Rogue Angel 53: Bathed in Blood (5 page)

“Brigitta,” the girl replied, shaking Annja’s hand. “My friend is going to flip when I tell her I had coffee with you.”

“Yes, well, about that...” Annja began. “Perhaps you can wait a few days before doing so?”

Brigitta was watching her closely. “You’re not here on vacation, are you? You’re working, and whatever you’re working on has to do with the woman from the press conference, doesn’t it? That’s why you know what happened!”

Brigitta was no slouch, Annja had to give her that.

“Yes, I’m working. And it
might
have to do with the woman they were just talking about. I’m not sure yet, though, and that’s why you can’t tell your friend about meeting me. If word gets out that I’m here, I’ll have a difficult time finding the information I need.”

The girl’s eyes had gotten wider as Annja spoke, and now she leaned forward.

“It’s the Blood Countess, isn’t it?” she asked quietly. “She’s come back, just as legend claimed.”

Annja was shocked. That was twice in less than twenty-four hours that she’d heard Báthory’s nickname floated about. Granted she was in Báthory country, but still...

“What legend is that?”

Brigitta laughed. “Right. Like the host of
Chasing History’s Monsters
doesn’t know the legend of the Blood Countess’s return?”

“Humor me,” Annja said with a smile.

“After she was tried and convicted of bathing in the blood of all those women, the king had her walled up inside her own bedroom suite as punishment for her crimes. You know about that, right?”

Báthory hadn’t gone to trial, was never convicted and was walled up inside her bedroom at the request of her own family, but that was beside the point, apparently. Annja just clenched her teeth and nodded, seeing no need to correct her companion.

“She lived for four years—four years, can you imagine that!—before they found her dead on her bedroom floor.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Annja said. “But that’s nothing new. Most people who know anything about Elizabeth Báthory’s history know that.”

“Yes, but what they don’t know is that Báthory wrote a message in blood on her bedroom wall before she died.”

Uh-huh, Annja thought. Aloud she said, “And that would be...?”

The girl’s eyes gleamed.
“I’ll be back,”
she said, in what was quite possibly the worst Austrian accent Annja had ever heard.

As Annja sat there, staring at her without expression, Brigitta burst into laughter. “I had you! I totally had you!”

Annja wasn’t amused. “Right. Well, it was good meeting you, but now I’ve...”

“Wait! Wait!” the girl said between giggles, reaching out and grabbing Annja’s arm to keep her from leaving. “I’m sorry. I was just joking around. I’ll tell you the real story. Honest.”

Grudgingly Annja let herself be persuaded. Something about the girl called to her, and she had learned to trust such instincts since possessing the sword. There was information to be learned here; she was certain of it.

“I wasn’t kidding. The countess did write on the wall of her bedroom before dying. She used candle wax to do it, though, not blood. They even found the candle in her hand.”

“I see.” Annja eyed her skeptically.

“No, seriously,” Brigitta protested. “The family tried to cover it up but word leaked out. Some say it was through the countess’s lover, though how anyone could love a woman like that, I don’t know.”

Growing tired of all the chitchat, Annja said, “Can you please get to the point?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. The countess wrote
amikor vissza
on the wall above her bed.”

“Which means?”

“
When I return.
How creepy is that? Maybe she’s come back. Maybe it was the countess that killed those girls after all.”

Annja was about to thank her for her time and get the heck out of there when the word Brigitta had used hit her like a shovel over the head.

Girls.

Plural.

Annja settled back into her seat and stared at the teenager sitting across from her.

“What girls?” she asked.

7

The phone rang seven times before it was answered. That wasn’t a good sign; it meant she’d considered not even taking his call. She only did that when she was annoyed with him, and her annoyance would make the news he’d called to deliver that much more dangerous. He was going to have to be careful.

When she finally answered the phone, all she said was, “Yes?”

“We may have a problem.”

“I pay you to handle the problems. Why are you bothering me?” she asked.

“This one’s a little different.”

“I’m listening.”

“Something went wrong with the latest disposal. The subject was recovered by two women and brought to the hospital in Nové Mesto. The police were notified.”

There was a pause and then, “And?”

“The subject was neutralized as per our usual containment plan. Arrangements have been made and the investigation will take its usual course.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“One of the women who recovered the subject is an American media personality. The host of a popular television show.”

“Who is she?”

He checked his notes. “Her name is Annja Creed. She’s the host of a program called
Chasing History’s Monsters
.”

There was a chuckle from the other end of the line. “How interesting. Was she alone with the...subject?”

“For a brief time, yes.”

There was another pause, a much longer one this time.

“Did they speak?”

He sighed quietly. “It’s hard to say. I don’t believe the subject was able to do so, but I could be wrong.”

Then he held his breath. This was the moment. If she told him to deal with it, he was all right. He would do as required and that would be that. But if she said she needed time to consider the issue or that she was sending someone else to handle the problem, then he would need to cut and run as swiftly as possible. The cleanup crew would have orders to eliminate any potential threat or loose end and, given what he knew, he would be priority number one for both.

The silence stretched and he was starting to think about putting down the phone and getting out while he still could when she finally spoke.

“Send me what you can dig up on this Creed person. Keep an eye on her but do not take any other measures until I tell you to do so. This may actually play to our advantage.”

He let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, cleared his throat and said, “Of course.”

She hung up the phone without another word, the dial tone suddenly loud in his ear.

He didn’t mind.

Escaping her wrath for another day was good enough.

8

“What do you mean, ‘girls’?” Annja asked. “Has there been more than one?”

Brigitta nodded. “Of course. The Blood Countess needs many victims to fill her bath, doesn’t she?”

She seemed to think Annja was crazy for asking the question. But Detective Tamás had made no mention of any other woman murdered in such a fashion. Could it be that he didn’t know? Or had he been playing his cards close to his vest, not wanting to tip his hand when Annja was still a suspect?

“Tell me about them.”

But this time Brigitta wasn’t as forthcoming.

“Oh, no,” she said. “We had a deal. I translate for you and you tell me what you know about the woman from the press conference. Spill it. Then I’ll tell you about the others.”

Not the type to back out on a deal, Annja reluctantly did as she was asked. She told Brigitta about her visit to Csejte Castle and about how she’d helped rescue the now-deceased woman on the road back to Nové Mesto. She left out the details, giving a broad overview of what had happened, but the teenager sat spellbound throughout, reminding Annja that not everyone would have climbed down the rocky slope to rescue the poor woman.

When she was finished, Annja said, “Now your turn.”

Brigitta launched into her tale with enthusiasm.

“Okay, so my friend’s cousin knew a girl who heard that the police found a woman murdered in Kočocve, which is about an hour from here. All the blood had been drained from her body.”

“Your cousin’s friend?”

“No, my friend’s cousin,” Brigitta corrected her, not even noticing the look of disbelief on Annja’s face.

She went on, “And there was this other killing, about four months ago, I think, that I heard about from this girl on Facebook. I don’t know her or anything, but we’re friends on Facebook, you know? She told me that hikers found a woman’s body totally drained of blood and left in the middle of the woods outside of Trenčín. Can you believe that?”

No, Annja couldn’t. Rumors weren’t going to help her. She tried to get some concrete facts.

“Do you know the names of the victims?”

Brigitta shook her head.

“Do you know the names of the people who told you about them?”

“Well, no. They’re just people I know, you know?”

Uh-huh.

“So how do you know they’re telling the truth?”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you know the bodies were really found?”

“Why would they lie about something like that?” Brigitta asked.

Annja could think of at least a dozen reasons, including trying to impress the naive and rather good-looking teen who was sitting across from her waiting for an answer. Not that saying so would do any good.

She wasn’t going to get anywhere with this, she decided. She should cut her losses and get back to work. At least she now knew what was said in the press conference.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said, smiling to take any unintentional sting out of her remarks. “I think the information you’ve given me is going to be helpful. I appreciate it.”

“You’re going to keep looking into it, aren’t you?” the girl asked eagerly.

Annja could see where this was going from a mile away. She needed to nip things in the bud before they got out of hand.

“That’s for the police to handle, not me. I’ve got to head back to the States soon to finish the episode we were filming in Prague.” She got up from the table, still smiling. “Tell your friend I said hello, and thanks for the translation help.”

Brigitta asked if they could take a picture together and Annja obliged, then got out of there as quickly as she could. For a moment she’d thought the girl had been on to something, but it was nothing more than the usual rumors that followed a legend like Báthory’s. When you’ve got a figure that epitomizes evil like the Blood Countess did, there was plenty of room for stories to grow and change over the years. Rumors of women killed the same way were almost to be expected, even hundreds of years later.

But what about the woman she’d tried to save? Hadn’t she suffered extreme blood loss? That was just it. Annja wasn’t sure. She’d thought loss of blood had been a major factor in the woman’s death, but Annja didn’t know that for a fact.

She was tempted to do exactly what she’d told Brigitta she would—walk away and let the police handle it. Just head home to New York, focus on the show and leave whatever this was behind her.

But something wouldn’t let her. There was an injustice here that needed rectifying—that was clear—and she’d been unable to walk away from such things since the day she’d accepted the sword and become its bearer.

The dead woman had no one to speak for her, and Annja knew she would have to become her voice.

But where to begin?

That was one answer Annja did have.

Start where it all began.

At the end.

The cause of death.

* * *

H
ALF
AN
HOUR
later Annja was standing in the hall outside the hospital morgue, waiting for the opportunity to see the man in charge, one Dr. Petrova.

She’d already tried to speak to Detective Tamás, figuring he was her easiest avenue to the information she needed, but she had ultimately been turned away by the desk sergeant. He’d told her the detective was too busy to see her at the moment but she was, of course, welcome to wait. Annja knew where that would lead. She had better things to do than sit around waiting for the detective to deign to see her.

Like waiting for the pathologist to do the same.

No sooner had the thought occurred to her than the doors to the morgue opened and a tall man wearing a white lab coat over a dark suit stepped out. He was in his late sixties, Annja guessed, with a craggy face, arms that appeared too long for his torso and an air of superiority.

He glanced up, noticed her standing there and said something in what she thought was Slovakian.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Do you speak English?”

He glared at her but answered nonetheless. “Yes, of course. Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so. Are you Dr. Petrova?”

He eyed her warily. “Yes.”

“My name is Annja Creed. I was the one who...”

“I know who you are,” he said. “What do you want?”

Annja was taken aback at the sudden hostility but plowed forward nonetheless. “I understand the woman I brought in to the emergency room last night never recovered. I was interested in knowing how she died.”

“Why?”

Annja shrugged. “Personal closure, I guess. Knowing there wasn’t anything more I could have done will help me get past this.”

“No.”

“No, what? There wasn’t anything I could have done?”

“No, I’m not going to discuss the issue with you. Good day.”

Petrova walked past and continued down the hall without a backward glance.

Annja stood there, stunned by his reaction. She hadn’t expected him to say much—it was, after all, an active investigation—but she didn’t think her knowing the cause of death would impede that investigation. His overt hostility had seemed...unusual.

As though he had something to hide.

She watched Petrova turn the corner at the end of the hall and then glanced back at the doors to the morgue.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she pushed them open and stepped inside.

9

Annja discovered there wasn’t much difference between a Slovakian morgue and an American one. She saw the same stark lighting, the same white tiles, the same row of flat metal tables with the floor drains positioned underneath. The refrigeration drawers were situated along the back wall, and a darkened office loomed to her right. Two of the tables contained sheet-covered bodies, but otherwise the room was empty.

Annja breathed a sigh of relief.

There was no telling when Petrova, or anyone else for that matter, might be back. The smart thing would have been to turn around and get the heck out of there before she was discovered; she didn’t think Petrova would take kindly to her trespassing. But if she’d intended to do the smart thing she wouldn’t be here in the first place.

She crossed the room to stand next to the examination tables. A white sheet covered the form on the first table, but by its sheer size Annja suspected it wasn’t the woman she was looking for.

Still, best not to leave anything to chance, she told herself as she reached up and lifted the edge of the sheet, revealing the thickly jowled face of a man in his early fifties with a bullet hole just above his left eye.

She put the sheet neatly back in place and moved to the next table. This time, when she pulled the covering back, she found herself staring into the face of the woman she’d worked so hard to rescue the night before.

She pulled the sheet a little lower, revealing a large Y-shaped incision that started at the top of each shoulder and descended along the center of the woman’s chest, indicating that the body had already undergone an autopsy. Now all she needed to do was find the results.

She checked the end of the table, hoping she’d find the file hanging there waiting for review, but struck out. She was going to have to look around, and the office was the obvious starting place.

When she tried the door, however, she discovered it locked.

Good thing I’ve got a key, she told herself with a grin.

With just a thought she summoned her sword from the otherwhere. It sprang into existence, ready for action, a broadsword with a hilt that felt as if it were made to fit her hand alone. She was overcome by the sense that she’d been born to wield this blade. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering if Joan of Arc had felt that way when the weapon was in her hands.

The clock is ticking, she reminded herself.

Placing the tip of the blade in the crack between the door and the jamb, Annja bore down on the weapon with as much force as she could muster, driving it between the two, and then she gave it a hearty twist.

The old lock gave with an audible crack.

She paused, waiting to see if the sound had attracted any attention. When no one came to investigate, she stepped into the room and turned on the lights, releasing her sword back into the otherwhere at the same time.

There wasn’t much to see. A battle-scarred desk and high-back swivel chair sat in the center of the small room. Behind them, against the far well, was a row of dark green filing cabinets.

The top of Petrova’s desk looked like a cyclone had hit it. Papers and files were lying in haphazard piles amid half-empty coffee cups and an ashtray full of cigarette butts. A phone must have been buried under there somewhere, because Annja could see the cord running to the wall.

She stepped over to the filing cabinets and pulled open the closest drawer. A quick glance showed that all the files inside were arranged alphabetically by last name. She checked for a “Doe, Jane,” but came up empty. She had no idea what the Magyar equivalent would be.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as she thought.

Checking the other cabinets revealed that they, too, were arranged alphabetically, and with that information she was able to deduce that each drawer held the cases for a particular year, with the most recent being at the far end. Unfortunately, she didn’t find what she was looking for there, either.

Almost five minutes had gone by since she’d first stepped foot in the morgue, and Annja was starting to get anxious. The longer she stayed here, the greater her chances of being caught.

Turning her back on the filing cabinets, she moved to the desk. She sat in Petrova’s chair and began riffling through the folders on top. One of them caught her eye, and when she pulled it from the stack, nearly knocking over a cup of moldy coffee in the process, she saw that instead of a name this file had a number written on its tab. Curious, she opened it.

Inside she found a report on a twenty-eight-year-old male who had been discovered dead of a drug overdose. Or, at least, that was what she thought it said; she knew a few words in Czech, and Slovakian was quite similar. She looked for the section of the report where the individual’s name would be listed and found the spaces blank.

That was when it clicked.

The number was for those cases where the subject was unidentified.

She searched through the stack and quickly checked the handful of files that were identified by number only, glancing at the photograph stapled to the inside left of each folder. They were split roughly between men and women, but none of them were the woman she was looking for.

She sat back, flummoxed and irritated, wondering where Petrova had put the file. She tried to remember if he’d had anything in his hands; perhaps he’d taken the file with him.

No, his hands had been empty. She was certain of it.

Which meant it had to be here somewhere.

She leaned forward, deep in thought, and only realized the doors to the morgue had opened when they banged against the interior wall. With seconds to avoid being seen, if she hadn’t been already, Annja did the only thing she could think of.

She slipped underneath the desk.

A male voice called out in Slovakian. Annja only recognized one word—
Petrova
—but it wasn’t too hard to figure out what was being said given the tone and inflection. “Dr. Petrova, are you in there?” or something similar was her guess.

She’d left the door to the office partially closed. Now she heard it squeak as someone pushed it fully open and footfalls sounded close by.

“Petrova?”

Annja held her breath, praying that whoever was standing on the other side of the desk didn’t notice the damage to the doorjamb or find anything irregular about the fact that the lights had been left on in Petrova’s absence. Something thumped onto the desktop, making her jump slightly, but she didn’t give herself away.

Seconds passed and Annja didn’t hear anything more. Had Petrova’s visitor left the room?

She let her breath out slowly and waited a few more seconds before climbing quietly out from beneath the desk.

No one was in sight.

As she got to her feet, her gaze fell on the manila envelope in the center of Petrova’s desk. Picking it up, she opened it and slid out the file it contained.

The dead woman’s face stared back at her from a picture inside the file.

Annja pulled out her cell phone and quickly took pictures of each page. When she was finished, she returned the file to the envelope and put the envelope back on the desk.

Five minutes later she was exiting the hospital and heading for her hotel, wondering how she was going to get the pages translated.

* * *

T
ELLING
HERSELF
SHE
didn’t really have a choice, Annja gritted her teeth and dialed the number. The phone rang twice and then a smooth male voice said, “Annja. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hello, Garin.”

“Things must be quite amok for you to be calling me. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Like Annja, Garin was tied to the sword. He’d been there the day Joan of Arc was executed, a fact Annja had once found hard to accept. That any man should be allowed to live over five hundred years was a miracle; that this gift had been given to this man, rogue and scoundrel that he was, often had her shaking her head at the unfathomable nature of the universe.

She and Garin had always had a volatile relationship. He was good-looking, in an alpha-male kind of way, with black hair, dark eyes and a neatly trimmed goatee that gave him a slightly villainous air. He was not only extremely rich but extremely arrogant, as well. When she’d first met him, Garin had tried to take the sword from her by any means possible, believing its existence made him vulnerable, but recently they’d settled into a kind of uneasy truce. Thankfully he’d also stopped trying to kill his former master, Roux, the other “old man” in her life.

She didn’t trust Garin as far as she could throw him, but she had, from time to time, relied on his help when no other options were available. Like now.

Annja needed to have the file translated, and she couldn’t go to her usual sources. Doug would wonder what she was doing messing about with the investigation around the dead woman instead of working on the episode he was now funding. Her friend Bart in the Brooklyn police department would ask how she’d gotten her hands on an autopsy file that was only twenty-four hours old and what, exactly, she needed it for. She wasn’t ready to answer either question just yet.

She had even, momentarily, considered trying to track down Brigitta, but that seemed like more trouble that it was worth.

She’d phoned Roux first. His “gray areas” were less rigid than her own, and she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to help her, but his majordomo, Henshaw, had said that Roux was playing poker in Monte Carlo for the next few days, and Annja knew that nothing could drag him away from the table when the going was hot.

That left Annja with very little choice.

It was Garin or Brigitta.

She’d almost—
almost!
—gone with the girl.

But in the end she’d sensed that this was too important to spend all that time tracking her down. Something had pulled her into this mess and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

She gritted her teeth and said, “I need your help, Garin.”

“Ah, such sweet music to my ears. I’m at your service. Give the word and I’ll have the chopper pick you up and whisk you away from all your troubles.”

“Totally not going to happen,” she told him sharply. “Can you be serious now?”

He laughed, and Annja found herself turning red at the sound. That son of a...

“What can I do for you, Ms. Creed?” he asked while working to stifle his laughter.

“Do you know someone who can read Slovakian?”

“For the right price, I can find someone who reads ancient Sumerian. Slovakian certainly won’t be a problem.”

Annja had hoped as much, but it was good to hear her hunch confirmed. “All right. I’m sending you an email with some documents I need to have translated.”

She had already sent the images from her phone to her laptop and had the email ready to go. All she had to do was hit Send.

Garin’s joviality disappeared as he turned his attention to business. “It’s coming through now.” A pause. “Okay, I’ve got it.”

“If you can have your people take a look...” Annja began, but didn’t get any further.

“This is an autopsy report.”

“How do you...?”

“Twenty-three years old. Good physical shape. Dark hair and eyes. Name unknown. What have you gotten yourself into, Annja?”

The way he asked the question made her certain it was rhetorical, but she answered nonetheless.

“I stopped to help an injured woman the other night and she died from her injuries. I want to know what happened. How did you get the information translated so fast?”

“Hmm, what’s this now? A toxicology report?”

What on earth?

Then, suddenly, she understood. Garin could read Slovakian.

“What does it say?” she asked.

“The toxicology report? Completely inconclusive.”

“Inconclusive for what?”

“Anything. The blood they drew was apparently contaminated with a foreign substance they couldn’t identify. There’s also a note that the sample available was of such a small size they couldn’t run the screening test more than once.”

Annja frowned. “Why didn’t they just request another sample?”

She could hear Garin tapping the keys on his computer. “Doesn’t say.”

“Okay, forget that,” she said, waving it off for the time being. “The main autopsy report should say the cause of death.”

“It does.”

Annja waited, but Garin didn’t say anything more.

“Well, what is it?” she asked.

“What do I get out of it?”

For a moment, Annja was taken aback. What does he get out of it?

Then she remembered she was dealing with Garin. She’d never met a more selfish individual. He didn’t do anything unless there was a percentage in it for him.

This included, apparently.

“Have you no shame, Garin? A woman was murdered.”

“Happens every day, dear Annja, more times than you can count. That’s irrelevant to me. You want to know what this report says. I want to know what I get if I give you that information.”

The problem was that Annja didn’t really have anything to trade. Garin was richer than most developing countries and could buy almost anything that caught his eye. If he couldn’t buy it, he could usually charm someone into providing it for him. He quite literally wanted for nothing when it came to material possessions. Yes, on occasion Annja had been able to entice him with a particularly interesting artifact or with information on a lost culture or an intriguing historical puzzle; but this time around she had nothing to trade.

“I’m asking you nicely, Garin.”

“And what? I’m just supposed to give you what you need because of that?”

She knew he was pushing her buttons, goading her into losing her temper, but she could feel her control slipping away despite the knowing.

“You know what? Never mind. I’ll figure it out myself!” She pulled the phone away from her ear and hit the end call button.

Sitting down in front of her laptop, she called up an online translation service and set the software to convert her English words to Slovak. Then she typed “cause of death” into the box on the left. In the box on the right, the words
príčina úmrtia
appeared.