“I cannot go. Must walk. Too small, this street.” The taxi driver shrugged.
Daisy gazed bleary-eyed at the tiny street, gleaming gray from the cold morning rain. A small sign read MICHALSKA BRANA BED AND BREAKFAST.
“OK. I can carry my bag. How much do I owe you?” She had sorted out the brightly colored euro bills she had withdrawn from an ATM in Frankfurt. It looked like Monopoly money to her. She let the eager driver draw out a few bills from her hand.
“Take something extra for Christmas,” she said. He smiled, plucking another colored bill.
She rolled her suitcase over the bumpy cobblestones, staring up at the pastel colored buildings, decked with evergreen garlands. Twinkle lights glistened around the shop windows, and she heard carolers in the next street.
It’s like a freakin’ fairy tale, she thought. A cold, wet wind sliced against her back. She wrapped her scarf tight around her face and neck, glad for once she wasn’t wearing her white Goth makeup, which she had taken off to prevent hassles with TSA at the airports.
“You will be staying for how many days?” asked the woman with bright purple hair.
Wow, Daisy thought. Even the middle-aged women dye their hair freaky colors here.
“Uh. I don’t know. Can I just pay by the day? I don’t know what my plans are yet.”
“Yes, of course. It is low season and we have no reservations for your room. Stay as long as you like.”
Daisy felt the jet lag sucking her into the floor. She looked around the Michalska Brana hotel. It had been recommended on Lonely Planet. And it was cheap enough.
It smelled of coffee and toast, mixed with the faint odor of cigarette smoke.
A glass elevator slipped down a glass shaft.
“Do you need help with your bags?” asked the clerk.
“No, no. I can handle it. Thanks. Oh, do you have Wi-Fi?”
The grape-haired woman’s face brightened. “Of course. No password needed.”
Daisy threw herself face first onto the stark whiteness of a down comforter. She drank in the clean, fresh aroma of the bed linen.
She propped herself up on her elbows, turning on her cell phone.
There were a series of frantic messages from her mother.
“Daisy? Where are you? Call me immediately! You didn’t go to, to…wherever that was. Don’t dare tell me you went there!”
Next new message.
“Daisy, this is your father calling. Your mother says you have run away to…Bratislava? I don’t even know where Bratislava is—”
In the background, Morgan’s voice: “It’s the capital of Slovakia, Roger.”
“Wherever. Damn it. Call me. Call me now!”
Next new message.
“Hey, it’s Kyle. You weren’t home when I came by. Your mother is totally flipped out. Give me a call or send me an e-mail so I know you are OK.”
Next new message.
“Daisy, it’s Morgan. Where are you? Mom has never been so worried in her life. What’s in Slovakia that you would drop everything and go there? Call me. I can keep a secret—well, you know that already. Hey, and don’t forget. I know exactly where you are. You’ve got Dad’s GPS cell phone with you. Do you really think he isn’t going to cut your allowance because you took that phone to fucking Slovakia?”
Next new message.
“Daisy, this is Betsy. Your mother used my emergency line at the answering service to call. She said you were talking about going to Bratislava. Is that possible? Call me immediately. You have my cell phone number.”
Daisy collapsed onto the bed, the soft duvet enveloping her shoulders.
I could sleep for days, she thought.
She pressed speed dial and waited to hear Betsy’s voice.
Chapter 62
ČACHTICE, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 25, 2010
As John drove up the snowy hill to the foot of Čachtice Castle, he glanced at Betsy. She stared out the window, watching the bare branches of the trees.
“You OK?” he said, reaching for her hand, his eyes on the rutted road.
She twisted her fingers in his.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”
“We’ll find her,” John said, squeezing her hand.
“But what about this nutcase killing women and draining their blood?”
“The inspector said it was only young women. Your mom definitely does not qualify. She’d give anyone who approached her one of her professor looks over her glasses and scare the shit out of them.”
“Who’d want to kidnap a sixty-five-year-old historian?” Betsy smacked the dashboard with an open hand.
John didn’t answer. He parked the car alongside the road. The snow was too deep to continue driving.
They got out of the car and walked up the long hill to the snowy ruins of the castle. The wind whistled through the trees and over the tumbled stones, perched on a rocky cliff.