“Is this your homework? Google it.”
“Well, no. I’m going there for New Year’s.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m flying to Bratislava. It’s the capital of Slovakia.”
“What do you mean, you’re flying?”
“Well. I could go tomorrow, but there is a flight from Denver tonight to Frankfurt—”
“You know that’s not what I meant. It’s Christmas Eve, God damn it! What makes you think you can just fly off to Europe? And why Slovakia?
“It’s complicated, Mother. But it’s something I have to do.”
“Daisy Hart! You are NOT going to—whatever crazy place you said.”
“Yes, I am. I am going to Bratislava. Mother, I have to—Betsy is in danger, I can feel it!”
“Betsy? You are—what? Is Betsy in Bacalava?”
“Bratislava, Mother. BRA-TA-SLAV-A! She is in terrible danger. I can feel it in my…bones! My skin! My whole body is throbbing with this fear.”
“Oh, my God,” her mother said, covering her mouth with her hand. “You are totally insane. I’m calling your father.”
“I don’t care.”
“He’ll cancel your credit card.”
“He’d better not. I’ll starve.”
“You’ll be right here. You won’t starve. Don’t be irrational.”
Daisy stomped up the stairs. Her mother was already calling her father. She didn’t care.
But she was relieved when he didn’t answer.
Her suitcase was a carry-on. She packed her Goth essentials: white makeup, heavy black eyeliner, black lipstick, vintage necklaces. Enough underwear, socks, and sweaters to get her through a week. Then she could do laundry.
And of course both her phones—her black iPhone and the ruby-red cell phone from her father. If her father cancelled her credit card, she could do without food. But not without communication.
Chapter 57
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 24, 2010
There was a light rap on the door of the study.
“Come in, Heinrich. Tell me. What have you found in the Path house?”
“Nothing, Count Bathory,” said a blond man. The pupils of his eyes were pinpoints, the irises sparkled an iridescent blue, a glacial lake. “We tore the house apart, looking,” he said. “We could not return after the police were called.”
“And the grave? Did his widow bury the ledger with him, Heinrich? That would indicate she wants no part of the proposed project.”
“There was no sign of the ledger,” said Heinrich, his voice barely concealing his disgust. Heinrich flexed his knuckles, remembering the cold night at the cemetery. The Count had sent him on this mad errand, digging at the frozen ground with an ice axe and shovel. When the red-and-blue police car lights illuminated the cemetery, Heinrich and his men had run.
“I think she knows nothing of this, yes?” said Heinrich. “The ledger?”
The Count lifted his glass of cognac to his lips. “It appears so. But she is an intelligent woman. Perhaps she knows very well where it is. She may be lying to me.”
“So you think the daughter has the ledger?”
“I believe that is more likely. I understand that the father and daughter were very close,” said the Count. His right eyelid began to twitch.
Heinrich fixed his eyes on the Count, watching.
“So you have nothing at all to report?” the Count said.
Heinrich shrugged. He did not like the Count’s dismissive tone. “One observation. There is a girl, an adolescent. She is a Goth, dressed in black with a crucifix around her neck. We saw her enter the house the night we left.”
“Enter the Path house?”
“Yes. She opened a cellar door, buried under the snow. She spent about a half hour inside. We were going to follow her but were wary of the police. The Path house is right on Main Street. The police already had a description of us.”
“Did she find anything?”
“We could not tell. She wore a long coat, down to her ankles—she could have hidden the book. She walked to a bar. When she left, she walked down Main Street again accompanied by a very big boy, Mexican-looking. He waited with her for a bus to Aspen.”
The Count puckered his lips, as if tasting something sour.
“She would have no idea what importance the ledger plays,” he said. “I wonder what she was looking for?”
“Perhaps her own records. We have seen her on other occasions enter the Path house for appointments. She is often accompanied by her mother.”
The Count took a long draught of cognac, musing this idea.
“You might be right. Psychiatric records hold an enormous fascination for the patient. She most likely wanted to read what her therapist had written about her.”