The Mortality Principle

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The air was driven from her lungs by the impact. Even as she gasped for breath, she grabbed out with one hand, her fingers snatching at the material of her attacker’s sleeve. Annja hung on until the owner of the coat lost his footing, and she used her weight and his momentum to help him stumble and fall.

The man stared up at her. Blinded by the light of the camera he threw his hands in front of his face. Annja looked down at him. He was babbling, pleading. She couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but the meaning was obvious: please don’t hurt me. She released her grip. This wasn’t the killer. This was one of his potential victims.

Annja held her hands up in apology, trying to help him to his feet as she said, “Sorry. Sorry. My mistake.”

The man didn’t take her proffered hand. He scrambled away, the soles of his feet pushing him along on the ground as he grabbed for his precious few possessions, which had spilled out of his pockets as he charged her in fear. She felt nothing but pity for the man, unable to imagine what it would be like to walk a mile in his shoes.

The world was cruel, that much was undeniable. She’d seen more than enough of that cruelty to last a lifetime, but she was lucky. She also got to see the amazing stuff, too, the stuff that made life worth living.

Did he? she wondered, and then hated herself for so immediately patronizing the man without knowing a thing about his life or what had driven him to this desperate end.

“Please,” Annja said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a neatly followed twenty-euro note. The look of fear and panic in his eyes was replaced with one of surprise, then avarice, as he reached out and took the money from her. He spirited it away in a heartbeat like the greatest magician to walk the streets of Prague, then scrambled to his feet without a word of thanks and backed away from her, nodding over and over as he pushed his way past Lars, who had stopped taping the events.

The man hurried along the street, clutching a plastic bag that she assumed was stuffed with his tattered sleeping bag.

“I’m thinking we need a better plan,” Lars said, deadpan.

Annja didn’t argue.

As plans went, it had been pretty thin, anyway.

“Maybe we should just head back to the hotel and wait to see if your man gives you a call?”

“Are you chickening out on me, Lars?” she asked.

“Just checking.”

“We need to get this right. I haven’t told you what’s going on back at the network, but basically, if I screw this up, no more Chasing History’s Monsters. I really don’t want to screw this up.”

“We don’t even have a story to screw up. Not really. We’re just wandering the streets at night.”

“Now you’re making me sound a little bit too much like a hooker for my liking,” Annja said, shaking her head. He was right, though. That’s pretty much what they were doing. “What else can we do?”

The question was rhetorical.

Lars pointed his camera back into the gloom of the alleyway and shot some footage of the place where the body had been found. The spotlight from the camera gave the dark stain a macabre cast. Annja pointed out the strands of police tape, making sure that he got them in the shot, as well. She didn’t want him to linger on the stain. She didn’t want the viewers making the mental connection between it and the reality that they were looking at the last vestiges of the poor man’s spilled blood. Showing the police tape would be enough. It would pull the heartstrings of their audience and show that this was real. She didn’t even want the stain in the footage that went back to the network. She knew all too well what those ratings whores would use it for.

So often her contributions to the show had been about monsters from the past, just as the name of the program demanded, that had no relevance to today. This was the chance to do something different. She realized the shape of the show now; it was going to be a monster hunt, yes, but a live one. The trick would be linking the horrors of today with the horrors of the past, but that was what she was good at.

“Got enough?” she asked when he had covered just about every inch of the alley.

He nodded. “With plenty of space for you to add voice-over stuff. It’s pretty dark, though.” She didn’t know whether he meant in terms of exposure or content.

The sentiment, if the not the words, were becoming something of a mantra for this segment.

Annja liked Lars because he was never afraid of a challenge, and his eye when it came to framing the establishing shots was second to none. He had a way of making everything come alive when it fell under his lens. He was a pro. Versatile. And like a Boy Scout he was always prepared. He could have his camera in position, shooting, in seconds, more often than not before she’d even realized the shot was worth capturing herself. It was almost like telepathy sometimes.

It didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eye, either. “Let’s get moving,” Annja said. It felt like there were eyes everywhere, watching from the shadows, following them every step they took. That was another difference between the day and the night city: at night ordinary things turned creepy. Just thinking about it was enough to have a shiver chase up her spine as if someone had walked over her grave. She wasn’t superstitious. She didn’t believe in omens. But she trusted her instincts, and right now her instincts were telling her it was time to move.

Lars gave up his position two steps behind her to walk by Annja’s side.

The rest of the streets near the hotel were quiet, which, of course, was exactly what she was looking for. Too many people meant there was no chance the killer would strike.

They walked for an hour, hearing the distant chimes of the astronomical clock tolling on the quarter hour.

It was easy to get paranoid about all the things they couldn’t see.

Across the way she noticed crates and barrels being unloaded from a truck and carried in through the back door of one of the clubs. It struck her as odd that they’d take a delivery so late at night.

A naked woman walked down the street, followed by a man with a handheld video camera recording her. It was obviously some kind of exploitation flick destined to wind up on the internet. Annja was sickened. She was in half a mind to walk over there and have it out with the photographer. Lars sensed it, too, and very artfully steered her away from making a scene. “We’ve got a reason for being here,” he told her. “And it’s not to fix all the ills of the city. It’s to catch a monster. Let’s not tip our hand. We’ve got no idea who’s watching us.”

And as he said it, she knew he was right. Not that she shouldn’t intervene—that felt absolutely right. No, he was right when he said someone was watching them. She’d known it since they left the alleyway.

“I’m going to remember his face,” Annja said, fixing the man’s features in her mind. “And if I see him again, he’s going to regret it. That’s a promise.”

“I have absolutely no doubt you will. You’re a frightening woman, Annja Creed. I wouldn’t want to be on your bad side,” Lars said.

They walked down one of the narrower streets, emerging near some sort of outdoor theater with marionettes being artfully manipulated by hidden puppet masters. There was quite a crowd gathered around. The city certainly offered a rich and varied nightlife, considering it was now past ten at night, and showed no signs of slowing down.

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.”

7 (#ulink_ac4e5bc7-dd39-519a-b0a4-a1f7edcbefc7)

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.