Bloodless

15

McDuffie had pointed them to an alternate exit, which deposited them in a quiet back alley. Coldmoon took a deep breath of the humid air, glad to be free of the antiseptic stink of the lab.

“Are you, perchance, a churchgoing man?” Pendergast asked.

“Not in your sense of the word.”

“But perhaps you’ll make an exception in this case? I’d appreciate your company.”

Coldmoon sighed. “Speaking of ‘case,’ what does going to church have to do with anything — unless you’re trying to reform me?”

“Reform? That would be impossible. Perhaps you noticed the tattoo on the wrist of our good Dr. Cobb?”

“Yes. It looked like a combat patch. I never figured that old guy as a veteran.”

“It’s no combat patch. It was the coat of arms of an ancient and noble family. Specifically, the Báthory family of the Transylvania region of Hungary.”

“Transylvania? As in Dracula?”

Pendergast nodded. “Three horizontal teeth in a stylized pattern. The full coat of arms would be surrounded by a dragon biting its own tail.”

Coldmoon could see Pendergast was enjoying prolonging this discussion as fully as possible.

“It was awarded to a fourteenth-century warrior named Vitus, who killed a swamp-dwelling dragon that had been threatening the kingdom of Ecsed.”

“Bully for him. I hear those swamp-dwelling dragons are the worst.”

“One of his descendants, who lived around 1600, was Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed. She has the distinction of being in the Guinness World Records.”

“What for?”

“She was the world’s most prolific female serial killer. They claim she murdered upwards of six hundred fifty women, many of them virgins, so she could bathe in their blood to retain her beauty. She was known as the Blood Countess.”

“Good God.”

“So, in the pleasantly cool living room of the Owens-Thomas House, I asked myself: what is the staid historian Dr. Cobb doing with a tattoo like that?”

“A Báthory descendant, perhaps?”

“No. As I told you, right after we left, he practically ran to the dowager Culpepper’s house. He was obviously concerned about our visit and wanted to confer with her. I followed him there, and after he’d departed, I paid her a brief call myself.”

“On what pretext?”

“As a Jehovah’s Witness. Before I was insolently ejected from the house, I accomplished my goal: I noted the same tattoo on Mrs. Culpepper’s wrist.”

“Really? Sounds like a cult.”

“Exactly.”

Coldmoon paused. “A cult that might need blood for their rites — if they planned to follow in Báthory’s footsteps. A lot of blood.”

“Excellent.”

“And you think this old church she purchased is where the shit goes down?”

“That is my hope.”

“Hope?” Coldmoon had to laugh. “Really? You hope?”

“My dear Coldmoon, I do indeed hope to solve the case, thus sparing future victims.”

“Fair enough. When do we pay them a visit?”

“Tonight, at midnight. We will surprise them. In the meantime, I will apply for a warrant and arrange a raid, because we want to catch them red-handed — no pun intended.”

“How do you know they’re going to be doing their thing tonight?”

“Because tomorrow is the anniversary of Elizabeth Báthory’s gruesome death in a castle cell. Surely such an occasion will be marked by rites — perhaps even bloody ones.”