Read Online Rogue Angel 53: Bathed in Blood by Alex Archer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alex Archer
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any unintentional sting out of her remarks. “I think the information you’ve given me is going to be helpful. I appreciate it.”
“You’re going to keep looking into it, aren’t you?” the girl asked eagerly.
Annja could see where this was going from a mile away. She needed to nip things in the bud before they got out of hand.
“That’s for the police to handle, not me. I’ve got to head back to the States soon to finish the episode we were filming in Prague.” She got up from the table, still smiling. “Tell your friend I said hello, and thanks for the translation help.”
Brigitta asked if they could take a picture together and Annja obliged, then got out of there as quickly as she could. For a moment she’d thought the girl had been on to something, but it was nothing more than the usual rumors that followed a legend like Báthory’s. When you’ve got a figure that epitomizes evil like the Blood Countess did, there was plenty of room for stories to grow and change over the years. Rumors of women killed the same way were almost to be expected, even hundreds of years later.
But what about the woman she’d tried to save? Hadn’t she suffered extreme blood loss? That was just it. Annja wasn’t sure. She’d thought loss of blood had been a major factor in the woman’s death, but Annja didn’t know that for a fact.
She was tempted to do exactly what she’d told Brigitta she would—walk away and let the police handle it. Just head home to New York, focus on the show and leave whatever this was behind her.
But something wouldn’t let her. There was an injustice here that needed rectifying—that was clear—and she’d been unable to walk away from such things since the day she’d accepted the sword and become its bearer.
The dead woman had no one to speak for her, and Annja knew she would have to become her voice.
But where to begin?
That was one answer Annja did have.
Start where it all began.
At the end.
The cause of death.
* * *
H ALF AN HOUR later Annja was standing in the hall outside the hospital morgue, waiting for the opportunity to see the man in charge, one Dr. Petrova.
She’d already tried to speak to Detective Tamás, figuring he was her easiest avenue to the information she needed, but she had ultimately been turned away by the desk sergeant. He’d told her the detective was too busy to see her at the moment but she was, of course, welcome to wait. Annja knew where that would lead. She had better things to do than sit around waiting for the detective to deign to see her.
Like waiting for the pathologist to do the same.
No sooner had the thought occurred to her than the doors to the morgue opened and a tall man wearing a white lab coat over a dark suit stepped out. He was in his late sixties, Annja guessed, with a craggy face, arms that appeared too long for his torso and an air of superiority.
He glanced up, noticed her standing there and said something in what she thought was Slovakian.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Do you speak English?”
He glared at her but answered nonetheless. “Yes, of course. Can I help you?”
“I certainly hope so. Are you Dr. Petrova?”
He eyed her warily. “Yes.”
“My name is Annja Creed. I was the one who...”
“I know who you are,” he said. “What do you want?”
Annja was taken aback at the sudden hostility but plowed forward nonetheless. “I understand the woman I brought in to the emergency room last night never recovered. I was interested in knowing how she died.”
“Why?”
Annja shrugged. “Personal closure, I guess. Knowing there wasn’t anything more I could have done will help me get past this.”
“No.”
“No, what? There wasn’t anything I could have done?”
“No, I’m not going to discuss the issue with you. Good day.”
Petrova walked past and continued down the hall without a backward glance.
Annja stood there, stunned by his reaction. She hadn’t expected him
“You’re going to keep looking into it, aren’t you?” the girl asked eagerly.
Annja could see where this was going from a mile away. She needed to nip things in the bud before they got out of hand.
“That’s for the police to handle, not me. I’ve got to head back to the States soon to finish the episode we were filming in Prague.” She got up from the table, still smiling. “Tell your friend I said hello, and thanks for the translation help.”
Brigitta asked if they could take a picture together and Annja obliged, then got out of there as quickly as she could. For a moment she’d thought the girl had been on to something, but it was nothing more than the usual rumors that followed a legend like Báthory’s. When you’ve got a figure that epitomizes evil like the Blood Countess did, there was plenty of room for stories to grow and change over the years. Rumors of women killed the same way were almost to be expected, even hundreds of years later.
But what about the woman she’d tried to save? Hadn’t she suffered extreme blood loss? That was just it. Annja wasn’t sure. She’d thought loss of blood had been a major factor in the woman’s death, but Annja didn’t know that for a fact.
She was tempted to do exactly what she’d told Brigitta she would—walk away and let the police handle it. Just head home to New York, focus on the show and leave whatever this was behind her.
But something wouldn’t let her. There was an injustice here that needed rectifying—that was clear—and she’d been unable to walk away from such things since the day she’d accepted the sword and become its bearer.
The dead woman had no one to speak for her, and Annja knew she would have to become her voice.
But where to begin?
That was one answer Annja did have.
Start where it all began.
At the end.
The cause of death.
* * *
H ALF AN HOUR later Annja was standing in the hall outside the hospital morgue, waiting for the opportunity to see the man in charge, one Dr. Petrova.
She’d already tried to speak to Detective Tamás, figuring he was her easiest avenue to the information she needed, but she had ultimately been turned away by the desk sergeant. He’d told her the detective was too busy to see her at the moment but she was, of course, welcome to wait. Annja knew where that would lead. She had better things to do than sit around waiting for the detective to deign to see her.
Like waiting for the pathologist to do the same.
No sooner had the thought occurred to her than the doors to the morgue opened and a tall man wearing a white lab coat over a dark suit stepped out. He was in his late sixties, Annja guessed, with a craggy face, arms that appeared too long for his torso and an air of superiority.
He glanced up, noticed her standing there and said something in what she thought was Slovakian.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Do you speak English?”
He glared at her but answered nonetheless. “Yes, of course. Can I help you?”
“I certainly hope so. Are you Dr. Petrova?”
He eyed her warily. “Yes.”
“My name is Annja Creed. I was the one who...”
“I know who you are,” he said. “What do you want?”
Annja was taken aback at the sudden hostility but plowed forward nonetheless. “I understand the woman I brought in to the emergency room last night never recovered. I was interested in knowing how she died.”
“Why?”
Annja shrugged. “Personal closure, I guess. Knowing there wasn’t anything more I could have done will help me get past this.”
“No.”
“No, what? There wasn’t anything I could have done?”
“No, I’m not going to discuss the issue with you. Good day.”
Petrova walked past and continued down the hall without a backward glance.
Annja stood there, stunned by his reaction. She hadn’t expected him
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