Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  Brant had moved to the conference table and began tapping at the laptop’s keyboard in contemplation. ``Maybe she came from money?’’

  Clatterback shook his head. ``Father’s a retired clerk in the local village office. Mother’s a housewife. I don’t think they’d be in a position to subsidize her. Besides, weren’t they estranged?’’

  ``They were,’’ Brant admitted. ``Which leaves us with a bit of a mystery. Or at least a loose end. But I have a thought. What if Carswell was doing a bit of freelance hooking on the side?’’

  ``What? You mean like Chua?’’ Clatterback asked.

  ``Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Did you get anything else on Meredith?’’

  Clatterback turned sheepish. ``Remember, the EDGAR search came up dry. The state regulator doesn’t know anything either. It’s as if the company doesn’t exist. I’m still working on it but I think you’re right. I think it’s safe to say we can consider it a front for prostitution.’’

  Brant nodded as he thought over what Clatterback had just said. It made perfect sense. The expensive apartment, the clothes, the vacations Carswell had taken, the numerous boyfriends. Susan Chua could protest all she wanted, but Brant was willing to put money on the fact Allison Carswell had at least dabbled in prostitution. Or maybe she’d been an escort, not that there was much difference really.

  ``Don’t forget the gun belonging to Sergei Volodin’s muscle,’’ Malloy said.

  Brant thought for a moment. ``We’re going to have to talk to Volodin again.’’

  Brant closed the laptop and rose to leave. Outside, afternoon shadows had begun to play across the neighboring building’s facade.

  ``What’s next?’’ Malloy asked.

  ``Genepro.’’

  ``Can you wait until tomorrow?’’

  ``I could. But I’m not going to.’’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  He took the Turnpike, driving against the traffic. For the time of day, the roads were remarkably clear. Chalk it up to summer holidays, he thought to himself as he pushed the little Hyundai near its limits. The car whined in complaint, but complied.

  The same couldn’t be said about Marcellus. His sister had been livid when he’d called to say he’d been held up.

  ``I’m going to kill you, Jonas,’’ she’d said, her fury more than evident even through the vacuum of static between them. ``I TOLD you to leave David alone. Now he thinks I ASKED you to confront him.’’

  ``I was just trying to help, Marcellus,’’ Brant said in defense. ``You sounded so upset on the phone when we spoke. I had to do something. That asshole needs to pay.’’

  ``And he will, but he won’t get what’s coming to him if you behave like a Neanderthal. Jesus, do you ever think through the consequences of your actions?’’

  Brant let his response hang as he switched lanes, falling in behind a silver Porsche Carerra.

  ``What do you want me to say? This can still be fixed.’’

  ``See, Jonas. That’s the problem. You’re always playing the role of fixer. Ever since we were kids. You were always the one playing the peacemaker on the schoolyard.’’

  Brant shook his head as he stared at the red glow of the Porsche’s taillights. ``I said I’m sorry,’’ he conceded.

  ``Actually, you didn’t. But I’ll take that as a note of contrition. But stop trying to make me whole again, Jonas. You’re not doing a good job.’’

  The line had gone dead with Marcellus’s promise that she’d take care of Ben for the rest of the evening.

  Brant shook his head again, chastising himself for his haste with David Sutton. The injustice Marcellus faced had proven too much for him and he’d had to act.

  Not that he’d done much good in the end. He sighed.

  The Hyundai protested a second time. Brant plugged his iPhone into the car’s audio system, scrolled through the screen and settled on Springteen. Live/1975-85. The classic stuff from the late ‘80s, not the crap the Boss had been pumping out lately.

  He settled deeper into his seat, unclenching his jaws as the announcer introduced Springsteen and his E Street Band. The opening piano riff of ``Thunder Road’’ began to play, timeless in its simplicity and clarity.

  The Genepro offices were in darkness.

  Brant pulled up to one of the neighboring buildings occupied by a party goods supply company. He parked at the far side of the building, outside the cone of light cast by a streetlamp. The position offered a clear view of Genepro’s entrance while hiding the Hyundai in shadow.

  He turned the engine off and sat. Clouds gathered against a blackened sky. The moon was a half crescent, luminous and vibrant.

  Brant took out a pair of high-powered binoculars and scanned the road leading up to Genepro. Nothing. No cars. No pedestrians. No delivery trucks or messenger services.

  The guard was gone, too. From his vantage, he could see no security of any kind. Which was odd.

  The security guard had bothered him, but he hadn’t give it much thought. Only later, when he’d heard that Volodin was likely to have known Carswell, did it start to make sense.

  He got out of the car, made a secondary survey of the premises and began walking toward the Genepro building.

  A cable TV repair truck appeared at the entrance to the industrial park. The truck slowed, then stopped. Brant held his breath as he stood in place in the shadows. Ten more seconds and he would have been in the open and visible. He continued standing, fixed in place and rigid with the fear that he’d been spotted.

  He needn’t have worried. The repair truck backed into a driveway, turned and floored it, speeding off in the direction of the Turnpike. The sound of crickets and cicadas once more filled the night air. Brant breathed a sigh of relief and headed toward the darkened offices where Allison Carswell had once worked.

  The front entrance was locked and chained. By moonlight, he could see the reception area, which had been cleared of furniture. The papers, boxes and computers he’d seen during the earlier visit were also gone.

  The Genepro building was a simple design, a rectangular box of red brick. The front was bordered by a strip of grass. A flagpole stood sentry near the building’s glass-covered foyer.

  Brant made a survey of his surroundings. The driveway dipped as it led away from the roadside parking lot. He followed the black ribbon of asphalt around to the back of the building where he’d earlier seen a loading dock. Yellow polyurethane drums standing on end and gathered like soldiers on the prow of a ship were located at the far end of the driveway. Brant continued to follow the building’s perimeter.

  The loading bay door had been padlocked. The bay was a simple corrugated steel shutter with two porthole-like windows near the top. He crept forward, extending his height on his toes for a better view of the loading bay’s interior. A sound at his back caught his attention and his breathing quickened. He turned so quickly that his eyes took a moment to adjust to the change of view. A few meters away, a red pinprick flared in the blackness of night and disappeared.

  Brant reached for the Beretta in its shoulder holster, a warmth flooding his body as his fingers found the stippled polymer panels on the outer edges of the grip. Using a palm-supported grip, he steadied the weapon.

  A figure moved in his direction. Not quickly. Not with haste or violent intent. But slowly and confidently. Brant drew in a second deep gulp of air as his grip tightened on the Beretta. He could hear his breathing. The sounds of the night had been replaced by a raging waterfall in his mind.

  ``Step away from the door,’’ a disconnected voice said into the night. The accent was East European and heavy, guttural and full of malice. ``Drop the gun.’’

  A second darkened figure appeared. A second point of red flared in the direction of the first speaker and Brant heard a sucking of breath.

  ``Who are you?’’ he asked, forcing his eyes to focus.

  ``Mr. Volodin wishes to meet with you,’’ the first figure said.

  The Dimitri twins. Muscles and Hungry
.

  ``Tell Volodin to screw himself,’’ Brant called out as he steeled himself, preparing for whatever was to come and cursing himself for his inaction. He should have shot first and asked questions later. Control of the situation had shifted quickly to the Dimitris.

  ``That is most unfortunate,’’ the first figure said as he approached.

  The two thugs stepped into the light from an overhead street lamp. They wore olive green military pants and tops. Black mesh belts and black high-top boots completed the theme. Hungry held a gun in his right hand. Muscles appeared unarmed.

  The look in Hungry’s eye was threatening, chilling even.

  ``Please, Lieutenant Brant. Mr. Volodin just wants to talk.’’

  ``Somehow I don’t think I’ll like what he has to say.’’

  Brant could feel Hungry’s shrug. The men were killers. Of that he had little doubt. Still, if they’d been sent to hurt him, he’d already be dead.

  ``Where is Volodin?’’ Brant asked.

  Hungry stepped closer. Brant’s eyes shifted to the gun, a Sig Sauer P229. A serious piece of kit. The same model carried by the Department of Homeland Security.

  ``We haven’t been introduced properly. My name is Pyotr Dimitri. My brother is named Aleksey. We are very sorry we have to do this, but you must come with us.’’

  ``And if I don’t? What happens then?’’ Brant steeled himself as the Dimitris stepped closer.

  ``We are running out of time.’’

  Pyotr Dimitri smiled. He was missing a tooth and his breath smelled of garlic. Aleksey Dimitri mimicked his brother as he, too, edged closer.

  Meekly, Brant handed the Beretta over. Yes, he could have shot, but at what price? He was no trigger-happy yahoo. The cost would have been too high.

  ``Okay, boys. You’ve had your fun, now be good puppy dogs. Tell daddy I’m not going to play with him. Not this time.’’

  The Dimitri brothers fumed. They stepped closer, staring Brant down with deadened eyes. Like sumo wrestlers, they preened and postured as they seemed to ready themselves for the bout yet to come.

  ``We’re not dogs,’’ Pyotr Dimitri said, his voice wounded and humorless.

  ``I thought you said he was smart,’’ Aleksey Dimitri said.

  ``I’ve got only one thing to say and it’s simple. Fuck off.’’

  Pyotr turned to his brother. Aleksey responded with a nod.

  ``Trust me, you don’t want to do this,’’ Brant said, doing his best to sound threatening. He realized all too quickly the futility of the effort.

  Pyotr delivered the first blow as he brought the Sig down with a chop to Brant’s left shoulder. It was a strategic hit intended to inflict as much pain as possible. The calculation had been correct.

  Uselessly, Brant raised his arm to protect himself, then groaned as he sank to his knees.

  ``What kind of pussy man are you? That was a love tap my friend.’’

  ``Harder this time, Pyotr. Stop being so soft.’’

  Brant gasped for air. The shoulder. His Achilles Heel. Ever since he’d been shot at the end of the Casson case, his shoulder had been his weakness. Of course the Dimitris would have known that. They were thugs, but they were smart thugs.

  ``My turn, Pyotr.’’

  Brant was pulled to his knees and brought into the light where he found himself barely inches from the grinning face of Aleksey Dimitri. The second brother placed his hands around Brant’s neck and squeezed.

  ``Well, little man. Now do you want to see Mr. Volodin?’’

  Brant coughed and spluttered as he tried to call out. The effort was in vain. Aleksey Dimitri tightened his grip. ``Sorry, I can’t hear you. Did you say something?’’

  Aleksey Dimitri, brow twisted into a look of contrition, turned his left ear toward Brant in a grotesque pantomime of concern. Brant continued to gasp for air.

  ``I think he’s saying stop, Pyotr. Is that what he’s saying?’’

  Aleksey flashed a full mouth of white teeth as his face broke into a wide grin. The thug was enjoying himself. Brant’s arms flailed as he fought uselessly to break free of the chokehold.

  ``Don’t kill him,’’ Pyotr Dimitri said from the sidelines.

  ``I’m just having fun, brother. Here, give me a hand.’’

  Each brother grabbed an arm and pinned them behind Brant’s back. With a force he hadn’t expected, the brothers pushed him against the loading dock’s corrugated door, pressing his cheek against cold steel. He struggled to break free, but the effort was wasted. The brothers were too strong.

  Pyotr Dimitri delivered a devastating blow, a fist to the head sending ribbons of pain through his body. Brant retched as the man dealt a second punch to the gut. Finally, Brant’s legs buckled, sending him crashing to the ground.

  He tried to stand and fight, but he had nothing to give. He doubled over in pain, stars shooting through his head in a pyrotechnic display rivaling any fireworks he’d ever seen. His head spun faster. For a moment, he thought the bullet lodged between the hemispheres of his brain had come loose and he was dying. He greeted the thought with equanimity. If this was how it was to end, so be it. He dry heaved and the Dimitri brothers cackled.

  He would never know which of the brothers provided the final blow. Not that he cared. The thick curtain of darkness came mostly as relief. Sounds came from everywhere, his brain overwhelmed by the misfiring of neurons and an auditory system gone rogue. And then there was nothing.

  Part Two

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  He woke to the sounds of traffic.

  A light breeze was gossamer fingers of relief caressing his face. He sucked air in through a nose that felt broken. The air was heavy with dampness and something else, something he couldn’t identify.

  He was unsure where he was. He was in a vacuum chamber. He was in a hospital. He was lying on the ground, fetus-like, where he’d fallen. He was in the trunk of a car.

  His body was battered, pain radiating in every direction. The epicenter was his head. A migraine to end all migraines was in full bloom. White aural spots danced before his eyes. The aura grew in size until it dominated his field of vision.

  He heard the dripping of water, a scraping against concrete, the drone of an airplane. Each sound was an icepick stabbing at the pain behind the orbit of his left eye.

  His head was lifted. A gentle touch. Something pressed against his lips. A liquid. Down his throat and into his stomach. Fire spread through his chest, then waves of relief. A warm feeling. Pleasant. He giggled as lights danced through his head.

  More liquid. Bitter this time. Administered from a cup. A taste of plastic and metal. Disgusting. He protested, tried reaching in vain for the cup with deadened arms.

  He heard voices, soft and welcoming. A figure stood over him and smiled. His visual acuity sharpened as the figure coalesced into something more tangible. He smiled, content in the idea that he wasn’t going to die, disgusted in himself for his earlier welcoming of the thought. What would Ben do without him? How could he have been so selfish? He was a monster. He was appalled with himself.

  A shroud of black descended.

  ``I’m sorry about this.’’

  Brant coughed. Bile rose and burned his throat. He opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings anew. He was sitting in a chair with his hands tied behind his back.

  ``Try not to move. The restraints will only make it worse.’’

  Sergie Volodin took the chair opposite Brant. Volodin sucked in air and exhaled. Something bit into Brant’s wrists, drawing sharp stabs of pain with each movement.

  He conducted an inventory. He was alive. He had no permanent injuries to speak of. He had all his fingers and toes. His body seemed largely intact, but the pain in his head was overwhelming, unrelenting. His vision was compromised. Sometimes he saw light and shadow. Other times he saw nothing but darkness.

  ``I’m afraid we have a little problem,’’ Volodin said.

  The Russian reached into his pocket and pulled out a cig
arette, which he lit and sucked with vigor.

  ``You must excuse the Dimitri boys. They are stupid and dull. I asked them to discuss with you a meeting, and this is what they bring me. It is really shameful to be honest.’’

  Volodin seemed to hold out his hands as he wiped something unseen from the arm of his shirt.

  ``What did you give me?’’

  ``Give you?’’

  ``Someone gave me a drink. A liquid. It burned.’’

  ``Ah. Whisky. The elixir of life, no? That was me. It was a damned fine whisky, by the way. Do you feel any better?’’

  ``Some,’’ Brant said. ``Where am I?’’

  Volodin rose. The chair’s legs scraped against concrete.

  ``Are you well enough to stand?’’

  ``I think so.’’

  ``Aleksey, take off those restraints. The lieutenant isn’t going anywhere.’’

  A hulking shadow entered Brant’s field of vision. He felt a tug at his wrists, a shot of pain, then relief as Aleksey Dimitri cut through the plastic cuffs that had bound his hands.

  ``That’s much better. Wouldn’t you agree?’’

  Brant fought to speak but words failed. His legs wobbled, barely able to carry his weight.

  ``Mind telling me what’s going on Volodin?’’

  ``Again, I’m sorry, lieutenant. You seem to be the victim of my overenthusiastic colleagues. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with them later, but it doesn’t change the fact that we have much to talk about and little time. We must get to the point.’’

  ``You have my attention,’’ Brant said as bile rose in his throat a second time. ``Say your piece. I’m going to enjoy watching when they haul your ass off to jail.’’

  ``I don’t think that will happen, but one never knows. Can you stand yet?’’

  Brant waved Volodin’s offer of support away. He was determined to rise on his own accord. Volodin backed off.

  His vision sharpened. For the first time, his damaged brain was well enough to process the scene. They were in a building site of some kind. Bags of cement. A concrete floor. An exposed ceiling of ductwork and metal sprayed with foam insulation. The place was damp and cold. Water dripped from an unseen faucet.