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 had 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.