by Ed McBain
“Rogue wave. We get them too. My parents were sailing off the light, just beyond that nav buoy out there, when a big one capsized their boat. They never had a chance.”
“Good Lord. When was this?”
“Twenty-eight years ago.” The path took a turn uphill, and the lighthouse loomed in front of them. “I’m a strong swimmer. Very cold water doesn’t seem to get to me as quickly as other people. When I was nineteen—and heavily under the influence of Lord Byron—I swam the Hellespont. So I’ve often wondered—” He paused and looked out to sea. “If I had been with my mother and father that day, could I have saved them?”
“You must miss them very much.”
“No. I don’t.”
After a few moments he looked around at her, as if her gaze had made him uncomfortable.
“Is that a terrible thing to say?”
“I guess I—I don’t understand it. Did you love your parents?”
“No. Is that unusual?”
“I don’t think so. Were they abusive?”
“Physically? No. They just left me alone, most of the time. As if I didn’t exist. I don’t know if there’s a name for that kind of pain.”
His smile, a little dreary, suggested that they leave the topic alone. They walked on to the lighthouse, brilliantly white on the highest point of the headland. Ransome had remodeled it, to considerable outrage from purists, he’d said, installing a modern, airport-style beacon atop what was now his studio.
“I saw what it cost you,” Ransome said, “to leave your mother—your life. I’d like to think that it wasn’t only for the money.”
“Least of all. I’m a painter. I came to learn from you.”
He nodded, gratified, and touched her shoulder.
“Well. Shall we have a look at where we’ll both be working, Mary Catherine?”
Peter didn’t waste a lot of time taking on a load at the reception following his sister Siobhan’s wedding to the software salesman from Valley Stream. Too much drinking gave him the mopes, followed by a tendency to take almost anything said to him the wrong way.
“What’ve you heard from Echo?” a first cousin named Fitz said to him.
Peter looked at Fitz and had another swallow of his Irish in lieu of making conversation. Fitz glanced at Peter’s cousin Rob Flaherty, who said, “Six tickets to the Rangers tonight, Petey. Good seats.”
Fitz said, “That’s two for Rob and his girl, two for me and Colleen, and I was thinkin’—you remember Mary Mahan, don’t you?”
Peter said ungraciously, “I don’t feel like goin’ to the Rangers, and you don’t need to be fixin’ me up, Fitz.” His bow tie was hanging limp and there was fire on his forehead and cheekbones. A drop of sweat fell unnoticed from his chin into his glass. He raised the glass again.
Rob Flaherty said with a grin, “You remind me of a lovesick camel, Petey. What you’re needin’ is a mercy hump.”
Peter grimaced hostilely. “What I need is another drink.”
“Mary’s had a thing for you, how long?”
“She’s my mom’s godchild, asshole.”
Fitz let the belligerence slide. “Well, you know. It don’t exactly count as a mortal sin.”
“Leave it, Fitz.”
“Sure. Okay. But that is exceptional pussy you’re givin’ your back to. I can testify.”
Rob said impatiently, “Ah, let him sit here and get squashed. Echo must’ve tied a knot in his dick before she left town with her artist friend.”
Peter was out of his chair with a cocked fist before Fitz could step between them. Rob had reach on Peter and jabbed him just hard enough in the mouth to send him backwards, falling against another of the tables ringing the dance floor, scarcely disturbing a mute couple like goggle-eyed blowfish, drunk on senescence. Pete’s mom saw the altercation taking shape and left her partner on the dance floor. She took Peter gently by an elbow, smiled at the other boys, telling them with a motion of her elegantly coiffed head to move along. She dumped ice out of a glass onto a napkin.
“Dance with your old ma, Peter.”
Somewhat shamefaced, he allowed himself to be led to the dance floor, holding ice knotted in the napkin to his lower lip.
“It’s twice already this month I see you too much in drink.”
“It’s a wedding, ma.” He put the napkin in a pocket of his tux jacket.
“I’m thinking it’s time you get a grip on yourself,” Kate said as they danced to a slow beat. “You don’t hear from Echo?”
“Sure. Every day.”
“Well, then? She’s doing okay?”
“She says she is.” Peter drew a couple of troubled breaths. “But it’s e-mail. Not like actually—you know, hearin’ her voice. People are all the time sayin’ what they can’t put into words, you just have to have an ear for it.”
“So—maybe there’s things she wants you to know, but can’t talk about?”
“I don’t know. We’ve never been apart more than a couple days since we met. Maybe Echo’s found out—it wasn’t such a great bargain after all.” He had a tight grip on his mother’s hand.
“Easy now. If you trust Echo, then you’ll hold on. Any man can do that, Petey, for the woman he loves.”
“I’ll always love her,” Peter said, his voice tight. He looked into Kate’s eyes, a fine simmer of emotion in his own eyes. “But I don’t trust a man nobody knows much about. He’s got walls around him you wouldn’t believe.”
“A man who values his privacy. That kind of money, it’s not surprising.” Kate hesitated. “You been digging for something? Unofficially, I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“No beefs?”
“No beefs. The man’s practically invisible where public records are concerned.”
“Then let it alone.”
“If I could see Echo, just for a little while. I’m half nuts all the time.”
“God love you, Peter. Long as you have Sunday off, why don’t the two of us go to visit Rosemay, take her for an outing? Been a while since I last saw her.”
“I don’t think I can, ma. I, uh—need to go up to Westchester, talk to somebody.”
“Police business, is it?”
Peter shook his head.
“Her name’s Van Lier. She posed for John Ransome once.”
SEVEN
The Van Lier residence was a copy—an exact copy, according to a Web site devoted to descriptions of Westchester County’s most spectacular homes—of a sixteenth-century English manor house. All Peter saw of the inside was a glimpse of slate floor and dark wainscotting through a partly opened front door.
He said to the houseman who had answered his ring, “I’d like to see Mrs. Van Lier.”
The houseman was an elderly Negro with age spots on his caramel-colored face like the spots on a leopard.
“There’s no Mrs. Van Lier at this residence.”
Peter handed him his card.
“Anne Van Lier. I’m with the New York police department.”
The houseman looked him over patiently, perhaps hoping if his appraisal took long enough Peter would simply vanish from their doorstep and he could go back to his nap.
“What is your business about, Detective? Miss Anne don’t hardly care to see nobody.”
“I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
They played the waiting game until the houseman reluctantly took a Motorola TalkAbout from a pocket of the apron he wore over his Sunday suit and tried to raise her on a couple of different channels. He frowned.
“Reckon she’s laid hers down and forgot about it,” he said. “Well, likely you’ll find Miss Anne in the greenhouse this time of the day. But I don’t expect she’ll talk to you, police or no police.”
“Where’s the greenhouse?”
“Go ‘round the back and walk toward the pond, you can’t hardly miss it. When you see her, tell Miss Anne I did my best to raise her first, so she don’t throw a fit my way.”
Peter approached the greenhous
e through a squall of copper beech leaves on a windy afternoon. The slant roofs of the long greenhouse reflected scudding clouds. Inside a woman he assumed was Anne Van Lier was visible through a mist from some overhead pipes. She wore gloves that covered half of her forearms and a gardening hat with a floppy brim that, along with the mist float above troughs of exotic plants, obscured most of her face. She was working at a potting bench in the diffused glimmer of sunlight.
“Miss Van Lier?”
She stiffened at the sound of an unfamiliar voice but didn’t look around. She was slight-boned in dowdy tan coveralls.
“Yes? Who is it?” Her tone said that she didn’t care to know. “You’re trespassing.”
“My name is Peter O’Neill. New York City police department.”
Peter walked a few steps down a gravel path toward her. With a quick motion of her head she took him in and said, “Stay where you are. Police?”
“I’d like to show you some identification.”
“What is this about?”
He held up his shield. “John Leland Ransome.”
She dropped a three-pronged tool from her right hand onto the bench and leaned against it as if suddenly at a loss for breath. Her back was to Peter. A dry scuttle of leaves on the overhead glass cast a kaleidoscope of shadow in the greenhouse. He wiped mist from his forehead and continued toward her.
“You posed for Ransome.”
“What of it? Who told you that?”
“He did.”
She’d been rigidly still; now Anne Van Lier seemed pleasurably agitated.
“You know John? You’ve seen him?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“A couple of months ago.” Peter had closed the distance between them. Anne darted another look his way, a gloved hand covering her profile as if she were a bashful child; but she no longer appeared to be concerned about him.
“How is John?” Her voice was suddenly rich with emotion. “Did he—mention me?”
“That he did,” Peter said reassuringly, and dared to ask, “Are you still in love with Ransome?”
She shuddered, protecting herself with the glove as if he’d thrown a stone, seeming to cower.
“What did John say about me? Please.”
Knowing he’d touched a nerve, Peter said soothingly, “Told me the year he spent with you was one of the happiest of his life.”
Still it bothered him when, after a few moments, she began softly to weep. He moved closer to Anne, put a hand on her arm.
“Don’t,” she pleaded. “Just go.”
“How long since you seen him last, Anne?”
“Eighteen years,” she said despondently.
“He also said—it was his understanding that you were very happy.”
Anne Van Lier gasped. Then she began shaking with laughter, as if at the cruelest joke she’d ever heard. She turned suddenly to Peter, knocking his hand away from her, snatching off her gardening hat as she stared up at him.
The shock she gave him was like the electric jolt from a hard jab to the solar plexus.
Because her once-lovely face was a horror. She had been brutally, deeply slashed. Attempts had been made to correct the damage, but plastic surgeons could do only so much. Repairing damage to severed nerves was beyond any surgeon’s skill. Her mouth drooped on one side. She had lost the sight of her left eye, filled now with a bloom of suffering.
“Who did this to you? Was it Ransome?”
Jarred by the blurted question, she backed away from Peter.
“What? John? How dare you think that!”
Gloved fingers prowled the deep disfiguring lines on her face.
“I never saw my attacker. It happened on a street in the East Village. He could have been a mugger. I didn’t resist him, so why, why?”
“The police—”
“Never found him.” She stared at Peter, and through him, at the past. “Or is that what you’ve come to tell me?”
“No. I don’t know anything about the case. I’m sorry.”
“Oh. Well.” Her fate was dead weight on her mind. “So many years ago.”
She put her gardening hat back on, adjusted the brim, gave Peter a vague look. She was in the past again.
“You can tell John—I won’t always look like this. Just one more operation, they promised. I’ve had ten so far. Then I’ll—finally be ready for John.” She anticipated the question Peter wasn’t about to ask. “To pose again!” A vaguely flirtatious smile came and went. “Otherwise I’ve kept myself up, you know. I do my exercises. Tell John—I bless him for his patience, but it won’t be much longer.”
In spite of the humidity and the drifting spray in the greenhouse Peter’s throat was dry. His own attempt at a smile felt like hardening plaster on his face. He knew he had only glimpsed the depths of her psychosis. The decent thing to do now was to leave her with some assurance that her fantasy would be fulfilled.
“I’ll tell him, Miss Van Lier. That’s the news he’s been waiting for.”
The following Saturday night Peter was playing pool with his old man at the Knights of Columbus, and letting Corin win. The way he used to let him win at Horse when Corin was still spry enough for some basketball: just a little off my game tonight, Peter would always say, pretending annoyance. Corin bought the beers afterward and they relaxed in a booth at their favorite sports bar.
“Heard you was into the cold case files in the Ninth,” Corin said, wiping some foam off his mustache. He looked at one of the big screens around the room. The Knicks were at the Heat, and tonight they couldn’t throw one in the ocean.
“You hear everything, Pop,” Pete said admiringly.
“In my borough. What’s up?”
“Just something I got interested in, I had a little spare time.” He explained about the Van Lier slashing.
“How many times was she cut?”
“Ten slashes, all on her face. He just kept cutting on her, even after she was down. That sound like all he wanted was a purse?”
“No. Leaves three possibilities. A psycho, hated women. Or an old boyfriend she gave the heave-ho to, his ego couldn’t take it. But you said the vie didn’t make him.”
“No.”
“Then somebody hired it done. Tell me again what your interest is in the vie?”
“Eighteen, nineteen years ago, she posed for John Ransome.”
Corin rubbed a temple and managed to keep his disapproval muted. “Jeez Marie, Petey.”
“My girl is up there in Maine with him, pop!”
“And you’re lettin’ your imagination—I see your mind workin’. But it’s far-fetched, lad. Far-fetched.”
“I suppose so,” Peter mumbled in his beer.
“How many young women do you think have posed for him in his career?”
“Seven that anybody knows about. Not counting Echo.”
Corin spread his hands.
“But nobody knows who they are, or where they are. Almost nobody, it’s some kind of secret list. I’m tellin’ you, pop, there is too much about him that don’t add up.”
“That’s not cop sense, that’s your emotions talkin’.”
“Two damn months almost, I don’t see her.”
“That was his deal. His and hers, and there’s good reasons why Echo did it.”
“Didn’t tell you this before. That woman friend of his, whore, whatever: she carries a knife and Echo saw her almost use it on a kid in the subway.”
“Jeez Marie, where’s this goin’ to end with you?” Corin sat back in the booth and rapped the table once with the knuckles of his right fist. “Tell you where it ends. Right here, tonight. You know why? Too much money, Petey. That’s what it’s always about.”
“Yeah, I know. I saw the commissioner’s head up Ransome’s ass.”
“Remember that.” He stared at Peter until exasperation softened into forgiveness. “Echo have any problems up there she’s told you about?”
“No,” Peter admitted. “Ransom
e’s just doing a lot of sketches of her, and she has time to paint. I guess everything’s okay.”
“Give her credit for good sense, then. And do your part.”
“Yeah, I know. Wait.” His expression was pure naked longing and remorse. “Two months. And you know what, Pop? It’s like one of us died. Only I don’t know which one, yet.”
As she had done almost every day since arriving on Kincairn Echo took her breakfast in chilly isolation in a corner of the big kitchen, then walked to the lighthouse. Frequently she could only see a few feet along the path because of fog. But sometimes there was no fog; the air was sharp and windless as the rising sun cast upon the copper face of the sea a great peal of morning.
She’d learned early on that John Ransome was an insomniac who spent most of the deep night hours reading in his second-floor study or taking long walks by himself in the dark, with only a flashlight along island paths he’d been familiar with since he was a boy.
Sleep would come easier for him, Ransome assured her, as if apologizing, once he settled down to doing serious painting. But the unfinished portrait he’d begun in New York on a big rectangle of die board had remained untouched on his easel for nearly six weeks while he devoted himself to making postcard-size sketches of Echo, hundreds of them, or silently observing her own work take shape. Late at night he would leave Post-it notes of praise or criticism on her easel.
When they were together he was always cordial but preferred letting Echo carry the conversation. He seemed endlessly curious about her life. About her father, who had been a Jesuit until the age of fifty-one, when he met Rosemay, a Maryknoll nun. He never asked about Peter.
There were days when Echo didn’t see him at all. She felt his absence from the island but had no idea of where he’d gone, or why. Not that it was any of her business. But it wasn’t the working relationship she’d bargained for. His inability to resume painting made her uneasy. And it wasn’t her nature to put up with being ignored, or feeling slighted, for long.
“Is it me?” she’d asked him at dinner the night before.
Her question, the mood of it, startled him.
“No. Of course not, Mary Catherine.” He looked distressed, random gestures substituting for the words he couldn’t find to reassure her. “Case of nerves, that’s all. It always happens. I’m afraid I’ll begin and—then I’ll find myself drawing from a dry well.” He paused to pour himself more wine. He’d been drinking more before and after dinner than was his custom; his aim was a little off and he grimaced. “Afraid that everything I do will be trite and awful.”