House of Bathory(91)
“The hell I am! I can’t sleep. My mother is probably being held captive by that lunatic—”
“She may be, but you are so damned tired you’re about to crash. What kind of clear thinking can you muster up when you can’t see straight? You aren’t thinking logically. Let’s take a day—”
“NO!” she shouted. Then, “Watch out!”
The red brake lights of the snowplow flashed.
John braked as gently as he could, trying not to skid. Ahead were red flares and a roadblock. Several people in dark jackets milled around. One figure approached their car.
John lowered the window and a police officer with an ice-crusted scarf wrapped around his neck bent his head to speak to them.
“We speak English,” said John.
“Ah, Americans? OK,” said the police officer. “You no go here. Avalanche. Road closed.”
“How long?” asked Betsy, her face pinched with anxiety.
“Long?” he said, shaking his head.
John tried.
“Road open tonight? Tomorrow?”
“One day. Two day maybe. Big avalanche.”
“Thank you,” said John.
“Hotel Thermia. Good food,” said the police officer, patting his down-padded tummy like a big bear. “You stay one, two day. Open road.”
“Thanks again,” said John. The police officer waved, warding off traffic as John turned the car around.
When he looked at Betsy, she had her head in her hands, sobbing.
John had the restaurant send up two bowls of goulash. He set the tray on the table beside the bed where Betsy lay covered in an eiderdown duvet, her eyes swollen and red.
He sat down beside her.
“It will do you good to eat something,” John said, stroking her wet hair, fresh from the shower. “And a day of rest will make you think more clearly. Neither of us has any idea what we are up against.”
“A monster,” said Betsy. “We are up against a fucking monster.”
John kept stroking her hair.
“You know that, right?” said Betsy. She propped herself up on her elbow to look at him. The sleeve of the white spa robe slid down her arm.
John sighed, glancing out the window at the starlit night. He knew the jagged Tatra Mountains were there in the darkness.
“Yes. We might be. I want to protect you. You need to sleep. You need to make rational decisions.”
Betsy looked into his eyes. She smiled sadly.
“I’ve never been very good at that, have I, John?”
He didn’t answer, but continued caressing her hair.
“I chased you out of my life,” she said.
“We were both awfully young, Betsy.”
“But I did. I slammed the door on our marriage,” she said, putting a hand over his. “I never gave it a chance.”
“Your mother was damned angry when we got married. I don’t think she ever liked me.”
“That’s not true. She told me one Christmas after my dad died that she really thought you kept me level-headed. I hated her for it.”
They both laughed.
“Here,” said John. “Sit up and eat some of the goulash before it gets cold. You need some nourishment.”
Betsy nodded and pulled herself to a sitting position against the carved headboard. John placed the warm bowl in her hand.
“Dad used to make goulash when I was little,” she said, dipping her spoon in the thick stew. “With lots of paprika.”
John dug into his bowl. “I remember. It was wonderful after a ski day.”
Betsy tasted, closing her eyes. “This reminds me of his.”
She ate silently, each spoonful a memory of her family. John set down his own bowl. He rummaged in his suitcase and pulled out an orange plastic medicine bottle. He shook a pill into his hand.
“Take this, Betsy. Lorazapam.”
Betsy stared at the pill.
“You might as well. You need a good night’s sleep, sweetheart. Nothing is going happen tomorrow. The road is closed. Daisy gets in to Poprad in two days. Come on.”
Betsy looked up at his pleading eyes. She held out her hand.
“Good girl. You’ll feel better and think more clearly after a night’s sleep. Maybe a good day’s sleep.”
She set down her empty bowl, nodding her head once. He handed her a plastic water bottle to wash down the pill.
“Will you sleep with me?” asked Betsy, searching his eyes. “I’m scared, John. Like I never have been before.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said.
She shook her head. “You know. Just next to me. Hold me.”
He started to unbutton his shirt. There was tenderness in his smile.
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
Chapter 77
HOFBURG PALACE