The kid in the Knicks jersey picked up Echo's computer and shoved it at her as if he suspected that she too might have a blade. The doors of the local opened and there was a surge of humanity across the platform to the parked express. Echo let herself be carried along with it, looking back once as she boarded.
Another glimpse of the Woman in Black, still holding the cholo helpless, getting a few looks but no interference. Echo's pulses throbbed. The woman was like a walking superstition, with a temperament as dark and lurking as paranoia.
Who was she? And why, Echo wondered as the doors closed, does she keep showing up in my life?
She rode standing up to 86th in the jam of commuters, her face expressionless, presenting a calm front but inside just a blur, like a traumatized bird trying to escape through a sealed window.
Echo didn't say anything to Peter about the Woman in Black until Friday evening, when they were slogging along in oppressive traffic on the 495 eastbound, on their way to Matti-tuck and the cozy weekend they'd planned at the summer house of Frank Ringer's uncle.
"No idea who she is?" Peter said. 'You're sure you don't know her from somewhere?"
"Listen, she's the kind, see her once, you never forget her. I'm talking spooky."
"She pulled a knife in the subway? Switchblade?"
"Maybe. I don't know much about knives. It was the look in her eyes, man. That cholo must've went in his pants." Echo smiled slightly, then her expression turned glum. "So, the first couple times, okay.
Coincidence. A third time in the same week, uh-uh, I don't buy it. She must've been following me around."
Echo shrugged again, and her shoulders stayed tight. "I didn't sleep so good last night, Pete."
'You ever see her again, make it your business to call me right away."
"I wonder if maybe I should—"
"No. Stay away from her. Don't try to talk to her."
'You're thinking she could be some sort of psycho?"
"That's New York. Ten people go by in the street, one or two out of the ten, something's gonna be seriously wrong with them mentally."
"Great. Now I'm scared."
Pete put an arm around her.
'You just let me handle this. Whatever it is."
"Engine's overheating." Echo observed.
'Yeah. Fucking traffic. Weekend, it'll be like this until ten o'clock. Might as well get off, get something to eat."
The cottage that had been lent to them for the weekend wasn't impressive in the headlights of Peter's car; it looked as if Frank Ringer's uncle had built it on weekends using materials taken from various construction or demolition sites. Mismatched windows, missing clapboards, a stone chimney on one side that obviously was out of plumb; the place had all the eye appeal of a bad scab.
"Probably charming inside," . Echo said, determined to be upbeat about a slow start to their intimate weekend.
Inside the small rooms smelled of mildew from a leaky roof. There were curbsides in Manhattan that were better furnished on trash pickup days.
"Guess it's kind of like men only out here," Pete said, not concealing his disbelief. "I'll open a couple of windows."
"Do you think we could clean it up some?" Echo said.
Peter took another look around.
"More like burn it down and start over."
"It's such a beautiful little cove."
There was so much dismay in her face it started him laughing. He put an arm around her, guided her outside, and locked the door behind them.
"Live and learn," he said.
"Your house or mine?" Echo said.
"Bayside's closest."
The O'Neill house in Bayside didn't work out, either; overrun with relatives. At a few minutes past ten Echo unlocked the door of the Yorktown apartment where she lived with her mother and Aunt Julia, from her late father's side of the family. She looked at Peter, sighed, kissed him.
Rosemay and Julia were playing Scrabble at the dining room table when Echo walked in with Peter. She had left her weekend luggage in the hall by her bedroom door.
"This is a grand surprise," Rosemay said. "Echo, I thought you were stayin' over in Queens."
Echo cleared her throat and shrugged, letting Peter handle this one.
Pete said, "My uncle Dennis, from Philly? Blew into town with his six kids. Our house looks like a day camp. They been redoin' the walls with grape jelly." He bent over Rosemay, putting his arms around her.
"How're you, Rosemay?"
Rosemay was wearing lounging pajamas and a green eyeshade. There were three support pillows in the chair she occupied, and one under her slippered feet.
"A little fatigued, I must say."
Julia was a roly-poly woman who wore thick eyeglasses. "Spent most of the day writing," she said of Rosemay. "Talk to your ma about eating, Echo."
"Eat, mom. You promised."
"I had my soft-boiled egg with some tea. It was, oh, about five o'clock, wasn't it, Julia?"
"Soft-boiled eggs. Wants nought but her bit of egg."
"They go down easy," Rosemay said, massaging her throat. Words didn't come easily, at least at this hour of the night. But for Rosemay sleep was elusive as well.
"All that cholesterol," Peter chided.
Rosemay smiled. "Nothing to worry about. I already have one fatal disease."
"None of that," Peter said sternly.
"Go on, Petey. You say what is. At least my mind will be the last of me to go. Pull up some chairs, we'll all play."
The doorbell rang. Echo went to answer it.
Peter was arranging chairs around the table when he heard Echo unlock the door, then cry out.
"Peter!"
"Who is it, Echo?" Rosemay called, as Peter backtracked through the front room to the foyer. The door to the hall stood half open. Echo had backed away from the door and from the Woman in Black who was standing outside.
Peter took Echo by an elbow and flattened her against the wall behind the door, saying to the Woman in Black, "Excuse me, can I talk to you? I'm the police."
The Woman in Black looked at him for a couple of seconds, then reached into her purse as Peter filled the doorspace.
"Don't do that!"
The woman shook her head. She pulled something from her purse but Peter had a grip on her gloved wrist before her hand fully cleared. She raised her eyes to him but didn't resist. There was a white business card between her thumb and forefinger.
Still holding onto her wrist, Peter took the card from her with his left hand. Glanced at it. He felt Echo at his back, looking at the woman over his shoulder. The woman looked at Echo, looked back at Peter.
"What's going on?" Echo said, as Rosemay called again.
Peter let go of the Woman in Black, turned and handed Echo the card.
"Echo! Peter!"
"Everything's fine, mom," Echo said, studying the writing on the card in the dim foyer light.
Peter said to the Woman in Black, "Sorry I got a little rough. I heard about that knife you carry, is all."
This time it was Echo who moved Peter aside, opening the door wider.
"Peter, she can't—"
"Talk. I know." He didn't take his eyes off the woman in black. "You've got another card, tells me who you are?"
She nodded, glanced at her purse. Peter said, "Yeah, okay." This time the woman produced her calling card, which Echo took from her.
'Your name's Taja? Am I saying that right?"
The woman nodded formally.
"Taja what?"
She shrugged slightly, impatiently; as if it didn't matter.
"So I guess you know who I am. What did you want to see me about? Would you like to come in?"
"Echo—" Peter objected.
But the woman shook her head and indicated her purse again. She made an open-palm gesture, hand extended to Echo, slow enough so Peter wouldn't interpret it as hostile.