``You’re right, I didn’t like Franz Eichel,’’ Burnard said when he’d removed his lifejacket. ``He was a good guide but he was a prick. He was up to something.’’
``Care to guess what that something might be?’’
Burnard shook his head. ``That’s your job, not mine.’’
``I’ve heard he liked to go out on the lake by himself, that he also went on long bike rides.’’
``Did he?’’ Burnard asked, offering a look that said he knew exactly what Brant was implying.
``Someone wiped his mobile phone, but he left an echo.’’
``An echo? That’s very poetic. I didn’t realize you were so prosaic. Maybe you should have been a writer.’’
``You think he killed himself?’’
Burnard shrugged. ``Either way, it doesn’t matter. He’s dead. He’s not coming back.’’
``No, he’s not. But don’t you want to know what happened?’’
``I’m not really that interested, to be honest.’’
``Even if it means someone back there’s a murderer?’’ Brant asked, nodding his head in the direction of the lodge and the smoke rising from the chimney.
``I didn’t kill him. I didn’t like him, but I didn’t kill him. Now here, help me with the kayaks.’’
Burnard pulled the kayak Brant had been using fully from the water. The fiberglass hull crunched as the big man pulled it across the pebbled beach. Beads of water rolled off the outer hull as Burnard hoisted the craft single-handedly over his shoulder. Brant stood, watching and waiting, wondering whether the guide expected him to do the same. The answer came in a questioning, almost pitying look.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Inside the lodge, dinner preparations were underway. Early-evening gloom spilled in through the windows, throwing fingers of broken sunlight onto the floor. A breeze blew down from the north and the air was filled with the taste of rain. The lake, earlier so flat, heaved to the whim of the winds. White caps roiled and bubbled against the shoreline.
Dinner was served promptly at 6 p.m. None of the guests dared look at Brant. Mallek sat by his side, chewing delicately at a piece of fried chicken.
``This is cheery,’’ Mallek said, when she’d returned from the kitchen with a pitcher of water and a second serving of bread.
Brant took a slice from the basket.
``We can rule Burnard out,’’ Brant said after he’d given it some thought.
``How can you be so sure?’’
Brant shook his head. ``Just call it an instinct. A cop’s instinct.’’
``The guy seems like he has a lot to hide if you ask me.’’
``There’s the question of motive.’’
``Motive?’’
``Yeah, you know. Like why would he kill Eichel? What did he have to gain?’’
Mallek considered the question.
``I’ve been thinking about it and it bothers me. I don’t think he did it. No motive. No reason.’’
``You might be right. I don’t know. I’m not a cop. I don’t have the…what did you call it? The instinct.’’
They continued chewing their food in silence. John King had taken his place at the head of the table and was handing out papers of some kind to the others. King’s wife sat by her husband’s side and smiled stupidly into his eyes. After a few moments, King moved down the table to the seat nearest Brant and Mallek.
``You’re making progress in the investigation,’’ King said to Brant as he poured a glass of water from the pitcher Mallek had set in the center of the table.
``What makes you say that?’’
``I saw you out on the lake with Mark this afternoon.’’
``And you think that’s progress?’’
``That’s progress, yes.’’
King stood abruptly. ``Here, let me get rid of this shit. Water’s no way to end the day. What’ll you have? I mean a real drink.’’
``What do you have?’’ Brant asked out of curiosity. He’d seen the collection of bourbons and whisky on the shelves behind the bar. A Glen Moray had caught his attention.
``Try this,’’ King said, returning to the table with a pair of wide-bowl glasses and a bottle of amber liquid. ``Single malt. It comes from a local distillery in Portland. Uses barley grown at a farm in Brunswick.’’
King poured, first for Brant then Mallek. Brant held the liquid in his mouth for a few moments before swallowing.
``There should be a law,’’ Brant said, handing his glass over for a refill. King happily obliged. Mallek downed her own glass, shuddering slightly as warmth spread through her chest.
``I’d say nectar of the Gods but that’s a cliche,’’ King said.
``The thing about cliches, they’re usually always right.’’
``Can I get you anything else?’’
Brant turned to Mallek. When she didn’t answer, he waved his hand in response, letting King know they were settled and preferred to be alone.
``Well, I guess I’ll get back to the others then,’’ King said, reading the moment correctly. ``Shout if there’s anything else you need. Keep the bottle. I’ve got a couple more in the back. Wouldn’t be a proper lodge without a well-stocked bar.’’
``He seemed overly friendly,’’ Mallek said when they were alone. ``I don’t really trust him.’’
``I’m with you there,’’ Brant said as he drained the last of his whisky. The alcohol content had taken off the edge. A warm buzz had begun to spread from the top of his head, down into his shoulders. For the first time in days, he was free of pain.
``I spoke to the family,’’ Mallek said, indicating the four sitting at the opposite end of the dining hall. The father had finished his dinner. Arms folded, he seemed to be making a point to his wife and children. The three looked on, their attention unwavering.
``And?’’ Brant asked.
``The father’s a lawyer in Boston. One of the big partnerships. I didn’t get the name. Seems they were all playing a board game at the time Eichel shot himself. They swear they were together.’’
``What kind of lawyer?’’
``Real estate. Contracts. Something like that.’’
``Huh,’’ Brant said, making a note.
``Anyway, they can’t wait to get out of here. Seems they were packed and ready to leave this afternoon but King wouldn’t let them. Said the storm had closed some of the roads further on down the mountain.’’
``And the lawyer didn’t argue?’’
``I guess not.’’
Brant looked at the family for a second time. The father had uncrossed his arms but the grim, downcast face remained unbroken.
``We need to find out more about Eichel,’’ Brant said, getting up from the table to leave. The whisky had made him sleepy. The warmth was a fluttering in the pit of his stomach.
Hesitantly, Mallek watched as Brant stumbled out of the dining room. In pursuit, he could feel the eyes of the others watching his every step.
The hallway was shrouded in dark and several degrees colder. Where the fire had kept the dining room cozy, the rest of the lodge enjoyed no such comfort. Brant shivered as he search along the paneled wall for a light switch.
He shuffled down the corridor, feeling his way for familiar sign posts. A doorframe. The side table with the flowers in front of the bathroom. The framed painting of an alpine glade. After several awkward and tentative steps, he came to what he thought was his door. A few more stumbling steps and he was into the bedroom, standing at the foot of his bed.
He knew instinctively that something was wrong. A feeling. A subtle shift in the air around him. Tempted, he considered reaching for the light switch to the left of the bed board but thought better of it. Rigid, he stood in the center of the darkened room, listening to the ins and outs of his own breathing and something else.
He wasn’t alone. Somewhere to his right, an energy seemed to emanate. He knew what it was. Over the years he’d developed a sense. He knew there was another presence. He could almost see across the
room to the person standing by the desk. Was it his room? No. He’d made a mistake and in a fugue he’d stumbled into Eichel’s room. The confines of a dead man. In disgust, he turned and reached for the door handle. To orient himself. To extricate himself. To get away from the room and the occupant, whatever the intention of the other person.
He didn’t get far. Before he could reach the door, he was grabbed from behind. A forearm around the throat. A violent thrust upward. A momentary jab of pain between the shoulder blades as a fist began delivering blows. The room tilted on its axis. Brant stumbled backwards. He turned abruptly as his assailant regrouped. Before his training could kick in, he was on the floor, his assailant standing over him. He gulped for air. He’d split his lip, or one of the blows had hit harder than he’d thought. Blood flowed freely. He could taste the strange metallic, the stickiness of it.
He’d known, at some point in his career, that this moment would come. He’d trained for it. The academy had held special classes on self-defense, on how to avoid becoming a victim. The military training had been more specific. He’d learned about different fire arms and chokeholds and vulnerabilities on an assailant’s body. He’d paid attention only peripherally, never really thinking that he’d find himself at the disadvantaged end of a fight. The current scenario wasn’t how he’d pictured it.
He covered his head and cowered, too fatigued to fight back, too confused to mount a defense of any significance.
As abruptly as it had begun, the beating ended. His assailant had had the advantage from the beginning. Surprise was a powerful lever. Whoever had been in Eichel’s room had used it to good effect. Brant had been grabbed, roughed up then beaten about the head with an economy of movement and swiftness that he would have found impressive under different circumstances. The alcohol hadn’t helped.
But now the worst of the beating was over. A final kick sent spasms of pain through his back. Brant lay on the cold hardwood floor, his breathing shallow. What little light there’d been was suddenly gone and all he could hear was the tapping of tree branches against the window and the soft patter of raindrops.
Part Three
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
``Take it slow.’’
Mallek’s voice called from somewhere at the end of a tunnel, beckoning him back to the living. Brant tried to stand, aided by Mallek’s grip, but sank back to the floor. A tight band gripped his forehead.
He took stock. He would live, but not without pain. He shook his head to clear the fog over his eyes. Mallek tightened her embrace, steading him as he began to fall back to the floor.
``We need to get you to a doctor.’’
``No doctor. Just give me a minute.’’
``You’re a fool,’’ Mallek said as she turned on the second of the two bedroom lamps.
He didn’t need to be told his face had taken the worst of the beating.
She dabbed at the edges of what he guessed to be a cut to the forehead with the thoughtfulness of a skilled nurse. She pursed her lips, sucking air in ever so subtly as he winced at the touch of the moistened cloth.
``Am I hurting you?’’
``You are, but keep at it. I don’t suppose you have a mirror?’’
``You don’t want a mirror,’’
``That bad?’’
``Something like that. Let’s see if we can get you to your feet and resting on the bed.’’
She steadied him as he rose first to his knees. She gestured vaguely to the bed as he searched for a way to stop the room spinning. She wrapped him in a wool blanket and left the room, returning moments later with a handful of pills and a cup of warm tea.
``Take these and don’t complain. It’s only mild painkillers but at least it will help for now. Until we can call a doctor, that is.’’
``I told you, no doctor,’’ Brant repeated, his voice raised slightly to make the point with all the force he could muster.
``You’ve been violently assaulted. The bullet in your brain….’’
Brant’s eyes bore into hers. He hadn’t told her about the shooting — not that he could recall. He took a gulp of tea and cradled the cup in his hands.
``I checked on the Internet,’’ she said in response to the unasked question. ``When King paired us up. I wanted to know who I was being asked to help. It’s alright. I understand what you’re going through. But you’re still going to need to see a doctor. You’ll need a scan, or an X-ray depending on the bullet’s composition. It could have shifted.’’
Brant placed the tea cup on the table.
``Christine. Leave it alone. I’m fine. I’ll see a doctor when I get back to Boston. I’m overdue to see the neurosurgeon anyway. I had an MRI last week.’’
``Last week?’’
``The bullet’s fine. It’s not going anywhere.’’
``But the more….’’
``Leave it,’’ he said again. ``I’m okay. A bit woozy on my feet, but I’m already getting my bearings back.’’
He rose to his feet to emphasize the point. The room tilted, pain knifed through his shoulder and he fell back onto the bed, feet splayed inelegantly in front of him.
``See what I mean. You can’t keep downing painkillers.’’
``I know. I’ll schedule a doctor’s appointment when I get back to civilization.’’
The raindrops turned to a downpour. Tree branches lashed energetically against the window. Mallek and Brant sat at opposite ends of the bed. She plied him with tea and more hot cloths, which he used as compresses to dull the pain behind his eyes. The light from the lamps glowed a golden yellow, highlighting the grooves of the wood and the warmth of her eyes.
``So are you going to tell me what happened?’’ she asked when he’d finished the pot of tea. He’d made her promise not to tell anyone else in the lodge about the beating.
``I was stumbling around the hallway on my way back from dinner. I thought this was my room. Incorrectly it would seem. I knew I wasn’t alone. Someone was going through Eichel’s belongings.’’
``Perfect timing.’’
Brant made his best effort to smile.
``Yes, I’m a lucky man.’’
``Well, you are. You’re still alive. Between whoever hit you and the bullet….’’
``I get it. But at least we know one thing?’’
``What is that?’’
``Eichel didn’t commit suicide. Eichel didn’t hit me over the head. Someone else was in here and after something.’’
Brant thought about what he’d said for a moment, considering whether to tell Mallek about Allison Carswell and Volodin. He rejected the notion, at least for the time being.
``Did you see anyone leave the dining room after me?’’ he finally asked.
Mallek’s face turned red as she admitted she hadn’t been paying attention. She’d been playing cards with Burnard. Brant thought on it for a few moments longer.
``How did you find me?’’ he asked.
``I didn’t follow you, if that’s what you’re asking.’’
``No, I wasn’t. But thanks for clarifying.’’
``We’re still on the same team.’’
``Yes, that’s what I thought. But answer my question. How did you find me?’’
Mallek bit down on her lower lip. The lamps made darkened circles under her eyes.
``I wanted to show you something,’’ she said, finally. ``You were already on the floor when I got here.’’
The explanation seemed to satisfy him, or at least it seemed to make sense. Much was murky but Mallek’s loyalty wasn’t at issue, at least not as far as he could see.
``What was it you wanted to show me,’’ he asked, grimacing at the dull pain in his neck. The painkillers were wearing off.
``This.’’
Mallek pulled a memory stick out of her pocket. Brant took the device, holding it between his fingers as he inspected it from every angle. A standard 8-megabyte dongle from Toshiba. His emotions soared at the prospect of what the memory stick held.
`
`Am I supposed to know what’s on this?’’ Brant asked.
``No, but I do.’’
``Care to share?’’
``I found it among Eichel’s things when we searched the room. It was in a shoebox in the closet. I put it in my pocket but didn’t think anything else about it until earlier this evening.’’
``Why didn’t you tell me about it?’’
``I was going to tell you at dinner but I didn’t want to say anything around the others. You left after dinner too quickly.’’
``So what is it?’’
``Better if I show you.’’
They moved to Mallek’s room. In short order, she retrieved her laptop and brought the machine to life. It was an old Macbook with ports and a 12-inch screen. She moved the files from the portable drive to the Macbook’s hard drive. Though the files had needed to be transferred into a format that could be read by her laptop, they were in luck; Eichel had left them unencrypted.
She made quick work of the reformatting. A few keystrokes and they were looking at a dozen files splayed across the laptop’s screen. Brant was confused at first, unsure what he was looking at. Mallek navigated the trove of documents with ease.
``It hit me almost immediately,’’ she said.
She called up a pdf file, an academic paper with a title too long for the top of the document. A second file appeared to be a screenshot too obscure for Brant to identify.
``You better sit down,’’ Mallek said, reading the perplexed look on his face.
``Looks a bit complicated to me,’’ Brant said.
``Look at this.’’
Her keystroke brought up a computer animation of a spinning strand of DNA. The base pairs of the molecule broke apart, only to reassemble in a different, more complicated structure.
``And you found this among Eichel’s things?’’ Brant asked in wonderment.
``Among his other stuff. Everything else is as you would imagine…Hiking books, trashy novels, a couple of back issues of Outside magazine. Then this. It’s molecular biology at a very high level.’’
Mallek moved her finger over the laptop’s trackpad.
Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller Page 31