you won't fit in. Strangers aren't welcome these nights. I'm sure you can understand why. There's a late-night café on the same street, a little farther along.”

It wasn't hard to pick out the only shop front still illuminated.

“I see it,” she said.

“I'll meet you there. Tell Maria that you're waiting for me. She'll take care of you.”

“I've got my cameraman with me,” she said, hoping that wouldn't put him off.

“Then I'll see you both in the café.”

The café was like a Czech riff on the old Edward Hopper painting
Nighthawks
.

It had a central bar island and a huge brass espresso machine that dominated the back wall. Four diners were inside and a waitress wearing candy stripes. Annja opened the door. There were a dozen seats at the bar, another dozen tables. All four of the diners were at the bar. They seemed to know one another, and were comfortably chatting with the waitress as Annja walked through the door. The waitress—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a tired smile—walked toward them with a pair of menus in her hand.

“Anywhere you like, folks,” the woman said, in English, immediately picking Annja and Lars out as tourists. She gestured toward the private tables.

“Are you Maria?”

“Yes,” the woman responded cautiously.

“Great. Then we're in the right place. We're supposed to meet Jan Turek here in about ten minutes.”

“Ah, that old rogue.” All signs of concern disappeared in an instant. “Please,” Maria said. “This way. Let me take your coats.”

She ushered them to the booth near the window,
away from the people propping up the bar. A plastic checkered cloth covered the stains on the old table. Marie gave a questioning glance at Lars's flight case.

“Camera,” Lars said, patting it.

“Camera, eh? I've got one of those on my phone. Fits in my pocket, too.” The woman chuckled to herself. “Sometimes smaller is better.” She winked at the big Swede, who just shook his head with a wry smile. Maria wove a path back to the bar without leaving the menus on the table. She returned a couple of minutes later with a bottle of red wine and three glasses.

“Jan's favorite,” she said. “Your food will be ready by the time he gets here.”

“But…” Annja started to say that they hadn't ordered, but the woman was already heading back to the kitchen. This, no doubt, was what Turek had meant when he said Maria would take care of them. It was going to be interesting to see what came out of the kitchen.

It took nine of the ten minutes for the reporter to appear in the doorway.

Turek might well have been the mythical golem himself. Easily three inches taller than Lars, and twice as wide, he looked like a mountain as he lumbered into the room. It took Annja a moment to realize a lot of his bulk was due to the several heavy layers of coats he'd wrapped himself in.

Turek raised a hand to Maria, who was back behind the bar again.

She smiled back. Annja knew that kind of smile. Turek was more than just a regular diner at the café. Maria nodded toward their booth, and the reporter wandered over, sliding into the seat beside Annja.

“Jan Turek,” he said as he shook hands with both of
them. He offered Annja an easy smile that softened the hard edges of his angular face. He had the dark shadows of four-day stubble on his cheeks, and hollow eyes. His many coats were wrapped around a rather fragrant body. There was no doubt in her mind that Turek was living the part, every night out on the streets among the homeless. She admired him for that. Turek poured himself a glass of the red wine and raised it in the direction of the bar before taking a healthy swig. “Nectar of the gods,” he declared. “Maria keeps a case in stock for me.”

The wine was a touch harsh for Annja's palate, with a bite to the aftertaste that made it bitter going down. It was definitely an acquired taste, one that Turek had and Lars was happily in the process of getting by the looks of things.

“As nice as it is to share a glass with friends, we're not friends, are we? You want something from me, so how about we get down to business. What do you want to talk about? No, let me guess. The killings. That's all anyone wants to talk about.”

“In a way, yes, but actually I'm more interested in your angle about the golem,” Annja said, leaning back a little as Maria approached the table and placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of her.

“Kyselica,”
Jan said. “Fermented cabbage soup. It's Maria's specialty. You have to try it.”

The woman returned with a plate of sourdough bread and put it down between them. “Enjoy,” she said, placing one hand on the reporter's back and planting a kiss of the top of his head. He was definitely more than just a regular.

Annja pushed her spoon through the soup before lifting it to her lips to taste.

It was surprisingly good, and much better than it smelled.

Even though she'd had a good meal at the restaurant by the river, she took several mouthfuls before she spoke again. “It really is very good,” she agreed, nodding and smiling. Annja glanced across at Lars, noting that he'd already finished his.

“So what do you want to know about the golem?” Turek asked.

“You said you'd researched me, so you know I do a cable TV show back in the US. I'm looking to do a story about the myth of the golem. The thing is, it's all been done to death so I was trying to find something new. That's when I came across your pieces in the paper. Sadly I don't read Czech, so I thought the best thing was to try to talk to you.”

The man laughed. “So basically you're looking for a translator?”

“Not at all. I'm after the stuff you left out.”

“What makes you think I've left anything out of my stories?”

“You're a freelancer. You need to spin the story out over as many articles as you can. There's no way you've put everything out there already. Maybe you're only left with supposition and wild theories, but you'll have something that supports those theories. I know it and you know it. There's no way you'd be making claims about the killer's links to the golem legend if you didn't have something else.”

Annja waited while he thought about what she had said.

The pause alone was enough to convince her that she was right.

She was good at reading people.

She was also good at appealing to their vanity.

She'd deliberately intended to make him seem more special than he actually was. The reality of the situation was that Turek knew something, and she wanted to know what that something was. There was nothing to say it was important. It could just as easily have been some crackpot theory every bit as out of it as the idea that the killings could somehow be linked to the golem's legend in the first place.

Turek mopped up the last of his soup with a chunk of the sourdough and popped it into his mouth, then picked up his glass to wash it down. He leaned back in his chair and drew every ounce of drama out of the moment for effect, then he delivered his punch line: “The killer has been seen.”

That was the last thing she'd expected him to say. “What? Seriously? Who saw him? Did you get a description?” The questions tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

“To answer the first question, the killer was seen by two homeless men. They saw him flee the scene of the third murder. To answer your second question, yes, but we'll come to that.”

“Do the police know?”

“Of course, but tell me, what makes you think the police are ever likely to consider the word of a well-known pair of drunks as gospel? Especially when they don't
want
to believe what they are saying.”

“But surely they have to follow it up?”

“That's the problem. They are adamant it wasn't a man…” He paused again, clearly still enjoying the chance to play to an audience.

“It couldn't have been a woman,” Annja said. She'd seen the state of the body in the alleyway. There was no way a woman would have caused so much damage in the process of killing someone. It wasn't just a case of not being physically capable; it was part of the psychology, too. Women, it was said, preferred poisons to more intimate forms of killing.

“No,” the journalist said with a laugh. “Not a woman.”

“They think it's this golem, don't they?” Lars said, shaking his head. “Just how drunk were they?”

That would explain why the police weren't interested. The golem of Prague, one of its fabled defenders, suddenly a nocturnal killing machine? No. That didn't fit any of the myths, no matter what two drunken men imagined what they'd seen.

“According to their description of the killer, they saw something that didn't act like a man, didn't move like a man. It was larger than the average man. Well over six feet tall, broad shouldered and barrel chested.”

“They could have been describing you,” Annja said. “Or him.” She nodded toward Lars. “There are plenty of big guys in a city this size.”

“Yes, indeed there are, but how many of them can scramble up the side of a building?” Turek asked.

“Okay, now I'm seeing why the police decided they'd heard enough.”

“Indeed,” Turek said. “They claimed that the killer scaled the side of the house like a spider.”

“Definitely drunk, then,” Lars stated.

“Probably, but why did they say the same thing?”

“People talk,” Annja replied. “They might have convinced each other that they saw the same thing.”

“A shared delusion?”

Annja nodded.

“The only problem with that explanation is that they weren't together. They both make the same impossible claims about the killer's escape despite having been three streets apart at the time? One of them close to the old Jewish cemetery, the other over beyond the synagogue.” His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward. “And these two do not agree on anything, believe me. They'd come to blows over an argument about what's black and what's white, never mind a bottle of vodka or something more serious. They can't stand the sight of each other. There's no way they'd have cooked up a story together.”

“And his face? Did they get a look at it?”

“Oh, yes, and that's another thing that the police weren't happy about, despite the fact two independent witnesses said exactly that same thing.”

“And what was that?”

“He didn't have one.”

“What? A mask?”

“I said the same thing, but no. They are adamant it wasn't a mask. They said that there were dark patches where a mouth and eyes should have been, but no features to speak of, just flat planes, nothing any more defined than a child might draw.”