House of Bathory(105)
“If Count Bathory sees us,” said Betsy, “he will kill your daughter and my friend. And both of us.”
“So,” said the cook, her slanted eyes glinting in the light. “He must not see. You go through caves, then door to dungeon. Come. I show.”
Before they went through the rotting door, the cook motioned for Betsy to turn off her headlamp.
“But we can’t see anything,” Betsy whispered.
The cold, dank space was not simply dark, but as if any trace of light had been sucked out, leaving a textured inkiness.
“You do not need to see,” said the cook. “Later, you turn on again. Not now. We feel. We hear.”
Betsy nodded. It seemed she had heard these words before.
“This old escape way from castle. Bathory, many enemy.”
The cook kept looking over her shoulder in the direction of the rotted door. The darkness wrapped itself around Betsy, and she shuddered.
“I take you more ahead now. But then, you see. Tunnel fall down long, long years ago. Rocks very close. I could go when little girl. Not now. I escape through kitchen tunnel. Bigger, but they guard now.”
The darkness grew even tighter. And colder.
“But you can go. Possible, I think.”
Possible, thought Betsy. All I have is “possible.”
“We push door, slow. Door make noise. We put mouth water there. Very, very old.”
Betsy could hear the big woman gather the juices from the back of her mouth, spitting copiously where she felt the hinge under her fingers.
Chapter 90
KRAKOW AIRPORT, POLAND
DECEMBER 28, 2010
Morgan’s flight reached Krakow in the late afternoon. She waited in a slow customs and immigration line, clenching and unclenching her fists, blinking in the harsh florescent lights.
The yawning official straightened his posture when he caught sight of the auburn beauty approaching his window.
“So little luggage,” he said, with a thrust of his unshaven chin. He eyed the orange priority tag on her one small bag that could double as a backpack. Compact enough to carry on, but she had checked it.
“You no stay in Poland long time?”
“No,” she said, her eyes trained on his hands.
“Poland beautiful. We appreciate beautiful American girls.”
“Are you going to stamp my passport or not?” she snapped, her green eyes blazing at him now.
He hesitated, taken aback at the fierce glitter in her eyes. He flicked through her passport pages.
He stamped her passport and handed it back to her.
“Smile, pretty girl,” he said.
A stony expression was her only answer. He motioned quickly to the next person in line.
She walked out to the pink slice of sunset peeking through gray clouds. The wet cold slapped her face. She zipped her down coat tight around her throat.
Passing cars churned up dirty snow, spraying the curb with black slush. She rolled her bag to the taxi stand, where a half-dozen cab drivers jostled each other, seeing the girl in a long, black coat, one who clearly had money.
“Taxi?” they shouted. With no other customer in sight, the cabbies were wolves ready to pounce.
She stared at the pack of cabbies, her vision still blurry from the long flight. They huddled bearlike under their overcoats, woolen scarves coiled around their necks, unshaven faces bristly, leather shoes scuffed and splotched with slush.
“How much to hire you to drive to Poprad, Slovakia?” she said to no one in particular.
“Fifteen hundred zloty!” shouted one.
“Twelve hundred—”
“One thousand zloty!”
The cabbies pressed in tight around her. She caught the smell of body odor and tobacco and wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Look, Miss. Clean car, fast, very fast,” begged one cabbie, his hat folded in his chapped hands. “Only nine hundred zloty. Include gas, everything.”
“Show me your car.”
Chapter 91
HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 28, 2010
John sat in the car, watching the snow accumulate on the trees. He flicked on the wiper blades every few minutes to keep a clear view of the castle, bathed in light.
Why wouldn’t the big woman let him go with them? What if she was luring Betsy into a trap? Maybe she had lied about her missing daughter.
But Betsy had been adamant. So sure. Damn it! He should have insisted, forced her to go to the police.
Why hadn’t they done something rational? Betsy’s damn hunches. Her irrationality had ruined their marriage. Why had he relented this time, knowing how dangerous the scheme was?
A ping on Betsy’s iPhone interrupted his brooding.
He looked over his shoulder and closed his eyes. Prying into e-mail was not something he normally did.
Damn it. Nothing was normal now. He touched the screen with his finger, opening the e-mail.