Transgressions

by Ed McBain

  Peter said, “I got friends all over. On vacation, just hangin’ out.”

  “Hell of a note,” Tillery said. “Lookin’ to chill, relax with some good-lookin’ pussy, next thing you know you’re in Mass General with eighty-four stitches.”

  “She was real good with that, what’a’ya call it, stiletto?”

  Sal said, “So, Pete. Want to do your statement now, or later we come around after your nap? As a courtesy to a fellow shield. Who seems to be goddamn well connected where he comes from.” Sal looked around as if for a place to spit.

  “I’ll come to you. How’s Silkie?”

  “Plastic surgeon looked at her already. There’s gonna be some scarring they can clean up easy.”

  “She say she knew the perp?”

  Tillery and Tranca exchanged jaundiced glances. “About as well as you did,” Sal said.

  “Well, you enjoy that dark meat,” Tillery said. He was on the way out when something occurred to him to ask. He turned to Peter with his cynical grin.

  “How long you had your gold, Pete?”

  “Nine months.”

  “Hey, congrats. Sal here, he’s got twenty-one years on the job. Me, I got eleven.”

  “Yeah?” Peter said, closing his eyes.

  “What Frank is gettin’ at,” Sal said dourly, “we can smell a crock of shit when it’s right under our noses.”

  FOURTEEN

  Echo was putting her clothes back on inside the privacy cubicle in John Ransome’s studio when she heard the door close, heard him locking her in.

  “John!”

  The door was thick tempered glass. He looked back at her tiredly as she emerged holding the sweater to her bare breasts and tugged at the door handle, not believing this.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was muffled by the thickness of the door. “When it’s done—if it’s done tonight—I’ll be back for you.”

  “No! Let me out now!”

  He shook his head slightly, then clattered down the iron staircase like a man in search of a nervous breakdown while Echo battled the door; still unwilling to believe that she was locked up until Ransome decided otherwise.

  She glanced at the nude study he had begun, only a free-flowing sketch at this point but unmistakably Echo. She then demonstrated, at the top of her voice, how many obscene street oaths she’d picked up over the years.

  But the harsh wind off a tumbled sea that caused her glass jail to shimmy on its high perch wailed louder than she could hope to.

  Peter woke up with a start when Silkie MacKenzie put a hand on his shoulder. He felt sharp pain, then nausea before he could focus on her.

  “Hello, Peter. It’s Silkie.”

  He swallowed his distress, attempted a smile. The right side of her face was neatly bandaged. “How you doin’?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “What time is it, Silkie?”

  She looked at her gold Piaget. “Twenty past three.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” He licked dry lips. There was an IV hookup in the back of his left hand for fluids and antibiotics. But his mouth was parched. With his heavily-wrapped right hand—how many times had Taja cut him?—he motioned for Silkie to lean her face close to his. “Talk to you,” he whispered. “Not here. They may have left a device. Couldn’t watch both of them all the time.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Wouldn’t be admissable in a courtroom. But they don’t trust either of us, so they could be fishing—for an angle to use during an interrogation. Walk me to the bathroom.”

  She got him out of bed and supported him, rolling the IV pole with her other hand. He had Silkie come inside the bathroom with him. All the fluids they’d dripped into Peter had him desperate to pee. Silkie continued to hold his elbow for support and looked at a wall.

  “Today wasn’t the first time Taja came after you,” Peter said.

  “No. Five months ago I was in Los Angeles. I had a commercial, the first work my agent was able to get for me after I’d finished my assignment with John. But John didn’t want me working, you see. My face all over telly. That would have destroyed the—the allure, the fascination, the mystery he works so hard to create and maintain.”

  “So keep the paintings, destroy the model. I’ve seen Anne Van Lier and Eileen Wendkos.”

  Silkie looked around at him; she was close enough for Peter to feel the tremor that ran through her body.

  “Then I had a glimpse of Taja, at a restaurant opposite Sunset Plaza. She pretended not to notice me. But I—all of my life I’ve had premonitions. There was suddenly the darkest, angriest cloud I’d ever seen pressing down on Sunset Boulevard. So I ran for my life. Later I hired private detectives. I was very curious to know what had happened to my—my predecessors? I found out, as you did. And once I talked to Valerie, I understood what my sixth sense had always told me about John. I believe he may be insane.”

  “We have to get out of here. Now. I have a rental car if Cambridge PD didn’t impound it. But I’m not sure how much driving I can do.” He bumped her as he turned in their small space; weakness followed pain, and it worried him. “Silkie, help me pull this IV out of my hand, then bring the rest of my clothes to me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The nearest airport to Kincairn Island is in Bangor, Maine.”

  “I don’t think the weather is good up there.”

  “Then the sooner we leave, the better. Get my wallet and watch from the lockbox. Use my credit card to reserve two seats on the next flight Boston to Bangor.”

  “I’m not so sure I want to do that. I mean, go back there. I’m afraid, Peter.”

  “Please, Silkie! You gotta help me. My girl’s on that island with that sick son of a bitch Ransome!”

  The owner and chief pilot of Lola’s Flying Service at Bangor airport was going over accounts in her office when Peter and Silkie walked in at ten minutes to eight. Snow particles were flying outside the hangar, and they had felt sharp enough to etch glass.

  Lola was a large cockeyed jalopy of a woman, salty as Lot’s wife. Peter explained his needs.

  “Chopper the two a ya’s down to Kincairn in this freakin’ weather? Not if I hope to achieve my average life expectancy.”

  Peter produced his shield. Lola greeted that show of authority with a lopsided smile.

  “I’m Born Again, honeybunch; and I surely would hate to miss the Rapture. Otherwise what’s Born Again good for?”

  Silkie said, “Please listen to me. We must get there. Something very bad is going to happen on the island tonight. I have a premonition.”

  Lola, looking vastly amused, said, “Bullshit.”

  “Her premonitions are very accurate,” Peter said.

  Lola looked them over again. The bandages and bruises.

  “I had my tea leaves read once. They said I shouldn’t get involved with people who show up looking like the losers in a domestic disturbance competition.” She picked up the remains of a ham on whole wheat from a takeout carton and polished it off in two bites.

  Silkie patiently opened her tote and took out a very large roll of bills, half of which, she made it plain to Lola, were hundreds.

  “On the other hand,” Lola said, “you have any premonitions about what this little jaunt is gonna cost you?”

  “Name your price,” Silkie said calmly, and she began laying C-notes in the carton on top of a wilted lettuce leaf.

  Echo’s immediate needs were met by a chemical toilet; a small refrigerator that contained milk, a wedge of Jarlsburg, bottled water and white wine; and an electric heater that dispelled the worst of the cold after sundown. There was also a large sheepskin throw to wrap up in while she rocked herself in the only chair in John Ransome’s studio. Physically she was fine. She had drunk the rest of an already-opened bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, ordinarily enough wine to put her soundly to sleep. But the wind that was hitting forty knots according to the gauge outside and her circumstances kept her alert and sober, with an achi
ng heart and a sense of impending tragedy.

  If it’s done tonight, Ransome had said forebodingly. What did he know about Taja, and what was he planning?

  Every few minutes, between decades of the rosary that went everywhere with her, Echo jumped up restlessly to pace the inner circumference of the studio, then stop to peer through the shutters in the direction of the stone house three hundred yards away. She could make out only blurred lights through horizontal lashings of snow. She’d seen nothing of Ransome since his head had disappeared down the circular lighthouse stairs. She hadn’t seen anyone except Ciera, who had left the house early, perhaps dismissed by Ransome. In twilight, on her way across the island, Ciera’s path had brought her within two hundred feet of the Kincairn light. Echo had pounded on the glass, screamed at her, but Ciera never looked up.

  She’d turned off the studio lights. After the wine she had a lingering headache, more from stress than from drinking. The light hurt her eyes and made it more difficult to see anything outside. At full dark she relied on the glow from the heater and the red warning strobe atop the studio for illumination.

  When she tired of walking in circles and trying to see through the fulminating storm, she slumped in the rocking chair with her feet tucked under her. She was past sulking, brooding, and prayer. It was time to get tough with herself. You have a little problem, Mary C.? Solve it.

  That was when the pulse of the strobe overhead gave her an idea of how to begin.

  On the way down from Bangor in the three-passenger Eurocopter that had become surplus when Manuel Noriega fell out of favor with the CIA, Peter had plenty of time to reflect on the reasons why he’d never taken up flying as a hobby.

  It was a strange night, clearing up in places on the coast but still with force eight winds. The sea from twelve hundred feet was visible to the horizon; beneath them it was a scumble of whitecaps going every which way. The sky overhead was tarnished silver in the light from the moon. Lola, dealing with the complexities of flying through the gauntlet of a gale that had the chopper rattling and vibrating, looked unperturbed, confident of her skills, although she was having a hard chew on the wad of grape-flavored gum in her right cheek.

  “Should’ve calmed down some by now,” she groused. “That’s why we waited.”

  Silkie had become sick to her stomach two minutes after they lifted off at twelve-thirty in the morning, and she’d stayed sick and moaning all the way. Peter, whose father and uncles had always owned boats, was a competent sailor himself and used to rough weather, although this was something special even for him. The knife wounds Taja had inflicted were throbbing; at each jolt they took he hoped the stitches would hold.

  Lola and Peter wore headphones. Silkie had taken hers off to get a better grip on her head with both hands.

  “Where are we now?” Peter asked Lola.

  “Over Blue Hill Bay. See that light down to our left?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, his teeth clicking together.

  “That’s Bass Harbor head. Uh-oh. That’s a Coast Guard cutter down there, steaming southwest. Somebody’s got trouble. Take a dip in those waters tonight, you’ve got about twelve minutes. Okay, southwest is where we’re heading now; right two-four-zero and closer to the deck. It’s gonna get rougher, kids.”

  Peter checked the action of the old Colt Pocket Nine he’d borrowed from his uncle Charlie in Brookline before heading up to Maine. Then he looked at islands appearing below. A lot of islands, some just specks on the IR.

  “How are you going to find—”

  “I know Kincairn by its light. Problem is, I don’t think anyone’s tried to land a helicopter there. Not a level spot on the island. Wind shear around a rock pile like Kincairn, conditions are just about perfect for an SOL funeral.”

  “SOL?” Silkie said. She’d put her headphones back on.

  “Shit outa luck,” Lola said, and laughed uproariously.

  From a window of his study John Ransome observed through binoculars the lights in the studio flashing. A familiar sequence. Morse Code distress signal. Mary Catherine’s ingenuity made him smile. Of course he wouldn’t have expected less of her. She was the last and the best of the Ransome women.

  When he looked at the base of the Kincairn light, then down the road to the town, he saw one of the two Land Rovers he kept on the island coming up from the cove. When it stopped near the lighthouse, he wasn’t surprised to see Taja get out.

  Mary Catherine’s face appeared behind salt-bleared glass, then vanished quickly, as if she’d seen Taja.

  When the Woman in Black started toward the lighthouse, she walked slowly and stiffly, head lowered against the blasts of wind. She held her right side as if she’d been thrown around and injured while bringing the boat in through rough seas. Watching her, Ransome felt neither pity not regret. She was just a blight on his soul, as he had tried to explain to Mary Catherine. The time had come to remove it.

  He put the binoculars down on his desk and unlocked a drawer. He kept an S & W police model .38 there. Hadn’t fired the revolver in years but the bore was clean when he checked it.

  Afterward a couple of phone calls and everything would be taken care of for him. As it always was. No messy publicity.

  He felt deep empathy for Mary Catherine. It was unfortunate she had to be a part of the cleansing. But he would take care of her afterward, as he had all of the Ransome women. He had never used his genius as an excuse for poor behavior. When her own god failed her—as He would tonight—John Ransome would provide.

  He was putting on his coat when he heard, above the wind, a helicopter fly low over the house.

  “Peter, it’s Taja!” Silkie yelled.

  He saw the Woman in Black, looking up at the helicopter a hundred yards away. She had opened the door at the base of the lighthouse.

  The studio lights were blinking again. Then Echo rushed to the windows, frantically signaling the helicopter.

  “Who is that?” Silkie said.

  “It’s Echo,” Peter said happily. Then, as Taja entered the lighthouse his momentary elation vanished. “Put us down!” he said to Lola.

  “Not here! Maybe in the cove, on the dock!”

  “How far’s that?”

  “Three miles south, I think.”

  “No! Can you drop me off here? Next to the lighthouse?”

  “What are you doing?” Silkie asked anxiously.

  “I can’t maintain a hover more than three-four seconds,” Lola advised him. “And not closer than ten feet off the ground!”

  “Close enough!” Peter said. “Silkie! Go back with Lola. There’s an APB out on Taja. Call the state cops, tell them she’s on Kincairn!”

  He opened the door on his side, looked at the rocks below in the undercarriage floodlight. The danger of it chilled him more than the wind in his face. If he landed wrong, a ten-foot jump onto frozen stony ground was going to feel like fifty.

  In John Ransome’s studio, Echo saw Taja get off the small elevator outside. They looked at each other for a few moments until Echo turned to the windows, seeing the helicopter fly away.

  When she turned again Taja had unlocked the glass door and walked inside.

  With the door open Echo’s only thought was to get the hell out of there. But she couldn’t get past Taja, who was quick and strong. An image of the PR boy in the subway repeated in Echo’s mind as she was caught by one arm and pushed back. All the way to the easel that still held Ransome’s beginning nude study of her. The portrait seemed to distract Taja as Echo struggled in her grip, swearing, swinging a wild left hand at the Woman in Black.

  Taja’s free hand came away from her side. The glove was sticky with blood. She groped behind her on the worktable. Her fingers closed on the handle of the knife that Ransome honed daily before trimming his brushes.

  And Echo screamed.

  Peter was halfway up the circular iron stairs, hobbling on a sprained ankle, when he heard the scream. Knew what it meant. But he was too slow and far from Echo to do her
any good.

  Taja struck once at Echo, slashing her across the heel of the hand Echo flung up to protect her face.

  Then, instead of a lethal follow-up, Taja took the time to drive the knife into the canvas on the easel, ripping it in a gesture of fury.

  Taja’s body was momentarily at an angle to Echo, and vulnerable. Echo braced herself against the worktable and drove a knee high to the rib cage where Silkie had shot her in the Cambridge apartment.

  Taja went down with a hoarse scream, dropped the knife. She was groping for it when Peter barreled into the studio and lunged at her.

  “No, goddamn it, no!”

  He grabbed her knife hand as she tried to come up off the floor at him. His free hand went to Taja’s face, street-fighter style. He missed her eyes, tried to get a grip as she jerked her head aside.

  Part of her flesh seemed to come loose in his hand. But it was only latex.

  The face beneath her second skin was pocked with random, circular scars, as if from a dozen cigarette burns.

  They were both hurt but Peter couldn’t hold her. He knew the knife was coming. Then Echo got an armlock on Taja’s neck and pulled her back; Peter stepped in with a short hook to Taja’s jaw that dropped her instantly. He wrenched the knife away and pulled her back onto her feet. She wasn’t unconscious but her eyes were crossing, no fight left in her.

  “Let her go, Peter,” John Ransome said behind them. “It’s finished.”

  Peter shot a look behind him. “Not yet!” He looked again into Taja’s eyes. “Tell me one thing! Was it Ransome? Did he send you after those women? Tell me!”

  “Peter, she can’t talk!” Echo said.

  Taja still wasn’t focusing. There was a trickle of blood at one corner of her mouth.

  “Find a way to talk to me! I want to know!”

  “Peter,” John Ransome said, “please let her go.” His tone weary. “It’s up to me to deal with Taja. She’s my—”

  “Was it Ransome!” Peter screamed in Taja’s face, as she blinked, stared at him.