Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  Now, Brant thought as he noted the wavering of King’s attention. King involuntarily flexed and glanced in the direction of Brant’s gaze.

  The distraction was all he needed. Brant nodded to Mallek, who followed his line of sight. She lunged at the hand brandishing the Glock.

  King, flustered, reared back, a look of simple bewilderment painted across the contours of what had once been a beautiful face. Mallek knocked the gun out of her hand and thrust a balled fist hard into King’s stomach. The woman doubled over in shock and fell easily to her knees without struggle. Mallek pulled back as she readied another blow. Brant caught her arm as Ingrid King groaned and spluttered.

  ``I’ll get the gun.’’

  He retrieved the Glock and emptied the chamber in haste so as to render it useless. King had curled into a ball on the floor and had begun sobbing, her chest heaving with each gasp of air.

  Mallek stood over the other woman, pulled her leg back and delivered a kick to King’s left flank. The other woman flinched and cried out in pain.

  ``Bitch! She was going to kill us. Right here, in this kitchen. Like animals.’’

  ``It’s done,’’ Brant said. His voice was steady but firm.

  ``How can you be so accepting of what she wanted to do?’’

  Mallek’s voice was pleading. Brant took her by the shoulders and lifted her chin. Their eyes met. He began to speak, hoping he would be able to calm her.

  ``It’s over.’’

  He hugged her tight, terrified she’d feel the shakes and tremors of his own body. When they’d both calmed, he returned to the slobbering ball that Ingrid King had become as she lay on the kitchen floor. Her hair was askew. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears. Bloodied snot ran from her nose.

  Brant pinned her arms behind her back. Using the nylon belt from his hiking pants, he fashioned a set of crude handcuffs. King bit into her lower lip as he pulled the belt tight across her wrists.

  ``You did well,’’ Brant said to Mallek.

  They were the first words he could think of. In the confusion, he’d lost all perspective on what she’d been going through. He’d been trained for such a situation. He’d known to wait, to prolong. Mallek had been naked. She’d had no such training. He could only hope she’d make the right decision when the time came and he’d been proved right.

  ``Let’s get out of here.’’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  It was early afternoon when they returned to the lodge. The sun shone bright. The lake was a plate of silver. Birch trees snapped smartly in the warm breeze.

  John King rushed to greet them, his face turning gray when he caught sight of his wife trussed like a turkey in the back of the Range Rover. He glanced first at Brant then at Mallek, a questioning look of resigned despair on his face.

  He’d had to have known. Somewhere along the way he’d had to have suspected. Or had his love made him immune from the truth, from the reality facing him square in the eye?

  The first call was to Jolly. Brant leaned against the roof of the Range Rover as he began to explain in fantastical detail the events of the past two days. Jolly was encouraging, his voice puffed up with obvious pride at the outcome. The next call was to the state trooper substation. The field commander promised to dispatch a trooper in haste to take their statements. Satisfied, Brant returned the cellphone he’d borrowed from King and wearily made his way to his room.

  A hot shower was in order. The pain behind his left eye persisted with a stubbornness he couldn’t shake.

  ``Hate to see the other guy,’’ Mark Burnard joked when they passed in the hallway. Despite the rising heat of the afternoon, the inside of the lodge was cool and dank.

  ``It was a woman, actually.’’

  Burnard smiled awkwardly, betraying a moment of confusion.

  ``Look, I’m sorry. I thought the worst.’’

  Burnard shrugged.

  ``I told you I could never kill Franz.’’

  ``You didn’t like him.’’

  ``No, I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean I would have done anything to hurt him.’’

  ``I know that now. I was wrong.’’

  Brant held out his hand. Burnard took the peace offering and shook, grasping his good shoulder lightly in a sign of further contrition. The two men parted friends, each smiling as the other made a hasty retreat.

  ``You must have known.’’

  John King shook his head in despair. They were sitting on the steps of the lodge, the sun skirting the tops of the trees. Field birds sang in the background.

  ``I was hoping….’’

  King’s voice trailed off to nothing as the big man brushed a tear from his cheek.

  ``That night, when Eichel was killed. You were in bed waiting for her.’’

  Brant balled his hands, massaging the wrist that had taken the force of Ingrid King’s blows.

  ``I was in bed,’’ King said, repeating Brant’s words. ``I thought…I hoped…she was in the bathroom down the hall.’’

  They sat in silence for a moment, each contemplating the stillness of the afternoon and the fading light.

  ``You must think me a fool,’’ King said, straightening his back as he drew his hands down the length of his cheeks.

  Brant shook his head. ``None of us want to believe the worst of those we love the most. It’s only natural.’’

  ``Yes, but all the same….’’

  ``There is one question,’’ Brant said, letting the moment hang.

  ``Go ahead.’’

  ``When you realized she wasn’t in the bathroom, when you realized she’d gone to see Eichel….Wasn’t she covered in blood when you saw her next? Why involve me? Didn’t it make sense just to let it be and wait for the local troopers?’’

  King stood and stretched his legs. Standing at full height, he towered over Brant. Jonas stood.

  ``I didn’t want it to be true,’’ King said, turning to face Brant. ``I’d been drinking. I was passed out and never actually saw her go to the bathroom. She must have changed. It was all a blur. I thought that if you investigated and if you didn’t find anything, then that would be it. We could all get on with our lives. It was stupid, I know. But you said it earlier. I didn’t want to believe she could be capable of doing such a thing.’’

  Brant picked at a knot in the wooden support beam he’d been leaning against. A butterfly fluttered by, dodging and weaving through the air with dizzying speed. Beyond the gravel driveway, a cicada wailed and clicked an ode to the approaching end of summer.

  ``When did you find out about them?’’

  King smiled awkwardly as he brushed the seat of his hiking pants.

  ``I’d been watching them. I could tell by the way they were acting. I was furious at first. I wanted to confront her…them. I could have killed him. I really could. But then I pulled back. I promised myself that if she stayed with me, I wouldn’t ever bring it up. I was such an idiot. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. I’m pathetic actually.’’

  Brant felt pity for the man. To suspect your wife of infidelity was one thing. To find the proof and then to refuse to act was an entirely different situation. For a man like John King, an alpha male accustomed to getting everything he’d desired, the predicament would have been unbearable.

  ``Look, this isn’t going to be easy on you, but details will come out at her trial that you’re not going to like. I want you to be prepared. You need to hear everything and the sooner the better.’’

  King shook his head with force.

  ``I’m not interested,’’ he said. ``I don’t care what they were up to. I really don’t. I lost her before I ever had her. That makes what we had, what we built together, a complete charade. I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to recover from that, lieutenant.’’

  Brant stepped toward King to comfort him. The other man pulled away.

  ``I’ll leave you my business card,’’ he finally said. ``Call me in Boston if you need anything.’’

  ``And what is it
exactly that you can offer me?’’ King turned to Brant, a hardened look on his weathered face.

  ``I know loss,’’ Brant said with feeling. ``I know what it’s like. My wife was killed in a car accident a few years ago. A drunk driver. Kid of about nineteen sideswiped her at an intersection. An absolutely senseless death. Stupid. It makes me burn with anger every time I think about it.’’

  King’s face softened. ``I’m sorry.’’

  ``What’s done is done.’’

  ``Yes, I suppose so.’’

  King stepped down onto the gravel driveway, crunching his boots into the pebbly surface. ``When do you plan on leaving?’’

  ``I hadn’t really thought about it,’’ Brant said.

  ``You’re welcome to stay here for a few more days. It’s end of season but I’ll still be here for a few more weeks.’’

  ``What would I do?’’

  ``Whatever you want. And I could use some help with the kayaks. They still need to be moved to the barn for the winter. The more hands, the better.’’

  ``I have to get home,’’ Brant said, extending his hand to the other man in friendship.

  The two men shook.

  King, lost in thought, looked off toward the lake and the broad, flat disc of water.

  He found her in his room after he’d finished with King. She’d changed and showered. Her short hair was wet and she wore a simple white t-shirt and jeans.

  ``You’ll want this,’’ she said, handing him the nylon belt buckle he’d used to tie Ingrid King’s hands.

  ``Thanks.’’

  ``These all your books?’’ she asked, indicating the open box at the foot of the bed. She’d taken a volume or two out of the box and had cracked open the spine on one of the leather-bound tomes.

  ``Not all. I borrowed some.’’

  ``How’s your head?’’

  ``I’ll live.’’

  ``You need an MRI. My father can recommend a good neurosurgeon if you’re looking for one.’’

  ``I’ve got one.’’

  ``You need to see the best. We can arrange something.’’

  ``I’ll think about it.’’

  Mallek thumbed the cover of the book she’d picked from the box. ``Epictetus. Sounds old and boring.’’

  Brant took the book from her and flipped to the front.

  ``Epictetus was a Stoic philosopher.’’

  ``Stoic?’’

  ``Hmmmm. It’s a school of Hellenistic philosophy. Epictetus believed that happiness comes from virtue, that self control and fortitude can be enough to overcome any obstacle. It’s a comforting thought, don’t you think?’’

  ``That’s not how I want to live my life.’’

  Brant returned the book to its box.

  ``You were very good out there, very calm. You’d make a good Stoic.’’

  Mallek shook her head in distaste. ``Not my style by the sound of it.’’

  ``Well, to each his or her own, I suppose.’’

  ``What are you going to do now?’’

  ``I want to sleep to be honest.’’

  She smiled. ``That sounds wonderful. Are you going back to the cabin?’’

  Brant shook his head. ``John offered the run of the lodge for the rest of the week but I have to get back home.’’

  ``You’ll see a doctor when you get back to the city?’’

  He raised his hands in surrender. ``Promise.’’

  Mallek looked around the room, resting her eyes once again on the books and the leather spines.

  ``You’re not what I expected in a cop.’’

  ``No? Why’s that?’’

  ``I don’t know too many cops that read philosophy for one.’’

  ``And you know a lot of cops, do you?’’

  Mallek smiled guiltily. She didn’t need to answer.

  ``Give me your cellphone will you.’’

  She handed over her handset. He checked the screen for the five bars indicating a signal at full strength. A moment later he had Ben on the line. The young boy squealed in delight at some unseen pleasure. Brant smiled at the thought of his son bounding across a playground.

  ``Ben, it’s Dad. What are you doing?’’

  ``Daddy!’’ Ben’s voice boomed across the airwaves with a joy that was hard to contain. ``Are you enjoying your rest?’’

  ``I’m actually not on vacation, Benji.’’

  ``But you’ll come home soon?’’

  ``A couple of days, yes.’’

  Ben rang off without saying goodbye. Brant imagined him chasing butterflies in the park, his Aunt Marcellus watching nearby.

  ``My son,’’ he said as he returned the cellphone.

  ``How old?’’

  ``He’ll be five in October.’’

  ``You have my home number in your phone now. Call if you want to.’’

  Mallek smiled.

  Spontaneously, Brant embraced her in a hug, mouthing ``thank you’’ as he pulled her close. Outside, the afternoon was fading to early evening. Silvery leaves fluttered in the breeze. A loon’s plaintive call echoed across the open expanse of the darkened lake. Above the shoreline, ragged clouds burned pink and orange as the sun sparked a final gasp.

  He said nothing more as his body lightly trembled.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  A stop at headquarters to file his report. A gray sky. Hint of rain. A radio report said to expect an early autumn; the forecast for winter was long and cold. Ben loved the snow. Brant? He could do without the salted roads, the bone-chilling temperatures, the early mornings standing in the driveway clearing snow and ice from the windshield of his car.

  The plan was to debrief Jolly in person, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

  ``Probably at another budget committee hearing,’’ Katy Malloy said when Brant asked where he could be found.

  ``Tell him I stopped by.’’

  ``He’ll be thrilled. I think March is around.’’

  ``It can wait,’’ Brant said. ``What’s this?’’

  A package from FedEx sat on the middle of his desk. He took the notecard attached and opened it. Cursive handwriting. The penmanship was beautiful. Malloy shrugged when he shot her a look.

  I thought you might like this. Susan.

  He opened the package. Nestled among a collection of balled newspapers was the King James Bible that Allison Carswell had kept on her nightstand. He picked it up, weighed it, ran his finger along the outer edge of the pages.

  ``A present?’’ Katy Malloy asked, fixing him with a questioning look.

  ``It’s the Bible that Allison Carswell kept on her nightstand. She underlined a passage, a quote really. It was significant to her.’’

  ``What quote?’’ Malloy asked. She’d left her desk and was standing behind him as he thumbed through the pages.

  Brant read the passage and turned to the younger detective when he’d finished.

  ``In the New Testament the sea almost always represents a moment of conversion,’’ he said. ``Only God can control the wind and sea. Jesus shares God’s control. The passage is about Christ’s divine power over nature, but also suggests his power over evil.’’

  ``Was Carswell trying to send a message?’’

  ``Sort of,’’ Brant said as he repackaged the Bible. He had the urge to keep it for himself, but knew he should think better of it. It would only gather dust in his collection. He wasn’t a believer. ``Maybe she was bothered by the research she was doing on gene editing. Maybe the God-like power to manipulate nature ultimately bothered her. It is an awesome power after all.’’

  ``How do you know all this?’’ Malloy asked, arching her eyebrow. ``I didn’t think you were religious.’’

  ``If you want to understand human nature, you need to read the good book,’’ Brant said. ``I’m not religious in the conventional sense, but that doesn’t mean I’m not interested.’’

  ``What do we do with that?’’ she asked, indicating the Bible and the packaging it’d been sent in.

  ``Get forensics to dust
it for latents.’’

  ``Then what?’’

  ``Tag it and bag it.’’

  Brant pocketed the notecard Susan Chua had sent along with the Bible. He’d call and thank her. More than that, he’d need to follow up, to see how she was doing and whether she needed his help with Volodin.

  ``What have you been doing?’’

  ``The case folder on Carswell,’’ she said, indicating a bulging filefolder sitting on his desk. ``All the paperwork. The autopsy reports. The photographs. I was about to add these.’’

  She handed over a stack of paper. Transcripts of interviews she and Clatterback had conducted while he’d been away.

  ``Those interviews took three days. Two more to type up. Clatterback’s the fastest typist I’ve ever seen by the way.’’

  ``I’ll look at them later,’’ he said, filing the papers in the case folder.

  ``John told me what happened in Maine,’’ she said without prompting. ``How are you feeling?’’

  ``Could be better,’’ Brant said, massaging his shoulder. ``Could be worse. Where’s Junior?’’

  ``Shooting last night near Boston U. Some guy waving a knife. Refused to drop it.’’

  ``Who shot him?’’

  ``State Police trooper.’’

  ``Jesus.’’

  ``Yeah, pretty bad. Kid was black. Trooper’s white. CNN’s been playing it all morning on heavy rotation.’’ Malloy nodded in the direction of the flatscreen television in the corner. ``Al Sharpton’s heading over to the scene with the whole freak show. Some lawyer, too. The woman who did the OJ Simpson case.’’

  ``Gloria Allred.’’

  ``That’s the one.’’

  Brant began rummaging through his desk. When he found the slip of paper from the evidence log, he placed it in his pocket. Malloy watched with keen eyes.

  ``How are things with your dad?’’

  Malloy glared. She’d been playing with an iPad. She stopped what she’d been doing and handed him the device.

  Brant glanced at the screen. A front-page story in the Boston Globe on Matty Luceno under Sheila Ritchie’s byline. The story made interesting reading. Ritchie had connected the dots, drawing out a long tale of interconnected deals between Luceno and some of the city’s biggest powerbrokers. Nothing outright illegal, but the message was clear. Luceno was dirty and anyone within his orbit was tainted.