House of Bathory(49)
She heard the click of the lock as Draska left. Then the hollow click of heels down the hall.
Chapter 32
CARBONDALE, COLORADO
DECEMBER 20, 2010
John made the plane reservations online to leave the next morning. He alerted the American Embassy he and Betsy were arriving and rented a car in Bratislava.
All the traits that had contributed to their divorce—his concrete, black-and-white approach to resolving conflicts, breaking down a situation to a mathematical problem—now comforted Betsy. When they were married, she had accused him of handling their relationship with cold calculation, never allowing things to flow naturally, no room for spontaneity or a last-minute hunch.
“Come on, Betsy! I always leave a margin of error,” he said one night, defending himself in the middle of an argument.
Margin of error. For John instinct, intuition—the element of humanity and surprise—boiled down to nothing but a margin for error. Betsy had wanted to smother him with a pillow.
Now, as she watched him print out their boarding passes, hotel reservation, and train schedules and then put their passports and her mother’s e-mails into a travel folder, she sighed with relief.
“Relax a little, Betsy,” he said, gentleness in his smile. “Get some sleep.”
“I will,” she said, gratitude washing over her. “Do you need anything in the guest bathroom?”
“I’m all set, Bets. Everything’s fine.”
“OK,” she said. She looked up at him and managed a smile. “And, John—thank you.”
“No problem.”
She brushed her teeth, her mind reviewing last minute details for the early departure. Toothbrush still in her mouth, she walked out into the den and checked her e-mail one more time.
“Always multitasking, Dr. Path,” John said, yawning. “Some things never change.”
But Betsy didn’t hear him. She stood frozen, staring at the e-mail she had just opened.
Dear Dr. Path,
The review board of Psychology Today is interested in your proposed article on the use of Carl Jung’s The Red Book as a method of treatment with borderline schizophrenics. We find the work you have done in Jungian analysis quite pro vocative. (We cite specifically the interpretation of the jeweled mandala. True, per your suggestion, the second mandala of hard, flinty stone—the more Gothic representation—would seem to be more suitable as a stimulus presented to a delusional patient, especially one who has aggressive or even murderous tendencies.)
We are most impressed with your treatise vis-à-vis Jung’s illustration of a snake climbing toward heaven, as if it is scaling a wall to beseech the gods for help. A clue to the mental state of the patient? Returning to the father’s homeland?
Perhaps you might continue to send us updates on your work. We are leaning toward publication but must review your final results and conclusion. We want to make sure we understand one another (your third ear, as it were) and that your therapy is heading in the right direction.
We look forward to hearing from you soon. We encourage your work, though you should be aware that if we do not write consistently it is because we have been intercepted by publishing demands here at the magazine.
It was hard to get us all on board to compose this letter, though we admire your groundbreaking work!
Edmund S.K. Dangerfield, PhD
Jane Highwall, MD
Morris S.W. Castle, PhD
Betsy sat down at the computer, foaming toothpaste leaking from the corners of her mouth.
“Ohmgow—” she mouthed, spewing the keyboard with white pasty gobs.
John looked up. “What is it?”
Betsy ran to the sink to spit.
“Read this e-mail.”
John looked down at the screen and scanned it.
“Congratulations. But since when do you treat schizophrenic patients?”
“I don’t! My father did. That’s just it. And I haven’t written a treatise.”
“Huh?”
Betsy typed a search on Google.
“So what’s this all about? A hoax?”
“Look. None of those names are on the masthead of Psychology Today. Who are these people? Dangerfield, Castle, or Highwall. Someone is trying to give me information. In a way that wouldn’t alert a hacker! A hacker, John, who would be on the look out for communication from my mother. John, someone is hacking my e-mail, I know it!”
“Calm down, Betsy. You are not making a lot of sense.”
“My mother sent me The Red Book for my birthday. This message is code. Someone is trying to lead me to Mom!”
Chapter 33
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 21, 1610
Countess Bathory stared at the young horsemaster, a cat watching a bird.
The white stallion had entered the castle gates at a walk, as calm as a king’s horse. Excited by the activity of the crowded courtyard, the steed raised its head and began to trot, but Janos reined him in, commanding obedience. The horse ceased its prancing, walking by the blazing fires, hawking vendors, scattered livestock, and laughing children.