“She told you both about the abuse?”
“Yes,” they said in unison. The next two hours, both women talked frankly about their friend, never hesitating to share their opinions about her father and his wife. Atalik and his surviving wife were a perfect match, according to them, in the sadism department. It had taken Em the better part of three years to even talk about her father, and she only opened up to them because they found Em hiding in the back of the closet after a visit from Atalik and his wife.
Maggie had met Em when she was teaching at St. Mary’s University, where Em received her second PhD. The two had become inseparable. When Maggie moved to Florida to accept a position at Rollins, she asked Em to come along, suggesting it would be a way to start over. She knew Em’s father had been abusing her, but there was nothing she could do at that point because Em was an adult.
The signs were all there, even if Em didn’t come out and say it directly. It continued throughout Em’s academic career. Her father would either come to visit her or send someone to bring her home. Em was withdrawn after the visits, but never to their knowledge refused a visit or summons. The move to the blistering heat of Florida was initially undertaken to escape her father. It was a chance for her to have a life outside his influence; her academic drive was fueled by her desire never to live under his roof again. She, unlike her brothers, was expected to return to the manor on a regular basis. She had hinted on more than one occasion that he was set on her returning permanently after she finished her next degree. Only the Evil Ant, Em’s nickname for her stepmother, prevented it. Ant always intervened to prevent the immediate and permanent return of the most beloved child. When Em was home, she was all Atalik focused on; sharing was never Ant’s strong suit.
Maggie gave her a place to stay while she figured out what to do with her life. She couldn’t continue going to school, since Atalik had cut her off as soon as it was clear that she had really moved. When she didn’t return after six months, he showed up on their doorstep with Antoinette in tow. They were both genuinely shocked when Maggie refused to let them in. His attempts to see Em alone failed entirely while they lived together.
Eventually, she found a job as a teacher and began working at different alternative education programs around Orlando. It was her calling working with kids who had, unbeknown to them or her employers, shared similar horrific backgrounds. She never told them about her past, just knew how to work with them, how to inspire them to listen. Learning their intended lessons was another story.
One of the benefits of working for those “tough” schools was that they had even better security than a regular school. There was no way for her father or any of his people to just walk in off the street. It provided the safety net she needed to be able to function. Unexpected visits from Atalik and/or Gerald would leave her unable to go to work or even leave the little orchid house in which she now resided.
They would also set in motion weeks of nightmares. Em would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat. No matter what Maggie or Hollis did, she wouldn’t talk about them. Thus Patricia entered her life.
Patricia, Em’s therapist, helped get her back on her feet—at least at first. After a while Maggie feared Em was relying on her too much. Patricia took a special interest in her young client, calling her on weekends and even making house calls.
After a month of treatment, Patricia was all Em would talk about. She stopped having nightmares, but seemed completely codependent. Both Maggie and Hollis felt that Patricia was trying to use Em somehow, but could do nothing to prove their suspicions. Maggie suspected Patricia was writing a book on Em. HIPAA laws would prevent her from publishing it using Em’s name, but nothing could stop her from publishing it as a work of fiction. Two best sellers already on the market were fictionalized accounts of the massacre, not to mention the Lifetime and Sci Fi Channel movies. Hollis just didn’t trust dear Patty. It is pretty much the only thing the friends disagreed on.
Em had met Hollis at one of the facilities where she taught. Hollis was a success story: a teen mother who graduated high school and went on to college. They remained in contact and became friends. Em sometimes baby-sat Hollis’s son, Jayden, and for a brief period, they lived with her in the little orchid house. That was how Hollis met Atalik.
Upon returning to the house with Jayden in tow, she discovered the door wide open, the keys jingling as the breeze hit them. Em’s car was parked out front, but she was nowhere in sight and didn’t answer when called. However, the most expensive floral arrangement she had ever seen was placed squarely on the dining-room table, with a note from Atalik telling her to please come home. Jayden was a toddler by then and found his “Auntie Em” hiding the back of her closet in a catatonic state.
She spent three days in the hospital, completely unresponsive to any stimulus. Atalik came to visit twice while Hollis was sitting with Em; both times he barely acknowledged Hollis’s presence. The nurses finally asked him to leave after the second visit, when one of them was taking Em’s blood pressure as he entered the room. Her pressure spiked, and her vital signs were all over the place. The nurse yelled for everyone to clear the room. Hollis went, but Atalik remained, only moving to a corner, his eyes never moving from his daughter. When two additional nurses and a doctor arrived, he was asked to leave or be escorted out by security. He left, and her blood pressure and vitals returned to normal. Although he didn’t attempt to return to the hospital, doctors and nurses were convinced that under no circumstance should the count be allowed in his daughter’s room. He had given everyone the heebie-jeebies. Em woke up the next day.
It was after she received her inheritance that she hired Holly to take care of her day-to-day affairs. Holly managed Em’s schedule and made sure that the bills were paid and that someone came in to clean the house. The inheritance placed Em at the helm of a small empire.
Atalik the Sexual Sadist, as they referred to him, had built his fortune over the course of twenty-seven years, beginning with the purchase of his first company, which he would rename Ecsed Enterprises after Elizabeth Bathory’s family home in Hungary. His life before the great businessman appeared was a complete enigma. The bios on his company websites were generic and just too perfect. There wasn’t a single hint of the skeletons hiding in his closets or, for that matter, interred in the cellar.
No one ever questioned his neat and tidy background story. Profits eliminated the need for them. No one wanted to rock the boat and risk losing his yacht. Although some allegations had been made concerning shady practices in the overseas offices and factories, no evidence equaled no crime.
Determining what the mini empire did to make money and how it did it was proving to be impossible. An old drinking buddy in the IRS told me off the record that a team of forensic accountants was still trying to figure it out. On the surface they bought other companies, then sold them for a profit, like the people who buy homes, fix them up, and then sell them. The numbers never added up, but audits of the company failed to turn up any concrete answers. It drove one agent to retire.
What was known about the count was that he was relentless. Once he set his mind to do or obtain something, he didn’t give up until his quest was complete. His daughter’s return was the only thing he failed to accomplish.
She wouldn’t return to Upstate New York until his death; both women were certain it was because she wanted to make sure he was actually dead. They tried to talk her out of going, or at the very least, to allow one or both of them to come along. She refused.
“She was adamant that neither one of us go anywhere near that house. If it wasn’t for her father’s funeral, she wouldn’t have gone back.” Said Maggie.
“If she felt that way about it, why go back at all?” I asked.
“She wanted to be sure he was really gone. Patricia thought it would help her to see him buried. Give her closure. We didn’t want her to go up there without support” said Maggie.
“What about the brothers?”
“We never met them, and they did
n’t have much contact with her. Occasionally there was a card or package from them. They never came to visit. They failed separating themselves from their father, like Em did. After college each of them had taken high-level positions at the company.”
“How did Em feel about it?”
Hollis who had been nodding along with everything Maggie had been saying finally chimed in. “She seemed indifferent, but would always light candles on their birthdays. I remember because she once had me drive her out to Our Lady of the Universe Shrine. She prayed and lit a candle for each of them; it was like they were already dead.”
CHAPTER SIX
Hollis’s last words echoed in my head as I headed to my car—all the background information complied over the last three months, and barely any of it on the brothers. They were part of the reason Em had agreed to the interview; she wanted to prove their innocence.
Innocent of what?
The three boys all went to different Ivy League colleges and graduated with degrees in businesses. Their father hired them, and they went to work in the company headquarters in Albany within a week of graduating. They arrived at work at the same time every day, one right after another and moving in a synchronized rhythm, earning them the nickname the Triples.
They were always together. They lived together, went to work together, and played together. The brothers went home to their father’s estate every weekend, although they didn’t stay long. Their three black austere Porsches would blast through town in the morning, and in the evening they would return at the same speed. They never stopped for gas or traffic lights. Since they never caused an accident, the police never bothered to stop them. No one, not even the police, wanted anything to do with the family or the people from the manor.
There was literally next to nothing incriminating on the boys except for some allegations they took abusive advantage of some escorts. The charges were dropped, and the women disappeared. The incident was never repeated, and all traces were largely erased except for the newspaper archives at the central library in downtown Buffalo. The librarians there are especially proud of their rare book collection and were only too happy to help fellow bibliophiles solve a mystery. Since when the electronic archives were missing nearly two weeks of the Buffalo News, I spent three days in the basement with a couple of them going through the old papers page by page. When we finally found the articles in question, I treated everyone to a hot dog from the little man who parked his hot dog rig across the street. They laughed as we ate them in the shade of Lafayette Square.
One of the librarians, Max Stabrook, looked like he had been an old hippie, but he laughed off that comment and said he was just too lazy to shave or get a haircut. He remembered the fuss when no arrest had been made in the murders at the Bath estate. Some people thought it was mafia related, but it was just too cozy of an excuse for Stabrook. He remembers Gerald coming to the library on behalf of Atalik to see about the loan of some of their rare materials in exchange for a donation to the library’s endowment. He was told that a donation would be appreciated, but that the count could make an appointment to examine the books he was interested in just like everyone else. There was an attempted robbery a couple of weeks later, but nothing was taken. Three would-be thieves didn’t get any farther than the lobby before an alarm sounded. They sped away in two black sport cars, or so the story went.
Since it was well-known that the boys drove black Porsches some might conclude they had attempt the thief, but that lead like the Mafia connect seemed too convenient to be true. Maybe the boys had tried to take what their dad couldn’t acquire. But the count had master thieves in his employ, so why have the Triples, who were inexperienced, steal the books? Most likely it was an urban myth.
With her brothers gone, Em flew up north once a month for board meetings and managed the rest of the business between Skype and Hollis’s constant vigilance. The company was thriving under her direction, despite her refusal to carry on her father’s mysterious business practices. Everything was aboveboard and out in the open. Some of the overseas divisions had been liquidated. Board members who opposed her were given a generous severance package as they exited the company, signing over their shares and disappearing into the mists of corporate greed.
***
One more day until the meeting with Em’s attorney, and I didn’t have a clue what to do next. Sunny Florida was wreaking havoc on my sinuses, or maybe I was still hung over, despite Cro’s miracle concoction. Time to go over the notes again and see what I had missed; this was too big of a story for there not to be another piece to the puzzle.
Three hours later I realized the story was too simple for such a bloody ending, and I was completely and utterly exhausted. What the hell, nap time. When I was just a cub reporter, I survived on naps. As I sank back onto the stiff polyester of the hotel comforter, sleep overtook me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I was walking in Em’s home. The stone floors were ice cold on my bare feet. Shivers ran up and down my spine. Faded tapestries hung on the walls, and a fire blazed in the fireplace before me. The fire didn’t seem to be working, since my breath was clearly visible. I headed toward it, hoping it would at the very least take the chill off. Could you get hypothermia if you weren’t submerged in water?
The closer I moved to the fire, the more things I noticed, like unlit torches on the walls and layers of dust on all the furnishings. Two high-backed chairs seemed to appear in front of the fire. I shook my head, closing my eyes to clear the cobwebs. Furniture just didn’t appear; I just didn’t notice it. Some might have called them thrones, but they weren’t really grand or ornate. Each one was occupied by a dark figure. I wasn’t close enough to hear their conversation, but the voices were distinctly feminine.
Each step toward them seemed to bring things into focus. The room was getting warmer; my feet welcomed the change. Forward seemed to be the only direction that made sense. Each step seemed right, seemed to be taking me where I wanted to go. Even if I didn’t know where I was going.
My bare feet that had welcomed the temperature change were beginning to complain. I wanted to start jumping and jostling from foot to foot, as if I were on molten, hot asphalt. But they continued to work their way toward the fire.
My eyes tried to look down to see if the floor had changed, but I couldn’t. Forward, my mind said, forward, you must go forward. How far had I walked? Where the hell was I? There was no way I was in Em’s little orchid house. The focus that I had slowly gained left me, and everything was a blur. The blur began to spin and contort, twisting in on itself, then turning to blackness.
I jumped out of bed as soon as my eyes spotted the tacky popcorn ceiling. When my feet landed on the floor, I immediately leaped back on the bed. They were throbbing. I could literally feel my heartbeat pounding against the blistered flesh. This was so not normal.
I tried breathing just like Anthony had instructed. It didn’t help one effing bit. What the hell do you do for burns on your feet? My phone was on the nightstand. I started to call nine-one-one, but how was I going to explain the burns? Telling the paramedics that I woke up with them seemed a good way to begin an in-depth investigation into Florida’s mental health system.
My feet were demanding attention. It was unmanly to cry. Swearing, however, that was completely appropriate. My mouth proceeded to vocalize every foul and hideous word I know. Sailors would have been blushing, had any been present.
A knock on the door came just as my vocal cords began to give out. I hobbled to the door. The manager who had checked me in and occupied the penthouse of this zero-star roach motel was standing at the door.
“Sir, is there a problem?” Two of Orlando’s finest took up positions behind him.
“No, not at all.”
“Then why have you been screaming for forty-five minutes?” one of the officers asked.
When I didn’t respond, he asked me to step outside. I started to ask why, but it occurred to me that they might have suspected I wasn’t alon
e. I opened the door the rest of the way, trying to explain that I had hurt my feet, when I was pulled out of the room and slammed up against the wall. The second officer placed one hand on my chest and moved to block the doorway.
The first officer came out of the room moments later, shaking his head and holding the pictures from the bed.
“What the hell are these?”
Twenty minutes later I was waving to the officers as they walked down the stairs. After repeatedly asking me if I had taken anything, shining their lights in my eyes, they finally believed I was just working on a story and told me to lay off the booze while I was working. Miraculously, the manager didn’t even threaten to kick me out. Maybe he was just happy that nothing messy had happened in the room.
I slid down the back of the closed door till my rear hit the floor and my head met my knees. The blisters were gone. Not healed, just gone. The scar I have carried since I was five was exactly where it had always been, instead of being obscured by hideous burns. It had all been some weird dream.
The bed was covered in crime scene photos. No wonder I had freaked out. Exhaustion, gory photos, and rumors about Atalik Bath being a vampire right before bed had led me to go on my own psychedelic trip. Yep, that was it.
I went back to my computer to review the sites I had found on the massacre. A few of them demanded that Emily Bath be arrested. A couple of others claimed that Atalik Bath had slaughtered his family after having risen from the dead. No real explanation was given as to why the vampire left Emily alive.
One site had pictures allegedly taken of Emily while she was in the hospital. You couldn’t tell if they were fake. The woman appeared to have the same creamy ivory skin; three jagged claw marks marred the porcelain perfection. I made a note to tell Em or at least Hollis. If the photos were real, they would want to know about them. Their reaction might just tell me something new.
I had no idea where to find the pieces I was missing. Two days on the ground working this story, and I was completely lost. I placed the photos and all my notes on the desk, determined to go back to bed.
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