Bathed In Blood. Alex Archer

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       6

      Annja awoke the next morning with an uneasy feeling in her gut. The comments Detective Tamás had made during her interview lingered. She understood why he’d considered her and Csilla suspects—ninety percent of all violent crime was committed by someone known to the victim, and he’d thought she and Csilla knew each other or the woman they’d found. But once he’d learned the condition of the body and heard both of their statements, his attention should have shifted elsewhere. The idea that either of them had anything to do with the woman’s death was ridiculous. The fact that he might actually think she and Csilla had brought the victim in for medical treatment in order to deflect suspicion was, well, crazy.

      He hadn’t seemed to be in a hurry to chase down the cause of death and that, too, set her nerves abuzz. She didn’t need to be a CSI or NCIS fanatic to know that the best chance of catching a killer was in the first forty-eight hours after the crime had been committed. Leaving the crime scene, and whatever evidence it might contain, to the mercy of time and the elements while he waited for word from the medical examiner was asking for trouble. He should have had a crew out there last night.

      Maybe he did, she thought. She didn’t know what happened after her interview. Maybe they’re still out there combing the rocky slope.

      Easy enough to check, wasn’t it?

      She got up, made herself some coffee—wishing all the while it was hot chocolate instead—and picked up the phone. She needed to call Doug, and it was probably best if she got it over with now. Doug’s mood didn’t tend to improve with time.

      The phone rang a couple of times, and then he picked it up.

      “Doug Morrell.”

      “It’s me,” she said.

      “Me? Me, who? This wouldn’t be the infamous Annja Creed, would it? Wake-me-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-without-even-an-apology Annja Creed? That one?”

      Annja sighed, though she made sure to do it away from the phone where he couldn’t hear. “I can explain, Doug.”

      “I’m waiting,” he said.

      Doug wasn’t much younger than she was, but he knew next to nothing about history, or the state of the world, for that matter, which had a tendency to drive her nuts. He didn’t care about the facts, he often said, but about the ratings. Always the ratings. He had no qualms about “enhancing” an episode with some creative special effects if he thought it would keep viewers from changing the channel. More than once Annja had been forced to threaten him with bodily harm—in a loving way, of course—if he mucked about with her carefully constructed on-screen performances. Over time they’d become friends, and Annja knew that, in the end, she could count on Doug.

      She filled him in on what she was doing in Hungary and how she’d planned to surprise him with an episode on Elizabeth Báthory. Then she told him about getting caught up in a police investigation when she’d stopped to rescue the woman who’d been thrown over a cliff and...

      “Wait, wait, wait!” he said, finally interrupting her stream of explanation. “Elizabeth who?”

      Annja sighed again. “Báthory. Elizabeth Báthory, also known as the Blood Countess.”

      “Why’s that?”

      “Because she liked to bathe in the blood of virgins. Thought it would keep her from aging and give her immortality.”

      There was sudden silence on the other end of the line.

      “Doug?”

      Nothing.

      “Doug?”

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