“It must be an underground spring,” she said, “for the water not to be frozen. Slovakia is riddled with caverns and thermal springs.”
“Well, my foot is freezing,” said John. “This water isn’t hot at all, I promise you.”
Betsy wasn’t listening. She was staring beyond him.
“What is it?” John turned to look. A pond, silver with ice, stretched out about fifty yards from them.
The snow had stopped and white mist rose steaming from the water. Ice clung to the bare branches of the weeping willows. Frost outlined the bark eyes of the birch trees, staring solemnly.
The frozen world glittered as the sun’s rays filtered through the steam coming off the water in gently moving waves, ghosts gliding over the pond.
“I—think I am having déjà vu,” Betsy whispered. “I have seen this place before, I swear I have.”
“It looks like a Christmas postcard, it’s beautiful,” said John. He put his arm around her.
Betsy nodded, gliding into his arms. She thought how well she fit against his chest, his arms wrapped around her. She closed her eyes, letting herself be comforted.
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.”