Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  Brant had followed on foot but found himself easily outpaced by the much fitter Eichel. He’d borrowed a bike the second day, which proved a much smarter option.

  Between the lake outings and the hikes, Eichel was a blank book. Holed up in his room, he would read for hours. Lights out was at 10. Then the next day, more of the same.

  By the fourth day, Brant’s views on the man were no more informed that they’d been on the first. Had Eichel known he’d been tailed, Brant would not have been surprised. Equally, he wouldn’t have been shocked to find Eichel blissfully unaware.

  Brant pulled his helmet back over his head and swung the bicycle onto the road. He began to pedal, gaining pace as the slender tires bit into the road’s cracked shoulder.

  An hour later, he was pulling into the gravel driveway of the small cabin he’d rented for the weekly rate of $350.

  The cabin was basic. Wood-beamed. Square. Single level with a generous living room, a small workable kitchen and a bedroom near the back. The view from the bedroom was of an open field running to a small incline and then a boundary well-marked by the trees.

  He’d arrived at noon on Tuesday. By evening, he'd turned on the electricity, unpacked his clothes and completed the shopping at the local supermarket.

  Brant pressed his forehead against the cabin’s front window for a better view of the darkening sky. Thunderclouds had gathered. The last of the sunlight thickened and the colors of the forest blazed bright. Storms had been forecast. Another hour and the place would be inundated, the road in from the highway no more than a muddy suggestion cut through the rich Maine soil.

  He’d found the cabin crude but in good repair. His cellphone barely worked. The nearest television and radio, as far as he could tell, were to be found at a hotel a mile or two off the main road. It was enforced isolation.

  Once the dishes had been cleared, Brant poured himself a glass of bourbon, built a fire in the stone fireplace and settled into the oversized couch. A chill was in the air and the nights were growing cold. Leaves were beginning to turn. Soon it would be September and the cabin would be closed for the season.

  The burning logs popped and sizzled in the fireplace. The wood had been too wet for a decent fire, but he’d managed to get something started. Smoke had filled the room at first. He’d aired the place out and threw on more kindling, coaxing fingers of flame to life eventually.

  The walls of the small building rattled in the stiffening breeze. Brant rose and crossed to the windows. Drawing the curtains back, he peered out into black. No streetlights. No roads. No cars. Just trees — blackened sentinels in the gloom of dusk — and the lake beyond.

  What would Eichel be doing right about now? A better question: what about Ben and his sister? He’d left abruptly. Marcellus had still been angry about his outburst with David Sutton, but she’d accepted his departure and her duty to Ben without question.

  On the coffee table sat a box of books he’d brought from Boston. He began to rummage through the box, inspecting the spines of each volume. Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. A few from F. Scott Fitzgerald. Some science fiction by Frank Herbert. A historical biography on Harvey Cushing, a pioneering neurosurgeon from Boston. A treatise on the economic meltdown of a few years ago.

  He’d read how Bill Gates devoted a week out of each year for thinking. He’d be spending long hours in the cabin alone, watching, documenting Eichel’s every move. No reason he had to spend the time in total isolation. The books would help.

  He pulled a book from the box, a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. He flipped through the pages, coming to a quote he’d underlined during a previous reading.

  Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.

  Marcus Aurelius had been emperor of Rome from 161 to 180 AD. Besides being viewed as one of Rome’s greatest emperors, Aurelius had also been considered one of the most important Stoic philosophers. Stoicism was a philosophy that emphasized reason and self-restraint. Something Brant could get behind.

  Brant considered Aurelius’s words as he closed the book. Some days it was easier to dwell on the beauty of life than others.

  Eight o’clock. Ben would be getting ready for bed.

  Phone coverage had been spotty during the drive. He’d had three solid bars until he’d turned off the main road. Coverage at the cabin was intermittent. Regardless, he retrieved his cellphone and dialed. Marcellus picked up on the third ring.

  ``Is Ben behaving?’’

  ``A perfect gentleman. Do you want to talk with him?’’

  ``I’d like to say goodnight.’’

  Marcellus handed the phone over. The youngster fumbled with the handset. Static filled the space separating father from son.

  ``We had pizza.’’

  ``Where did you eat?’’

  ``It’s a secret.’’

  ``So I guess you ate at a restaurant.’’

  ``Maybe. Where are you? When are you coming home?’’

  ``I’ll be home as soon as I can. Be good for your aunt.’’

  ``Goodnight, Daddy.’’

  Ben handed the phone back to Brant’s sister. Marcellus came back on the line, sounding breathless and slightly irritated. Or maybe she was just overwhelmed.

  ``I wish you’d told me where you were going. What am I supposed to to if there’s an emergency?’’

  ``Call my cell.’’

  ``I tried earlier. Calls aren’t getting through. It’s like you’re on the Moon.’’

  Brant couldn’t entirely disagree. The lake had that feel, like he was far removed from the everyday. It was otherworldly. He hadn’t felt this detached for years.

  ``My phone was in pilot mode.’’

  ``What’s going on, Jonas?’’

  ``What do you mean?’’

  ``Someone from your Division called. A…let me see here…a Gareth Oliver. He doesn’t know where you are. No one does.’’

  ``I’m on a case, Marcellus.’’

  ``Then why doesn’t this Oliver know anything about it?’’

  Marcellus’s voice had that sound of petulance mixed with aggravation. She was pissed and did nothing to hide it.

  ``It’s just for a couple more days.’’

  Silence as Marcellus considered the point.

  ``Are you still there, Marcellus?’’

  ``It’s about whatever got you beat up over isn’t it?’’

  ``A few days.’’

  ``I don’t like it, Jonas. You have a duty to Ben. Don’t do this to him, or to me.’’

  ``A few days more. Put Ben back on the phone.’’

  ``You should call dad. He’s expecting to hear from you.’’

  More muffled sounds as Marcellus passed the phone back to his son. The young boy’s high-pitched voice filled the speaker.

  ``What time is it?’’ Ben asked.

  Brant looked at the clock hanging over the fireplace. The logs had become embers. He’d have to remember to chop some wood the next day. He’d seen an axe and a woodpile at the foot of the narrow drive leading to the cabin.

  ``Way past your bedtime.’’

  ``You always say that. I want you to come home.’’

  ``I know buddy. I’ll be home in a week. Enjoy the time with your aunt, okay?’’

  ``Okay. Goodnight.’’

  With that, Ben cut the line, leaving Brant isolated once again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ``How are you settling in?’’

  ``It’s rustic.’’

  ``Most people hate that old place. You’re very brave. Cheers.’’

  Brant smiled and nodded as he raised his bottle of Heineken. He was in the cafe at the lodge down the road from his cabin. The manager, John King, was seated beside him, sucking back a beer of his own. Like Eichel, he was a big man and athletic. He wore a pair of olive green hiking pants and a tan shirt. His face was weathered and sunburned, his lips cracked. King’s wife stood behind the bar. A guide named Mark Burnard was perched on the end o
f a barstool, nursing a vodka tonic and cursing at the hapless Red Sox playing on the television in the corner. Franz Eichel was nowhere to be seen.

  The cafe was the epicenter of the lodge after dark. It was a small room set off from the main dining hall. The bar was made of polished oak. Watercolors from a local artist hung on the wood-paneled walls. A pair of snowshoes hung over a set of doors leading to an outside deck. Logs burned merrily in the mouth of a stone fireplace.

  ``So how long will you be with us?’’ John King asked.

  Brant shook his head. ``Haven’t decided yet. A few more days maybe.’’

  ``Hard to rent that cabin this close to the end of the season. We’re glad you came along. How’s the bike, by the way?’’

  The bicycle Brant had used on his daily rides had come courtesy of John King.

  ``It’s a good ride.’’ Brant finished the last of his beer.

  ``And the outfit, the shoes? They fit okay?’’

  ``The shoes are a bit loose but they’ll do. Thanks again.’’

  ``My pleasure. Another beer?’’

  ``I shouldn’t, but what the heck. It isn’t as if I’m driving.’’

  John King smiled as he signaled to his wife. Promptly, two more beers arrived. Mark Burnard shouted with vigor as the Sox scored a run.

  ``You haven’t met everyone yet, have you?’’ King asked when he saw Brant looking in Burnard’s direction.

  ``I’ve been keeping to myself.’’

  ``I’ve noticed. I’d be going a bit stir crazy in that cabin myself. Are you getting your work done?’’

  ``In a manner of speaking,’’ Brant said, his voice measured and guarded lest he reveal too much about his true purpose in renting the cabin. ``The solitude is good.’’

  ``Gets the creative juices flowing, doesn’t it? So what is it you’re doing there? Don’t tell me you’re a frustrated novelist.’’

  ``Why do you say that?’’ Brant asked with a wry smile.

  King shrugged. ``All those books you brought. I figured you were researching something.’’

  ``Not really, I just like to read.’’

  ``Okay.’’ King began work on the second beer. Brant did the same. ``You know, Stephen King has a couple of places in Maine. One in Bangor and another in Lovell. You ever read any of his work?’’

  Brant shrugged. He didn’t want to appear unfriendly, but he also wasn’t terribly interested in engaging John King in anything beyond rudimentary conversation. Besides, his real purpose in being in the cafe wasn’t to socialize, but to keep tabs on Franz Eichel.

  ``I think I read Carrie. That was one of King’s earlier ones right?’’

  John King nodded. ``That’s right.’’

  ``You’re not related?’’

  ``What, me? To Stephen King? I wish.’’

  ``No long lost family connection?’’

  King shook his head. ``Afraid not.’’

  Brant scrutinized the other man as he picked at the label on the beer bottle in front of him. Off in the corner, Mark Burnard was grinning. The Sox were up with two innings to go.

  ``How many are staying at the lodge,’’ Brant asked, doing his best to make the question sound as innocuous as possible.

  ``We’re almost done for the season,’’ King said. ``Some of the guides are sticking around to help close the place up. We’ve got a family staying with us at the moment. Another group is booked in for next week. You should go out on the lake. Maybe take a class. That is if you get tired doing whatever it is you’re doing.’’

  Brant considered the offer. ``I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.’’

  ``Keep what in mind?’’

  Brant’s mouth dropped as he turned in the direction of the voice. Franz Eichel had appeared from nowhere and was standing behind them as he waited for his drink order to be filled. The man seemed to consume the room’s oxygen, so formidable was his presence. The others in the cafe seemed also to notice. Brant almost choked on his drink. He hadn’t expected to come into such close contact with the man.

  ``Jonas Brant, meet Franz Eichel. Franz is a guide.’’

  Eichel extended his hand in friendly greeting after John King’s introduction. Brant did the same, noting the forceful grip, steely concentration and wary assessment in the other man’s eyes. If Eichel was concerned in the least at Brant’s presence, he wasn’t showing it.

  ``So what are we talking about?’’ Eichel asked when the introductions had been made. Mark Burnard had abandoned the Red Sox and had appeared at the bar.

  ``Jonas is thinking about spending some time on the lake.’’

  ``Is that so?’’ Eichel asked, lifting an eyebrow to denote mock surprise.

  ``I wouldn’t go that far,’’ Brant said, shaking his head to dismiss the thought.

  ``You’re staying in the cabin, right?’’

  ``Yes, that’s right.’’

  ``How’s the cycling?’’

  ``Cycling?’’

  ``John told me you’d been out on the roads. Better watch for cars. Drivers tend to get distracted easily up here.’’

  ``I’ll remember that,’’ Brant said as he lifted his beer to his lips, wondering whether Eichel had meant some hidden context in the comment. Was he aware Brant had been watching him? Did any of them know about the previous day’s brush with the car? No indication that was the case. Then again, Eichel would be a fool to let on.

  Was the other day’s run-in with the car a fluke, an accident? Brant had decided it was. No evidence to think otherwise, at least from what he could see.

  ``Well, I just came to get a nightcap. Nice to meet you.’’

  ``You too,’’ Brant said, smiling broadly as Eichel moved away, joining Mark Burnard at a table by the stone fireplace. The logs hissed and crackled as the fire burned.

  ``Eichel’s one of our best guides,’’ King said when the other man was out of earshot.

  ``He’s worked here awhile, has he?’’ Brant asked, marveling at Eichel’s bravura.

  King’s face was a blank. ``Not really. But he’s very good. He knows the lake. Does a lot of hiking in the woods, too. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him before.’’

  ``Yes, surprising,’’ Brant said as he stared into the fire, feeling the beginnings of a warm glow from the effects of the beer and the cafe’s cozy, close quarters.

  What did he hope to achieve? Was he being reckless? What was he risking, venturing out of the cabin? Even more, what had he done to his career after fleeing Boston so abruptly? Surely Jolly would understand once presented with evidence. It was only a matter of bringing something back, of showing he’d been on the right trail to begin with. And wouldn’t Marcellus understand once she knew the truth of it? Surely that would be the case.

  Allison Carswell had planned a trip north to meet Eichel. Of this Brant was certain.

  He had her Google Map searches, the records of Eichel’s cellphone calls, and the emails. Then there was the fact that Eichel was the father of her child, that they’d met up in Boston and that they’d been planning something in the days before her death.

  There was also Carswell’s research to consider. She’d been working with viruses and some sort of genetic manipulation, some way to get genetic material into a cell without compromising its structure. Wasn’t that what electroporation was? Certainly, that’s what Vanessa Singh had indicated. The introduction of chemicals, drugs or DNA into a cell. That’s what she’d said. But to what end? And what did it have to do with Volodin? The gangster had been clear that he saw value in her work, that whatever Carswell had taken from Genepro would be of some use. Did Carswell’s work have anything to do with her death? Almost certainly.

  ``Careful. You’re bringing everyone down.’’

  Brant smiled weakly as he turned in the direction of the voice that had broken his meditation.

  ``I’m doing my best,’’ he said.

  ``I can see that. Good job, by the way.’’

  Brant found himself looking into the oval face of a woman he
guessed to be in her late twenties. Her hair fell across a high forehead. Blue eyes peered out at him, drilling into his own. He’d seen her in the hallway earlier. Now she was sitting beside him, her eyes focuses intently in his direction.

  The woman had an edge about her. Her jeans were black and ripped at the knees. Underneath a padded leather jacket of some sort, she wore a plain white t-shirt. The jacket was trimmed in tasteful silver spikes. She sported a small diamond stud in her nose. Her skin was a chalky white, almost alabaster, almost translucent, but luminous and full of life.

  ``Chris Mallek.’’

  ``Jonas Brant.’’ He nodded a greeting in the woman’s direction. ``Are you staying at the lodge?’’

  The woman frowned. A mug of hot tea had been placed in front of her.

  ``Are you trying to chat me up?’’

  ``You started the conversation if I remember.’’

  ``I did, didn’t I? And, yes, I’m staying at the lodge but I’m not a guest. I work with those two bozos over there?’’

  The woman pointed with her chin in the direction of Franz Eichel and Mark Burnard. The two men seemed locked in an animated conversation.

  ``So you’re a guide?’’

  The woman shook her head. ``Support staff.’’

  ``I see,’’ Brant said, returning to the empty beer bottle he held in his hand. He’d thought about ordering another but dismissed the idea. ``What are you drinking?’’

  ``Herbal tea. I can’t take caffeine after 4 p.m. Keeps me up all night.’’

  ``I know the feeling.’’

  ``You’re staying in the cabin up the road?’’

  ``Yes, everyone keeps reminding me.’’

  ``I stayed there for a week. Hated it. No hot water.’’

  The woman seemed to shudder at the memory. Brant acknowledged the sentiment with a smile of his own. Truth was, he wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of a cold shower, either. But what could he do? Not much it seemed.