House of Bathory

by Linda Lafferty

  The waitress put her hand on her hips, throwing back her head and laughing. The gold hoop earrings glittered under the fluorescent lights.

  “No, as a matter of fact,” said Daisy, narrowing her eyes. “Are you still celebrating Cinco de Mayo? Nice costume, girl.”

  The waitress’s smile vanished.

  “Ok, chicas. Basta,” said Luis. “Gracias, Lupe. Gracias.”

  The waitress stomped off, cursing under her breath in rapid-fire Spanish. Daisy only caught the word “Puta.”

  “I didn’t order a Coke,” said Daisy.

  “And that ain’t one. Pruebala.”

  Her taste buds anticipated the sweetness of a soft drink. The stinging bite of tequila made her smile.

  “Very cool. Like mucho.”

  “Yeah, Lupe is una amiga. She didn’t mean nothing bad about your funeral clothes.”

  “Cinco de Mayo is a nice day, too,” said Daisy, settling back into her chair smiling. She tipped up her Coke can. Luis turned to listen to the band, making the wooden chair squeak under his weight.

  Daisy glanced at the time on her cell phone.

  Thirty minutes to go. Daisy was running out of time. She knew Jasmin wouldn’t stay at the bar with Luis all night—she always had other plans.

  Luis had left lights on in the little Victorian house. It made it difficult for Daisy to prowl about without being seen as she searched for an unlocked window.

  Carbondale was in the Christmas spirit, rowdy and raucous. Despite the cold she could hear loud voices on Main Street, laughter and shouts, people on their way to restaurants or bars.

  She walked across the frozen grass, her boots crunching over patches of hard snow. What was she going to look for? Something worth breaking into a house. Something worth digging up a grave. Grave robbing. The idea sounded Goth—the reality in the cemetery had made her shiver. She had no idea what might make someone do that. But she felt certain she’d know it when she saw it. She’d feel it.

  All she knew was she had to get into the house.

  She had forgotten her gloves. The cold slick glass and frosty chipped paint of the window frames bit at her fingers. She pushed up hard, grunting, trying every window she could find. Her bare hands came away covered in paint chips. Everything was locked up tight.

  Damn, she whispered. She thought hard where a spare key might be hidden. Not under the old hemp mat, not under the flowerpots outside the door. Not nailed around the corner, or in a fake stone hide-a-key.

  Then Daisy nearly tripped over the cellar doors, which were covered in snow. They were the old-fashioned kind that were at a shallow angle to the ground, opening up to what had been a root cellar in the mining days.

  Daisy brushed away the snow to expose the metal handles. She tugged at the door and it opened, breaking a seal of frost. She pulled her headlamp from her backpack and went down the old wooden stairs.

  There was a wet earthy smell inside. The cellar was packed floor to ceiling with boxes, old furniture, a brass coat stand. Daisy picked her way through the maze, until the beam of her headlamp fell on cement stairs leading up to the main floor of the house.

  She heard the savage bark of Ringo on the other side of the door.

  “It’s OK, Ringo. Good dog,” she said.

  Ringo quieted and then began a series of joyous yelps.

  She opened the door and emerged in a hallway, a lamp lit on a desk. No papers or files here. Ringo thumped his tail. He whined until she scratched him behind the ears.

  Daisy walked into the front room, Betsy’s office. The file drawers were locked. She checked the pad beside the telephone. Only a few words jotted there, “embassy” in big letters with a long distance phone number. She bent close to the pad and shone her headlamp on a scrawled word.

  “Disappearance,” she read aloud.

  Also, “Dean in Chicago,” with another phone number.

  She ripped the page from the pad and stuffed it in her pocket.

  It was something, but not what she was looking for. And with a sinking feeling, she looked at her watch. Jaz wasn’t going to stick around very long, twenty minutes more, maybe.

  Daisy took one more look at the darkened study where Betsy worked with her patients. She sighed, remembering the day she first really talked with her therapist. Her light fell on the two leather chairs, facing each other. A sadness emanated from them, empty and silent.

  Ringo jangled his tags. He pressed his wet nose into the palm of her hand. She smiled down at him.

  He was part of that first day, too. The first breakthrough she had with Betsy.

  When she found her voice.

  Her gaze fell on the shelf of books, most of them rare first editions in German. Her headlamp lit on the cloth cover of the book she had touched and almost pulled out that day.

  She walked over and touched her fingertips to its spine. It, unlike the others, was not leather bound.

  We used to have a first edition, Betsy had said.

  It translates to Synchronicity…

  Daisy’s fingers gripped the spine of the book, pulling it out from among the others.

  As she removed the book, the beam of her headlamp fell on a dark shape behind the row of books.

  She set down Jung’s book and pulled out several of the rare editions, uncovering what lay behind.

  It was an oblong shape, wrapped in black velvet that absorbed the light. Inside the wrapping was a slim book. She unwrapped it carefully. It was old. The title was almost worn away, but she recognized the first words. “Synchronizität, Akausalität…” And behind it, she realized, was another book, even older.

  She opened the second book. It smelled musty. Stiff creamy pages with a list of incomprehensible words in a language she did not understand. “Margareten, Barbora, Adela, Malenka,” followed by words that all ended in “ova.”

  They were names, she realized.

  Ringo whined, startling her. She whirled around.

  An envelope fell out of the book, landing on the oak floor. She bent to pick it up. It was sealed and addressed to Dr. Elizabeth Path.

  Daisy rewrapped both books and the envelope in the velvet and slipped the package carefully into her backpack. Glancing at her watch, she muttered an obscenity.

  “Good dog, Ringo,” she said. “Stay here. Luis will be back soon to let you out.”

  Daisy hurried back to the cellar and out of the house. She crossed the street, seeing a black car’s headlights flick on.

  She could not make out the faces in the car. But she knew she was being watched.

  Chapter 53

  BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 24, 2010

  Betsy wiped her eyes with her knuckle.

  “You are tired,” said John. “And jet-lagged. It’s after midnight, Betsy. Try to sleep.”

  “It’s staring at this computer screen. It dries out my eyes,” she said. John looked over her shoulder, seeing a Visa card display with Dr. Grace Path’s e-mail.

  Betsy typed in “Rudolf II.”

  “Crap,” she muttered.

  She tried “Matthias.” Then “Matthias 1608.” “1608 Matthias.”

  “Shit,” she said a little louder, twirling her hair around and around her finger.

  “Just give up,” said John. “There are thousands of combinations for a password. The statistical significance of finding—”

  “Just don’t, John. Don’t!” she warned.

  Betsy stared at the computer screen

  “Does Esztergom have a z in it?”

  John checked the guidebook. “After the s—why?”

  The fall of Esztergom in 1543 was a significant battle that her mother always taught in her Eastern European classes. Betsy typed “Esztergom1543,” hit Return and shouted, “Bingo!” as the computer screen changed from the log-in screen to a list of credit card expenditures in the days before her mother’s disappearance.

  The last charge had been for a meal in Piestany, Slovakia.

  “She was in Piestany
. That was the last time she used the card.”

  “That’s the spa town. Pretty pricey for your mom—”

  “Maybe she was staying somewhere near there and went out for a meal. Or maybe there’s a B & B.”

  John was already on his computer.

  Trip Advisor suggested just two bed-and-breakfasts in the area. He dialed his cell phone.

  “Dobre Den, Penzione Trematin.”

  “Hello, do you speak English?”

  “A little. How may I help you?”

  “We are trying to find an American woman. She may have been staying in your hotel. Her name is Dr. Grace Path.”

  “Are you the police?”

  “Why do you say that?” asked John, motioning to Betsy.

  “The American lady no come back. All her things—we put them in the suitcases and they wait for her here. We had to rent the room.”

  “She was staying there?”

  “Yes. I made her reservations for a dinner at Hotel Thermia Spa Restaurant in Piestany. She never came back. ”

  Chapter 54

  ASPEN, COLORADO

  DECEMBER 24, 2010

  Dean Cox’s office.”

  “Um. Hello. I’d like to speak to the dean, please.”

  “May I ask who is calling?” said a woman’s voice.

  “This is…Mary Jones. I was a student in Dr. Path’s class last semester.”

  There was a pause on the line.

  “I am sorry. I was expecting another call. The office is closed until next term. Please call after January tenth.”

  “Well, then I guess I’ll be raising hell to the Foundation Board. My uncle is a major donor, and has been a member—”

  The woman interrupted her.

  “Maybe I can help you. The dean is on another line.”

  “Well—I want to contest a grade. I’m really pissed. And my dad is a big-time donor to the university.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ve left messages for Dr. Path, but she hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “Dr. Path is…on leave and unavailable at this time.”

  “OK. So what I do about this grade? I mean I kept my exams and everything. I can prove that I didn’t fail this class—I got a ninety-five on the final! And—and I’ve transferred to a different school. These are on my transcripts and now I don’t have the credits—”

  “These are matters you will have to take up with Dr. Path and the dean.”

  “If I can’t speak to either one of them, how the hell do I—”

  “I can send you a link to the paperwork required to file to contest a grade.”

  “When is Dr. Path supposed to be back?”

  “She…she is researching a book in Slovakia. We don’t expect her back until next term.”

  “Slovakia?”

  “I am sorry, Ms. Jones. We can’t discuss this—”

  “Hey! I’m the one has an F on my transcripts.”

  “Please file the paperwork and the dean will review the matter. Which class was this?”

  Daisy ended the call. She flipped open her laptop, opened a browser window, and typed in search terms.

  SLOVAKIA. GRACE PATH, UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO.

  As an afterthought she added AMAZON.COM.

  The search produced two books by Dr. Grace Path: THE REIGN OF MATTHIAS II, EMPEROR OF THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE. TWO BROTHERS, TWO EMPERORS: RUDOLF II AND MATTHIAS II.

  There was one pre-order book: THIS BOOK HAS NOT BEEN PUBLISHED: PORTRAIT OF A MADWOMAN: COUNTESS ERZSEBET BATHORY OF ROYAL HUNGARY.

  On the cover was the portrait of a pale-faced woman with a high, slightly bulging forehead. Her hair was held back in a headdress and her face was framed by a ruffled collar.

  “Madwoman?” whispered Daisy.

  FROM THE PUBLISHERS: DR. GRACE PATH, KNOWN FOR HER SCHOLARLY RESEARCH AND EXPERTISE IN THE REIGN OF MATTHIAS II, EMPEROR OF THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE, EXPLORES NEW TERRITORY IN THIS COMPELLING BOOK, EXPLORING BOTH FACT AND FICTION OF THE LEGENDARY MURDERESS COUNTESS ERZSEBET BATHORY…

  Daisy’s black fingernails clicked against the computer keys. U.S. Embassy. Slovakia. She scribbled down the number and e-mail address.

  “Bratislava,” she murmured. “Where the hell is that?” She typed “Google maps” into the browser and, moments later, Bratislava popped into focus.

  She dialed 411 and waited.

  “Hi. How do I dial direct to Bratislava, Slovakia, from the U.S?”

  “Yes. This is the daughter of Dr. Grace Path,” Daisy lied, working hard to make her voice sound more mature. “I need—”

  “I’ve told you before, Ms. Path,” said an irritated male voice on the other end of the line. “We have no further information about the disappearance of your mother. Your report has been filed and all other inquiries will have to be made to the Bratislava police—”

  “Wait? You—she’s missing?”

  “Excuse me,” said the man, losing the edge in his voice. “You did say you were Dr. Path’s daughter. Is this Elizabeth?”

  All right, asshole, thought Daisy, her lip catching on her canine as she smiled.

  “No. I’m—her other daughter. Mary. I had no idea my mother had been formally classified as missing.”

  “You should contact your sister.”

  “I—I’ve tried. I—can’t get through to her on her cell. I’ve called and called. I am distraught with worry. I—”

  “You might try her at her hotel.”

  “She didn’t give me the address. Only that something was wrong—”

  “Just a moment. Hotel Arcadia is the listing I have for her.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call them immediately.”

  “Please know that the ambassador is looking into the matter. And if your sister locates your mother, she should call us immediately so that we can close the file. Good luck.”

  Daisy pressed the END button on her cell phone. She narrowed her eyes, thinking.

  Chapter 55

  BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 24, 2010

  Betsy’s computer pinged, signaling an incoming e-mail. She frowned at the UK address, a username that she did not recognize.

  DEAR DR. PATH,

  I AM AN EDITOR-AT-LARGE FOR THE PSYCHOLOGY TODAY PUBLICATION. I HAVE BEEN TRAVELING AND WAS NOT PRESENT WHEN MY COLLEAGUES SENT THEIR CORRESPONDENCE TO YOU, CONCERNING YOUR WORK WITH SCHIZOPHRENIA, EMPLOYING FREE ASSOCIATION WITH THE RED BOOK PLATES.

  HAVE YOU CONSIDERED EMPLOYING PLATE 34, WITH THE HIGH MOUNTAIN, WHICH COULD APPEAR INSURMOUNTABLE TO A PATIENT, ESPECIALLY DURING A FUGUE EPISODE? IT WOULD BE INTRIGUING TO SEE HOW THE PATIENT REACTS 4-6 HOURS (FROM P.) AFTER A ROBUST DOSE OF CLOZAPRINE, WITH THE CHALLENGE OF LOCATING THE WINDING ROAD TOWARD REALITY.

  MOST IMPORTANTLY, IT IS PARAMOUNT THAT THE PATIENT REALIZES HE IS NOT ALONE. THERE ARE MANY OTHERS WHO SUFFER DELUSIONS AND NEED HELP.

  Betsy became aware of the warmth of John’s breath on her neck as he hovered, reading over her shoulder. Her skin prickled.

  “Let me guess—” said John. “There is no plate thirty-four showing a mountain.”

  “No. No, there isn’t.”

  “So she’s—what? Four to six hours? P stands for ‘probability’?” said John. “What does probability have to do in the syntax of the letter?”

  “It’s not p for probability, John. It’s a capital P. Piestany. She must have had on her watch and timed the trip, even if she didn’t know where she was going.”

  “Piestany?”

  “John! She was kidnapped, like those girls. They disappeared from Bratislava and Piestany!”

  Betsy stood up and ran her hand through her hair. Then she caught a fistful of it, twisting it violently as she thought.

  “Four to six hours. East or west, north or south?”

  “Let me get a map,” said John, sitting down at her computer. He clicked on Piestany and slid the map into a wide focus, scanning the topography for high mountains.

  “How is she getting these messages to us
? There must be someone helping her,” said Betsy.

  “Look! The only big mountains lie east—the Tatras. Three thousand meters. That’s—what? Ten thousand feet.”

  Betsy sat beside him. She leaned over to peer at the screen. His breath smelled of peppermint gum.

  “Can I see something?” she said, taking the computer from him.

  Betsy clicked on a tourist site for the Tatras advertising skiing and hiking. “A castle with a high wall in the Tatras. Not much to go on.”

  “The mountains are pretty remote,” said John. “There might not be too many castles.”

  “And we’re looking for one that is still inhabited. That’s something.” Betsy tapped the screen. “What about the last bit. ‘There are others who suffer.’ What do you think she means by that?”

  John took a deep breath. Betsy waited for the warm scent of peppermint when he exhaled.

  “I think there may be other kidnap victims,” he said.

  Chapter 56

  ASPEN, COLORADO

  DECEMBER 24, 2010

  One advantage of being a weird kid of a rich divorced couple—Daisy had her own Visa card. Gold, of course. Without wasting any time thinking about whether it was a good idea, she bought an airline ticket to Bratislava via Denver-Frankfurt as soon as she finished talking to the embassy.

  She wondered if she’d have to tell her mother about the trip. Maybe she could just go. Leave a note saying she would be back in a week or two. And school…well, it would still be there when she got back. It was winter break now anyway. Besides, kids on ski teams disappeared for weeks at a time, and the teachers posted all their assignments on the high school website. She could keep up—if she wanted to.

  Daisy did a search for weather forecasts in Slovakia.

  “Wow. Cold over there, too.” She was going to need woolen sweaters and jeans, warm socks, and her black boots. She rummaged around in her desk drawer to find her passport, from the trip to France she had made with her mother.

  When her mother got home from playing tennis at the Aspen Club that morning, Daisy took a deep breath and jumped right into it.

  “Mom, do you know where Bratislava is?”