Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (37 page)

 
``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.

 
He was about to say as much when a scuffle seemed to break out at the edge of his field of vision. Mark Burnard rose abruptly from the table at which he’d been sitting and was cursing in Franz Eichel’s direction. Eichel responded with his own show of force, his face turning red as he picked up a glass from the table and threw the contents in Burnard’s direction. The two men lunged at each other, toppling the chair and table in the process as they sized each other up like prize fighters. The cafe had gone silent with only the sound of the fire’s slow burn to fill the vacuum.

 
``Fuck you, Eichel,’’ Mark Burnard shouted, his teeth gritted, his face drawn tight as he took the measure of his opponent. His shirt, sodden by the beer Eichel had thrown, stuck to his chest.
 

 
Eichel was on his feet and preparing to attack. He held his fists at the ready, again assuming the posture of a fighter about to enter the ring. Eichel steadied himself on legs planted firmly on the floor and with knees slightly bent. His eyes filled with malevolence.

 
``When you’re ready.’’ Eichel seemed to spit the words.

 
Brant pushed his chair back as he prepared to make a move. Someone would need to separate the two. He could see no alternative. As he readied his intervention, John King appeared at his side and placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

 
``I’ll take care of this,’’ King said, stepping closer to the two men and pulling them off to the other side of the cafe where their conversation couldn’t be overheard.

 
With King by their side, Burnard and Eichel continued to glare at each other but with some of the intensity removed. Whatever King said seemed to calm the men. Order returned as King mediated a shaking of hands between the two.
 

 
``What did I tell you. Bozos.’’ Chris Mallek said as the men began to right the upturned table and chairs. The air in the room had returned.

 
``What the heck was that about?’’

 
Mallek shrugged. ``Testosterone. Only room for one alpha around here I guess.’’

 
``Meaning?’’

 
``Meaning whatever you want it to mean,’’ Mallek said, smiling.

Brant pulled the curtains back. Outside the cabin, the night had become wilder. Shapes shifted against a blackened sky. The wind had picked up. The walls shook as rain began to drum on the sheet metal roof.

 
His cell chimed.

 
``Finally,’’ Clatterback said through static. ``I’ve been trying to get you all day.’’

 
``The phone connection isn’t great.’’

 
``Tell me about it. Are you ready to tell us where you are?’’

 
``Give me a couple of days. Something’s come up.’’

 
``The captain’s ripping his hair out,’’ Clatterback said.

 
``That bad?’’

 
``Worse than bad.’’

 
``What is it you want, Junior?’’ Brant asked, weary. He was exhausted, his words slurred, his thinking fuzzy.

 
``What’d you say to Susan Chua before you left for wherever it is you’re hiding out?’’

 
``Chua?’’ Brant asked, momentarily confused as he considered the name. Then it came to him. ``What’s happened?’’

 
``She came by the office,’’ Clatterback said. ``Dropped a load of documents on Meredith Financial. A Julian Assange document dump if you know what I mean.’’

 
``Really?’’ Brant asked, reviewing the last conversation he’d had with the woman.

 
They’d been talking about the man Allison Carswell had been seeing and about Chua’s after-hours work with Meredith Financial. The woman had been scared, maybe more than scared. Good for Susan, he thought. Perhaps his actions on the night of the stakeout had made an impact. Perhaps she was starting to see reason and was ready to cooperate.

 
``Meredith Financial’s bogus,’’ Clatterback said.
 

 
``Tell me something I don’t know.’’

 
``It’s a partnership registered in the Cayman Islands to avoid paying federal taxes. Kinda like what the Enron people did. Much smaller than Enron but the idea’s basically the same.’’

 
``What does that mean?’’

 
``It means all the money that goes through Meredith Financial went to a partner in the Cayman Islands. The partner takes a fee, then returns the profits to a bank in Chicago in a form that isn’t taxable by American law. It’s all here in the documents. The complete paper trail.’’

 
``Who’s behind Meredith?’’ Brant asked.

 
``We’re still working on that.’’

 
``Good. I’ll be in touch.’’

 
Brant hung up.
 

 
He yawned and stretched his arms behind his back to ease the tension building in his neck.
 

 
His eyes grew heavy as he considered what Clatterback had said. His thoughts meandered, eventually returning to the scene in the cafe earlier in the night.

 
The image of Franz Eichel and Mark Burnard sparring, squaring off against each other came to mind. What was it between the two that had created such animosity? Something there to explore. He’d ask around tomorrow.

Sleep came easy. Before he knew it, darkness took hold, pulling him down as if he were sinking to the bottom of a murky lake.
 

 
Sometime in the night he thought he heard shouting, the backfiring of a car and then a scream. He rolled onto his back and stared out at the blackness, unsure whether he’d imagined the sounds. Before long, his eyes grew heavy and he was again pulled under.
 

He was too late with Eichel. He never got the chance to ask what had set him off, what Mark Burnard had said or done.
 

Brant was awoken by a banging on the door sometime past midnight. The sound startled him at first. He’d been dreaming. Of what, he couldn’t remember. The dream was fuzzy. Entrails of memories elusive and ephemeral.
 

 
The banging continued.

 
Brant got out of bed and set his feet unsteadily on the bare floor. His back ached. He had a headache.
 

 
When he’d worked his way through the darkened cabin to the front door, he found John King standing on the landing, his face pained and worn. King wore a red windbreaker, black hiking pants and green hiking boots. He held a clear plastic umbrella in one hand and a cellphone in the other. The pitter patter of raindrops filled the blackness beyond the cone of brightness thrown out from the lamp above the door.

 
``You’ve got to come. Please.’’ King placed his cellphone into the side pocket of his windbreaker.

 
``What’s happened?’’

 
``Please.’’ King was pleading, his voice quivering out of fear and dread. ``It’s Eichel.’’

 
``What about him?’’

 
``Just come.’’

 
Brant stuck his head out from under the awning over the cabin’s front entrance. The sky was dark. A light rain fell. Trees snapped in the breeze. A moth circled the porch light in a spasm of confusion and frenzy.
 

 
He sighed as he pulled on a pair of jeans, a heavier top and his rain gear. He’d left his hiking boots outside on the concrete slab linking the cabin to the outhouse. A tin roof extended from the cabin to the toilet area. The dampness of the night air and the misting of rain had left his boots wet and cold.