He bowed low to Grace, in an exaggerated, old-fashioned manner.
Grace dipped her head in acknowledgement and mouthed, “Thank you.”
“Tell me who he is,” she whispered to the waitress.
“All I know is that he is a count. From Hungary, I think, but his Slovak is perfect. He dines here a few times a year.”
The man left, turning his caped back on the women watching him.
After feasting on wild boar, buttered potatoes, and caraway-spiked cabbage, Grace refused dessert. The half bottle of Zumberg Cabernet had gone straight to her head, accompanied by the champagne sent by the stranger.
She drank strong black coffee, lingering over the cup. The laws for DUI in Slovakia were stiff and she had to remember the way back to the pension.
When she finally felt clear-headed, she rose, staring at the table where she had seen the stranger. A cold finger touched the base of her spine.
It was raining hard outside when the valet brought her the rented car. Wet leaves plastered the windshield. The valet made a desultory attempt to clear them off.
She took off into the driving rain, across the bridge from the island toward the village of Moravany Nad Vahom.
Then she felt steel against her temple.
“Drive carefully, Dr. Path, or you will kill us both.”
The car swerved, making the gun barrel knock against her head. She regained control, looking straight ahead. Her knuckles clenched white on the steering wheel.
“What do you want?” she said. “You can have my purse.”
“Oh, no, that will not please my master at all, I am afraid. Turn right at the end of the bridge. There is a car waiting for you.”
Chapter 66
BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 25, 2010
She must be here, you fool!” shouted the Count. “She was locked out on the balcony. I locked the door there myself!”
“I swear to you she has disappeared, Count Bathory. Come and see for yourself.”
The Count struggled up the stairs, breathing hard at the second climb that night.
His servant, a blond man with large shoulders, walked behind him. When they reached the top floor, the servant unlocked the door to the balcony.
The lights on the buildings of Stare Mesto had been extinguished. Now the only light came from street lamps and a few shop windows.
“Jiri, this door has been locked the whole time?”
“Yes, Count. I swear to you.”
The Count lifted his lip in a snarl, exposing his long teeth. He directed the beam of his flashlight on the platform that ringed the turret.
“You go this way, I will go the other. She has to be here. Be ready.”
They walked in opposite directions, two shafts of light slicing the dark night.
Invisible but terrifyingly close, Daisy covered her face with the black sleeves of her Goth gown. The dress had made the climb difficult, but now she was glad to have the dark cloth to cover her too-white face. She had already ripped her dress to make a rope of black crepe to secure her as she climbed off the balcony and behind the supporting stones of the underlying platform.
She pressed her body as close as she could to the cold, wet stones.
“Fool!” said the Count.
“She has disappeared,” muttered Jiri. “She is a witch!”
“Shut up, incompetent Slovak moron,” said the Count, striking his cane against the servant’s leg. “Call the driver.”
Daisy only heard gibberish, Slovak, maybe? Unintelligible. The voices faded as the men circled the tower one more time. She huddled under her black coat, blinking sudden snowflakes from her eyes. She threaded the twisted length of crepe fabric through the wrought-iron bars, hoisting herself up, her boots braced against the stucco, until she felt the rim of the platform against her soles.
She soundlessly straddled the iron railing as easily as mounting a horse. She slid silently over it, and pulled off her boots. In her stocking feet, she crept to the open door. As the two men played their lights over the ground below, she made her way quickly and silently down the circular staircase and out the ground-level door into the darkness of the shadows of Michalska Gate. She pressed herself against the wall as a black limousine drove to the door of the turret.
The license plate gleamed just feet in front her as the taillights shone red and the chauffeur left the car idling.
The EU symbol of a ring of gold stars orbited above the white “SK” for “Slovakia.” The license plate was PP—586.
Daisy’s shaking hand had trouble getting the key to turn in the lock of the hotel’s front door.
The receptionist opened the door, bleary-eyed from watching a soccer match on television.
“There is trick to it,” he said as he opened the bolt and let her in. “You have to turn it twice counterclockwise, not once. I think it is different from American locks, no?”