Chapter 6: Escape

I pounded on the door to Karne's apartment, glad I'd had the presence of mind to look at the number when I left him to think. Silence. I pounded harder. At length I heard shuffling, then footsteps. They hesitated. I pounded a third time. Karne cracked the door first, then opened it.

"Karne, she's leaving." I'd left my bowl of cereal half-eaten on my breakfast table and had come still disheveled from waking up. I plowed on, striding into his apartment without asking. "She's an invited artist at an exhibition in Italy—starts next week—she's going to leave." Karne closed the door and followed me into the front room. As I made my way to the couch my brain caught up with what I'd seen when I walked through the door. Karne was dressed in nothing but boxers, and he'd been holding a huge curved knife. I heard a strangled squeak come out my throat, and I whirled to face him. He stopped short, putting a hand out to keep from knocking into me.

"Really, Connell," he began. He then seemed to follow my eyes as I stared at the knife. He let out one of his barking laughs.

"What are you—you're in your underwear and you've—you have a knife?" I blurted. Karne laughed again.

"Connell, you're beside yourself. Sit down." He gestured toward the red couch. I obediently dropped onto the cushions, still watching as Karne sprawled in an armchair and placed the knife on the coffee table. "It's called a khuri."

"Tell me you weren't shaving with that thing, Karne." I blathered. Even as I said it I knew it didn't make sense and I wished I could retract it, but my ability to keep my mouth shut is impaired before noon. Karne clapped a hand to his chest and laughed hard.

"I'd have cut my head off; of course not." He sobered up for a moment, then looked at me and started laughing again. I patted at my hair, uncomfortable. "You've read about the exhibition in the Arts section of the morning paper?" He looked over at me. I nodded, finding it hard to keep my eyes up at his face. The man was in his shorts, for crying out loud.

"You got my message about the arsenic?" I forced my eyes back over to his face from the mantelpiece, where they'd been attracted by a forest of cigarette butts. He nodded and looked keenly at me.

"She must be prevented from leaving; you're correct. I take it DuPret remains convinced Martinson is guilty?" Karne raised his eyebrows. I nodded. "Unfortunate. You have your cell phone?"

"Yes; why?" I felt around in my purse to make sure I did have it, and drew it out when I found it.

"I want to call him." Karne's attention had wandered to the window. He snapped his eyes back to me. "He won't answer a call from me; he'll answer one from you."

"Sly." I smirked as I handed him the phone.

"DuPret," Karne nearly sounded polite, but I could hear DuPret bark some sort of response. Karne scowled. "Yes, I realize. You are aware of the arsenic tests?" DuPret made some other loud comment, and Karne scowled even more deeply. "Only this: Martinson's wife uses hair in her sculptures. You may find more evidence of arsenic in her workshop." DuPret's tone changed, and his next comment went on at length. "I understand. I do disagree, but I see neither of us is in a position to make a determination." I could hear DuPret say something quickly; then they closed the conversation.

"You just handed her to him!" I scolded. Karne lifted an eyebrow at me.

"Then we will see if he is intelligent enough to receive the gift, Connell." Karne handed the phone back to me. I put it in my purse automatically, still staring at the space where his hand had been.

"You didn't tell him to watch for the tea." I turned my attention to Karne, who had lit a cigarette and was now looking out the window, smiling slightly as he blew a stream of smoke straight out into the air.

"No, I didn't." He chuckled. "Do you think your friend Chad would mind?" He turned toward me, tapping his ash over the arm of his chair.

"I'm sure he wouldn't." I grinned. DuPret wouldn't get the credit—at least, if he did, he'd know he didn't deserve it.


"Arsenic all over the place, Amy!" Bridget continued spreading sheets of results around the lab table; I followed her around. True to form, Chad had taken samples of every plant, hair, and dried plant he could find. He also swabbed some mortars and pestles that seemed to have been used to grind dried plants. And it was just as Bridget said. Arsenic all over the place. I suppose it was a little sick of me, but I really wanted to jump up and down. I settled for calling McLynn.

"Honey, I saw! DuPret's going to be mad enough to spit nails, you know." Her voice was shot through with the sound of her breath as though she had the phone cradled between her head and shoulder. "And I bet you he's coming your way first."

"I bet he is. No matter what, though, he's going to have to work a lot harder to convict Martinson. Any defense attorney's going to argue poison's not a male lust killer's weapon." Bridget gave an exaggerated nod as she listened to me.

"If you see Chad before I do, tell him I need to see him, okay?" McLynn said. Her voice faded in volume as though the receiver had slipped. I decided to get off the phone with her so she could have one less thing to do.

With his usual impeccable timing, Karne walked into the lab just as Bridget finished laying out the array of results. He was wearing the conservative gray suit I'd first seen him in. He walked over to me and grabbed my arm, leaning close to my ear. "It's urgent," he muttered. I met his eyes for a moment and was startled to see such a grave look on his face.

"Bridget?" I could hear her respond from behind a rank of shelves. She must've fled when she saw him with me—I knew I'd hear about it later. "I'm taking an early lunch." I was already grabbing my work bag and following Karne out the door as she responded.

Karne waited until we got in the car to start talking. Then he threw it into gear and sped like a rally-class driver, speaking succinctly and with an edge of annoyance.

"I am surprising you with a trip to Italy. We will attend the exhibition while we are in Milan. As we will fly by executive charter to New York City before boarding a commercial flight, we will be in the same terminal as Ms. Grange-Martinson, whose charter flight leaves this afternoon.

"We know nothing of the search of her workshop. We do, however, know that she has had damage done to some of her work. I have heard it from my friend the gallery owner, and you have heard it from me. We know nothing specific, only that some pieces are no longer suitable for display.

"I'll thank you to commit anything you notice to memory, but don't worry as much about the things she says. I am carrying a recording device."

"Karne!" I protested, though I knew he'd ignore me. "You know you shouldn't."

"Yes, Connell, I realize any evidence on it is inadmissible in court. But it may serve to force DuPret to arrest her. The rest can be arranged." He waved a hand; I'd come to hate that gesture.

"What do you think you're going to get her to say?" I threw up my hands.

"Not say, Connell. Do. I believe the rest of the remains of the women and of Mr. Ramos are beneath the new gravel extension beyond the concrete of Ms. Grange-Martinson's driveway, and I plan to lead her to believe they're on the verge of being excavated as part of a construction project." Karne smirked. He glanced over at me. "You did notice that the gravel extension went nowhere and was not used for parking."

"Karne, I'm really not sure this is…" I began.

"Connell, I'm not going to challenge her to a duel. Stop fussing. And take that ring off." He flung his hand over in my direction. I set my jaw, but moved my ring over to my right hand to expose the false tattoo.

"Who's fussing now?" I goaded.

"You do know how to use a handgun," Karne said. I opened my mouth to say something about having gone on hunting trips a few times as a child, but decided to give the unvarnished truth.

"Not well." I shifted in my seat. Karne grunted. "Karne, you wouldn't actually shoot her, would you? I mean you won't, right?" I looked over at him. The muscles of his jaw moved beneath the skin. I'd annoyed him.

"I want you to learn to shoot, Connell." He flicked his keen gray eyes over to me. I found myself looking directly back into them as I often avoided doing. He looked honestly concerned. A tiny squeeze made its way from my throat to my chest.

"Okay." My voice sounded small. It matched how I was beginning to feel. This was all exciting when we were just doing interviews and sitting up nights thinking. But DuPret's part of the usual job was just frightening. It was plain frightening—and nothing else.

My left hand grasped convulsively at my old knee injury. I couldn't even run away—not that I'd have to—if I needed to run. At least, not very fast. I felt Karne's palm against the back of my wrist before I registered what was happening. His hand was large, warm, and dry. The skin had the kind of calluses mine had in school: chemistry lab calluses. I flipped my hand over and laced my fingers in his, and I held on. He left his hand in mine, his fingers loosely resting in the webs of my fingers, until we reached the airport parking lot.


Just as Karne had said, Ms. Grange-Martinson was standing in the private departures area. She had an impressive glossy chocolate brown handbag large enough to carry a kitchen mixer sitting at her feet as she sat tapping something into an electronic organizer. Her shining hair was tightly controlled in a chignon, and her tasteful shade of lipstick had precise edges, even at the corners of her mouth. On seeing Karne she uncrossed her legs and stood gracefully, stowing her organizer in her bag and walking toward us in one smooth series of motions. She extended her hand as usual, and Karne fawned over her as I'd come to expect.

The start of the conversation was just as Karne said it would be. We stood before the plate glass wall of the terminal watching the planes take off and chatting about the exhibits and Ms. Grange-Martinson's recent misfortune. Then, of course, things went off track.

"I'd heard you two were traveling at the same time I was," she said. Karne kept the surprise out of his demeanor, but I wasn't sure I did. She should not have had any way of knowing. She continued: "I took the liberty of bringing along some of the tea you so enjoyed, dear." She withdrew a small muslin pouch screen printed with abstract flowers from her bag. The packaging was beautiful; I could see why Mr. Martinson would be tempted to give it to his mistress of the moment.

"Oh, you've gone out of your way," I gushed, taking the package gingerly out of her hand. I turned it over, examining the printed designs. "Thank you very much; I'm sure we'll both enjoy it." I smiled up at her, thinking of the old cliché about smiles that don't reach the eyes.

"Dear, you mustn't share," she clucked at me. Her speech was always a little ponderous and her syntax straight out of an Agatha Christie novel, but this was really odd. "A wife's always got to have small luxuries only for herself." She sounded absolutely matronly. I could feel the urge to become flustered creeping up. I forced a polite laugh.

"You don't keep enough of those, Violet." Karne reached over and took a strand of my hair between his fingers. He drew his hand down the length of it, causing it to tug lightly at the root. He kept eye contact the entire time, and once again I felt a constriction force from my throat to my stomach. What was this, anyway? Sometimes I almost thought he meant it. I cast my eyes down at my feet, and then forced them back up to his face.

"Of course I do, love," I played along. I turned toward Ms. Grange-Martinson, who'd clasped her hands tightly together in front of her. "He's taking me off to Milan just to avoid the construction, isn't he?"

"Construction?" She raised her eyebrows and let her hands go back to her sides. The skin on the back of her hand was pink from the pressure of her grip.

"They've torn up the neighborhood," Karne griped. "I'm surprised you haven't heard. I think the underground telecom line will run right under the gravel extension of your driveway."

"Underground?" She stepped forward along the glass wall. I leaned away from her, but forced myself not to step back. Her face seemed to collapse into age; two wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows and deep lines formed around her mouth. "They're excavating?"

"They've claimed they'll put it all back together, of course." Karne waved his hand in his customary dismissive manner. "I suppose we'll see when we return."

"I'm sure it'll be all right," I added. Her face had paled as we talked. She took a step backward and put her hand on the rail. I could see her thumbnail blanch from the pressure of her grip. Then she began to redden, and her carriage straightened back to her usual ballerina posture.

"I'd like to see about it regardless," she said. "I'll just place a call or two. If you'll excuse me." She strode away leaving her bag at our feet, then whirled and sped back to retrieve it. Her controlled step was gone; in its place was a hard and loud heel to match her wide stride.

"Karne," I hissed once she'd gone. He turned toward me, outwardly unperturbed.

"I've considered this." He turned back to the window once he'd said his piece. Shortly afterward he turned back toward me. "May I borrow your cell phone again, Connell?"

I handed it to him without saying much. I felt awfully uncertain about this plan now that we were carrying it out. It simply seemed too cloak-and-dagger. Karne dialed DuPret and listened to the usual two rings before the detective picked up.

"DuPret, Ms. Grange-Martinson is on her way to her country home and workshop. I believe she's headed to the site at which the remains are hidden." Karne's voice was terse, but he kept a calm pace. I could barely hear DuPret's surprised response. "Yes, I think a few uniforms wouldn't hurt. If I'm wrong, it's little harm done." DuPret again seemed to agree. There was a short silence. "Yes, of course." Karne turned toward me and listened to DuPret for another moment, then handed me the phone.

"Connell," I spoke quickly, happy to be on familiar turf.

"Look, I'm sending a few blues like he said." DuPret explained.

"Good. I don't think he's wrong, DuPret." I heard the defensive note in my voice, and I suspected the detective heard it too. He was trained to hear it.

"If he is, Connell…" he began.

"I know. It's my head." I confirmed. "Got it."

"Good." DuPret had used his usual tough-guy language, but he sounded frustrated and tired. I imagined I sounded that way too. Really I was wary—wary of what Karne and I were risking. I didn't really have a clear idea of what that was, and I think that was the worst part of it.