When she opened her eyes again, her attention was riveted elsewhere. In the dusk, a scrap of white against the iron-spike fence caught her eye. She moved out of John’s embrace.
“Stay away from the fence!” whispered John. “They probably have a video camera.”
But Betsy had already scrambled up the swell of the hill. As she got to the fence, she realized that what she had seen was a sheet of paper. She jumped up to reach it.
Her eyes were riveted on the paper, the edges flapping in the wind.
At the last instant, she sensed danger. A pack of German shepherds, trained guard dogs, silent in their approach, snapped at her grasping hands, punching their muzzles and bared teeth through the iron bars. One caught her ski jacket between his teeth, pulling her closer. Two others snapped at her head.
John shouted at them, rushing the fence. He banged his fist on the first dog’s muzzle, dislodging his grip on her jacket.
Betsy fell back, collapsing in the snow. She clutched the scrap of paper in her fist.
“Jesus, Betsy!”
The dogs still snarled through the fence, baring long white teeth.
John sat down beside her, panting. He glanced at what she had in her hand, a photocopied picture. Beneath the picture was written, THE RETURN OF THE MACABRE COURT OF COUNTESS ERZSEBET BATHORY, THE BLOOD COUNTESS. The photo was circled in red, a diagonal slash running across the image.
“Someone else must be suspicious of the Count,” said Betsy, her voice low.
John leaned over her shoulder and studied the picture, a black-and-white copy of a painting of a vicious scene. In a snowy courtyard, white-kerchiefed peasant women—servants—surrounded several naked women who were dead or dying in the savage cold. One victim was held upright by three of the servants, who grasped her arms as her body sagged, trying to surrender to death and collapse into the snow. Horror on her face, her mouth open in a scream, trying, even as she died, to cross her white arms over her naked breasts.
Another lay prone, propped up on her elbows, pleading for her life with the last of her strength as one of the peasant women hurled a bucket of water at her.
Two others lay in the snow, either dying or dead, no longer struggling to cover their nakedness.
Around the courtyard, a handful of men and other women looked on, warmly dressed, their faces contorted with spite and hatred.
And, on a wooden throne, an imperious figure, dressed in layers of brocade and swathed in a black shawl, leaned back in satisfaction, relishing the sight.
“It’s like Detective Whitehall said, ‘Countess Bathory is in the subconscious of every Slovak,’ ” said John. He tapped his finger on the grainy photocopy of a painting. “What an evil bitch.”
“It is more than that,” said Betsy. “It is the most disturbing depiction of sadism I have ever seen.”
“She’s really getting off on it,” observed John. “Look how she is leaning back in her chair, looking like it’s Christmas morning.”
“Like she’s about to climax,” said Betsy, studying her face. “The artist got it right. And not just her. Look at the vicious pleasure in the tormentors’ eyes.”
“That one with the bucket of water,” said John. “And the men watching. See the gleam in their eyes.”
Betsy was silent, so John continued.
“I had a photography professor once who said that if you want to capture the truth of a catastrophe, turn your back on it and photograph the emotion in the eyes and faces of the onlookers. That’s the story.”
Betsy nodded, her fingers cautiously tracing the savage glee of the perpetrators, the onlookers. And especially Countess Bathory.
“Freud would say that this is the id—the beast within—breaking through the barriers of the ego and especially the super-ego.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you citing Freud.”
“For this case, he’s dead-on.”
They both stared at the black-and-white picture.
“That’s a scene that would make any normal, well-adjusted human being shiver with despair. But…” Betsy hesitated.
“But what?”
“If a mentally unstable mind—a psychotic sadist or killer—were to see this, he or she could actually be inspired.”
“Betsy! Come on—”
“No, I mean it. This painting would appeal to a very dark, twisted mind, someone who would want to emulate this kind of torture.”
“Betsy, no. It’s a warning. Look at the slash through the image. Someone is challenging the Bathory legend.”
John stretched out his arms and pulled Betsy to his chest. She nestled briefly against the soft wool, haunted by the image.
Daisy’s black curtain of hair fell on either side of her face as she hunched over her iPhone. She had not received any updates from Morgan in the last hour. She scrolled through dozens of messages in her in-box.
Morgan has always been erratic, she thought. She bit her hand.
Erratic? The understatement of a lifetime. Why should I be surprised—
Daisy rehearsed the conversation in her mind, her lips moving silently. This had waited too long and it was tearing a hole in her. Somehow right now, with everything so crazy, so out of control, this was suddenly the moment when she could. The moment when she had to. Just say it all and be done with it.
I found the letter on your pillow, Morgan. A gushy, pornographic love letter, in his handwriting.
Oh, yeah—I read it. And then I puked my guts up.
Mother thought it was food poisoning. I started choking, trying to tell her.
How could I tell her? What her own daughter had done—it would have killed her. That her husband was a psycho leech, and her daughter was screwing him?
When we got home from the ER, you both were gone. You and him.
Daisy remembered that she had promised to move to the driver’s seat so she could blast the horn. She sighed, rolling her eyes. She closed her computer, shoving it into her backpack.
That whole big lie about making a clean break for Mother’s sake, Dad filing divorce papers from Florida. Leaving me with the mess. You telling Mother that it was better to go live with Dad because of “personality differences.” And that he was tutoring you for the college boards.
Right! It would break her heart. How can I ever tell anyone the truth?
You both make me sick.
Daisy hooked her finger under the door lock, clicking it open. She slid across the backseat, lining her foot up to step out of the car, moving to the front seat. Her eyes were riveted on the iPhone screen. Three bars, she thought, good enough reception to reach Morgan.
She took her right hand off the door and dialed.
The car door wrenched open. Strong arms grabbed her. A bony hand clamped over her mouth as she was dragged out of the car.
Her cell phone clattered to the floor.
“Daisy?” said her sister’s voice. “I’m in Warsaw. My plane—”
Daisy looked up and saw two white-faced men in black, one with a syringe. He plunged the hypodermic needle into her arm.
“Daisy, can you hear me?”
Chapter 87
HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS
SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 28, 2010
The late afternoon wind kicked up snowy gusts as Betsy and John made their way back to the car. Whirlwinds of white obscured their vision, ice crystals stung their eyes.
Cresting the hill, Betsy saw the silver gleam of window glass. She halted in midstride, squinting.
“Look!” she said, pointing, and she ran down the icy slope, sliding with each step.
“Daisy! Daisy!”
The door of the car was wide open. The snow was trampled flat.
“Daisy? Daisy!” The pitch of her voice matched the shriek of the wind.
“He’s kidnapped her, John!”
John looked at the tangle of footprints, the skid of boot heels. He ran, following the trail in the snow. About thirty yards away, he saw the wheel marks of a vehicle where it ha
d been parked, and then turned around again. The tire tracks led back toward the castle gate.
“What are you looking at?” said a voice, through the wind. The English was accented in Slovak.
John turned around and saw an old man walking a dog, who sniffed the snow.
“Did you see a car come this way?” he asked.
“You did not answer my question. Why do I answer yours?” said the man, whistling for his dog. He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck as the wind blew.
“I’m sorry. I think my friend has been kidnapped. I think these are the car tracks.”
The man stared at John with faded blue eyes. “She has come back to haunt us all,” he said. “You cannot kill the devil.”
“What?”
“Do you have car? I will take you to someone who maybe can help you.”
“My name is Bartos Jelen,” said the man, sliding across the backseat, pulling the dog in after him. The smell of wet dog filled the car.
“There is evil in that castle,” he said. “All of us in village have felt it for years. Some post warnings around fence, but the police pull down.”
“We saw one. A scene of torture. In the snow—”
“Yes. There were dozens posted, but the police destroy them. They missed that one.”
“It’s pretty brutal—”
“Istvan Csok painted realistic portrait. Original is at National Gallery in Budapest.”
“What do you know about the castle?” said John.
The elderly man pulled off his cap. His gray hair stood up in all directions.
“I know nothing. I feel,” he said, thumping his chest with his fist. “I have stared into eyes of the Count. Light does not return. He is Bathory—what more do I need to know?”
John looked quickly at Betsy in the passenger seat. Her face was pinched in anguish.
“Forgive us, I know you want to help. But we need to go to the police, Mr. Jelen,” said John. “Our friend may be in danger.”
“Ah! You think I am addled old man,” he said, nodding his grizzled head. “Listen to me. Police here will do you no good. He pays them to turn blind eye.”
“I’ll call our ambassador. They’ll have no choice but—”
“Ambassador! How long will that take? Your friend is dead by then. No, I take you to a woman who will help you. She knows the castle. She too is an enemy of the Count.”
Chapter 88
HOFBURG PALACE
VIENNA
DECEMBER 28, 1610
I do not trust Thurzo,” said the King, inspecting a map on curling parchment. The winter light illuminated the inked borders of Habsburg Hungary and the ever-encroaching Ottoman territories.
Bishop Melchior Klesl stood at attention, listening.
King Matthias slammed his hand down on the map in disgust.
“Will he really arrest his own cousin?”
His voice echoed off the white plaster walls of the vast palace room. Melchior Klesl imagined the crystal chandeliers chiming in a frenzy, to the point of shattering, at the rising thunder of the Monarch’s voice.
This King is happiest in a military tent, camping near his soldiers, thought Klesl. He is not suited to life in a palace.
Melchior Klesl bowed. “Indeed, Your Majesty. I fear your instincts are correct.”
“They share the same blood, Thurzo and the Countess. The same miserable Bathory blood!” spat the King. “Would that I could blot it from my kingdom, every drop!”
The Bishop of Vienna closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts.
“If you will permit me to speak, Your Majesty. I have the same concerns about Gyorgy Thurzo.”
“Well? Speak!”
Melchior Klesl looked down at the King’s fine leather riding boots, gleaming even in the dim light of winter. The King would ride his white Andalusian mare around the Hofburg gardens and through the streets of Vienna within the hour, despite the cold weather.
Klesl doubted it would improve his dark mood.
“As you say, Your Majesty, Thurzo hesitates. He may not have enough evidence. But there may be something else keeping him from arresting Countess Bathory.”
Matthias frowned. His index fingers massaged his temples, where his head throbbed.
“If I may,” said Melchior Klesl, “I believe Thurzo fears Gabor Bathory, especially now that he has the support of the Ottoman Sultan. Gyorgy Thurzo plays both sides: the Habsburg Crown and the Bathory family.”
“The rogue! If Thurzo does not arrest her soon, I will ride to Čachtice and do it myself!”
Outside the Hofburg palace, there was a clanging of bells. The sweet voices of Christmas carolers filled the air, as the Viennese celebrated the Christmas season leading up to the Epiphany.
Melchior Klesl raised his chin, listening. “Even if Thurzo arrests the Countess immediately, it will be weeks before the Hungarian judges in Pressburg will hear her testimony. They will not reconvene until the second week of January.”
“Precisely why he has stalled arresting her,” growled the King. “A New Year’s present to the entire Bathory family!”
Chapter 89
HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS
SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 28, 2010
Pan Jelen leaned forward from the back seat, pointing to a brightly painted house at the edge of the village. The dog wagged his tail, pressing up between the front seats, trying to see ahead.
“This is my house,” said Jelen. “My house guest is the woman who can help you.”
“Mr. Jelen, we really have—” John began.
“No,” said Betsy, touching his arm. “Let’s see who he is talking about.”
“But—”
“We won’t spend but five minutes,” she whispered.
A big woman with graying hair stood at the door. She was dressed in a heavy overcoat and about to put a knit hat on her head.
She said something in Slovak to Jelen, ignoring the guests.
“May I present Mathilde Kuchar,” said Jelen, unhooking the leash from the dog’s collar. “She is the cook up at the castle. She escaped through an underground passage below the kitchen floor, fleeing Count Bathory.”
Mathilde nodded, but did not extend her hand. She spoke again in Slovak, her face creasing in agitation.
Betsy listened. She turned to John, translating. “She says she had to leave. Her life was in danger.”
Mathilde and Jelen stopped talking, staring at her. Mathilde’s black eyes studied Betsy, a flash of interest crossing the cook’s face.
Mathilde nodded, a curt movement of her chin.
“You speak Slovak,” Jelen said. “So few do.”
“Only a little. Just a few words, simple conversation.”
Jelen spoke rapidly to Mathilde now, so fast that Betsy could not follow. But even John could make out the word “Bathory.”
Mathilde’s face crumpled as if she were going to cry. But then she drew up, a hard determination smoothing her skin. She took Betsy’s hand in hers.
“Come,” she said. She flicked her eyes at John. “But not him. Only you.”
“What?” said Betsy, looking at John.
“You can’t just go off with a woman you can barely communicate with,” said John. “You don’t know her at all!”
“Her family has lived in the castle for generations. She knows a way underground into the dungeon.”
“So what? How do you know you can trust her? What if the Count sees you?”
“I don’t know why, but I trust her. She told me there is a warren of underground tunnels the Bathorys used as escape routes. Every castle in the region had them—”
“Then I want to go, too.”
“She won’t take you. I tried, she just won’t.”
“What—because I don’t speak Slovak?”
“She said she saw something in my face, something she recognized. But for whatever reason, she’s not letting you come with us.”
“Betsy—do you know how dangerous this is? What if
the tunnel caves in? What if you get lost?”
“What if my mother is murdered while I am sitting on my hands? Do you think I could live with that?”
“Betsy—”
“What do we do? Wait until the American Embassy gets off their bureaucratic asses and starts investigating? You think that is really going to happen? Mom will be dead, if she isn’t already—”
Betsy’s face pinched up, red. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She swiped at them with her knuckle. She would not permit them, not now.
“Come on, Betsy,” said John, pulling her to his shoulder. “I’m just trying to reason with you. What if something happens to you?”
“I promise—I promise I won’t act on impulse. I promise you! But I’ll go crazy and never forgive myself if I don’t try.
“And Daisy,” she said, covering her swelling eyes. “She thought she was protecting me, the little idiot. I’ve got to find her, John. I have to!”
John took a deep breath, exhaling in a long sigh.
“OK, Betsy. OK.”
Betsy followed Mathilde through the labyrinth of pitch-black tunnels. Motes of dust swirled in the glow of her headlamp.
“How do you know your way through here?” she whispered, speaking Slovak.
The older woman looked over her shoulder. “Old secret. My family work for Bathory many generations. I play here, child with brothers. They…find caves.”
“But—” said Betsy, stopping to into a side tunnel.
The big woman seized Betsy’s arm.
“Not go that way!” she hissed. “You fall.”
“What?”
“Water. Ice cave. Danger. Very danger.”
She gripped Betsy’s wrist, pulling her ahead. They stopped in front of a sagging wooden door, rotted with age. In the close quarters, Betsy could smell cooking grease mixed with sweat emanating from the cook’s scalp.
“There—tunnel go up, dungeon. My daughter, Draska, there, I think. Your friend?”
Betsy drew a breath. “Daisy.”
Mathilde nodded, biting her lips. Her hand rested on the splintered door.
“If Count Bathory sees us,” said Betsy, “he will kill your daughter and my friend. And both of us.”
House of Bathory Page 28