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:
'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 vic didn't make him.'
'No.'
'Then somebody hired it done. Tell me again what your interest is in the vic?'
'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 mere 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. 'Ransome's just doing a lot of sketches of her, and she has time 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 see only 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.
