Kovach screamed.
The white stallion reared, snapping his rope. His iron-shod feet flashed out at the captain, knocking him to the ground.
Janos turned away, clutching his wounded arm. He heard Kovach’s scream cut short as the stallion’s hooves shattered his skull.
Chapter 112
BATHORY CASTLE
DECEMBER 29, 2010
John saw headlights illuminating the iron grillwork of the gate.
Three police cars raced up the road, red-and-blue lights flashing. Two police officers bounded out of the car, guns drawn.
The castle guard took out his cell phone. He spoke rapidly and then set the phone down, as the police approached with guns pointed.
One police officer began questioning the guard.
Another car drove up. John recognized one of the passengers who jumped out of the car.
“Detective Whitehall!” he shouted.
John stared at the butler’s preternaturally blue eyes.
“No, I am sorry,” the butler repeated. With his blond pomaded hair slicked back, he managed to look surly even as he confronted the Bratislava authorities.
John looked around the room. The fire was lit, the hearth deep with glowing embers. On a small table near the fireplace stood a decanter of red wine. He saw a splash of liquid on what must be a treasure—a very old tapestry of a slain dragon.
He touched the stain. It was still wet. He brought his fingers to his nose—wine. On the floor a shard of glass twinkled.
“The Count is not in residence. I believe he is in Bratislava,” said the blue-eyed man, unblinking.
“You liar!” said John.
“We have reason to believe that he is indeed in residence,” said Detective Whitehall, glancing at John. “We will wait to see him.”
“Wait?” said John. “We can’t wait. He has kidnapped at least three women. He has a friend of mine hidden somewhere in the castle.”
“I will assume that you will produce proof of this ‘kidnapping,’ ” said the butler, his voice cool and controlled. “Otherwise you wouldn’t dare enter this house.”
“We have the license plate seen at the scene of a kidnapping,” said Detective Whitehall. “We have been tracking this car for two days now.”
“I am sorry, I don’t think I am aware of your…jurisdiction?” said the butler.
“Detective Whitehall, from Scotland Yard.”
“Scotland Yard? That certainly does not give you the right to slander my employer, a Hungarian citizen of nobility. I shall call the embassy at once.”
“I am in charge of this investigation,” said a burly police officer. “I am a captain in the Bratislava division of the Slovakian National Police. I require your complete cooperation.”
“This will not be good for delicate Hungarian-Slovak relations,” said the butler, a thinly veiled threat. “Please convey this to your president. He knows Count Bathory, of course.”
The police captain grunted.
“So,” said the butler, raising his chin. “You have a license plate number. Witnesses often misread license plates, as I am sure you are aware. You have no subpoena. And I tell you the Count is not at home.”
“We can search—can’t we?” asked John.
The police officer approached him, saying in a quiet voice, “These castles have many secret doors and passageways. We need him to be more cooperative.”
“You have no real evidence, no subpoena,” said the butler. “I shall have to ask you to please leave at once.”
John pushed past the police officer. Raw anger propelled him forward.
He heard a crunch under his boot.
John looked down. It was Daisy’s crucifix, broken on the floor.
Chapter 113
BATHORY CASTLE DUNGEON
HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 29, 2010
The Count escorted Morgan to a high-backed chair on the dais. Two skeletal men stood on either side of her, dark pools under their eyes like bruises against the white of their skin.
Peering around the border of the tapestry, Betsy watched the tableau from the corner of the room.
“Call off the ghouls,” Morgan said, slurring her words.
She’s drugged, Betsy thought.
“No, I think it would be best if they were at your side,” said the Count. “Be a good girl now and don’t interfere, or we will have to tie you to the chair. Most undignified. Especially unfitting for the role you will play tonight.”
He called to the woman attendant, beyond Betsy’s field of sight.
“Bring in Dr. Path now,” he said.
Betsy held her breath as her mother was led in, shackled. A fuchsia-haired woman set her down in a heavy wooden chair with leather straps on the armrest. Betsy heard the rip of Velcro as the attendant opened the straps and closed them again around her mother’s forearms.