House of Bathory(59)

On the screen was footage of a corpse—a young woman, thin and bruised. She lay with her neck at an impossible angle and the camera zoomed in on a blue wound on her neck.

They would never show anything that graphic on American TV, Betsy thought.

The couple looked at each other, then at Betsy, and then back at the TV. The young man took his partner’s hand in his and squeezed it.

“Rozumite Anglichsky?” Betsy said. “Can you tell me what she is talking about?”

The woman gave her a terrified look. Then she pronounced a word with a strong Slovak accent.

“Vahm-peer-uh.”

“Vampire?”

The woman nodded three times.

“Monster. Assassin three woman. Other woman take away.”

“Take away?”

“Kidnap,” said an Englishman in an armchair, snapping his newspaper closed. “Here’s the story in English.”

He got up and gave Betsy the paper.

SINISTER CLUES TO ASSASSIN’S IDENTITY

Another woman was found dead early this morning on the outskirts of Bratislava. Ivona Dravikova was last seen at Nightclub Raucous Scandal, known for its late night scene, drunken stag parties for foreign tourists, and reported heavy drug use among its patrons.

Dravikova reportedly frequented the nightclub on a regular basis. Witnesses say she was chatting with a tall dark-haired man at about 1 A.M. She left the club at about 1:45, according to a source who declined to be identified.

Her neck was broken and she had bruises on her throat. A deep puncture wound was found on the left side of her throat.

This is the third such murder in the last four months in the Bratislava area. In addition, at least four other women have gone missing after frequenting one of the many bars in the locale.

“My God,” Betsy said, under her breath. “The killer must be insane.”

“With a fetish for drug addicts,” said the man who had given her the paper.

“Excuse me, but how do you know that?”

“I’m on assignment from Scotland Yard. I’m working on this case. Two British nationals are among the missing girls.” He extended his hand. “George Whitehall.”

Betsy shook his hand. She felt her fingers tremble in his firm grip. Jet lag, she thought.

“I’m Dr. Betsy Path,” she said. She nodded to the Slovak couple on the couch, including them in her introduction. “I’m a psychoanalyst in Colorado.”

“Then you know about insanity,” said Whitehall. “It seems most of these girls are Goth-Punk types, looking for exotic adventures and cheap fixes for their drug habits. And they seem to have found more than they bargained for.”





“He works with Scotland Yard,” said Betsy. “I think we should try to cooperate with him.”

“What do you mean?” John offered her a bottle of water from the minibar. “He’s looking for wayward girls, drug addicts who have disappeared. What does that have to do with your mother?”

Betsy sat down on the bed and opened the bottle. “Voda Dobra” the label read. The hotel probably charged a fortune for it, but she was desperately thirsty and had not checked the Internet yet to see if water in Slovakia was potable. She had been too young to worry about such things when she last visited the country.

“But he must have some connections here. Let’s face it—I’m not sure how we are going to go about finding a lost American when we don’t speak the language. I don’t even know where she was staying.”

John sighed. “Sure, why not? Talk to Sherlock Holmes down there, if he is still around. Ask him to lunch, if you want. I’m famished, aren’t you?”

Betsy stood up from the bed, making the springs squeak. She gave her ex a weary smile and a kiss on the cheek.

“I’m going down,” she said. “To see if I can find him.”

“Then I’m coming, too,” said John.





The Slovak waitress set down three tall mugs of frothy-headed beer.

“Dobre chut!” she said, with a friendly jerk of her chin.

“Dakiyiem,” said Betsy, managing to smile. “She just wished us good health.”

“Dakiyiem,” called John, to the waitress’s retreating back.

“You say your mother disappeared a week ago?” asked Detective Whitehall. “Without a trace?”

“We don’t know where she was staying. Her last e-mail said she was going to Piestany from Bratislava to see the ruins of a castle that belonged to Countess Bathory.”

Detective Whitehall put his fork down, a big bite of roast pork and sauerkraut speared on its tines. He pressed the white napkin to his lips.

“Countess Bathory?”

“Yes, my mother was working on a book, a sort of historical treatise on the woman.”