Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (44 page)

 
``No I didn’t.’’

 
``So what can I do for you? Here, help me with this.’’

 
Burnard turned the kayak on its side, sending a rush of water out through the rear hatch. Brant took the bow of the kayak while Burnard steadied the stern. Together, they turned the craft over to expel the last of the water. Satisfied, Burnard nodded in the direction of a half dozen kayaks laid side by side like tinned fish.
 

 
``We’ll move them into the barn for the winter but for now this’ll do. You had questions?’’

 
Burnard brushed dirt off his hands. Brant would have preferred the lodge where they could have sat alone in one of the guest bedrooms or perhaps the main dining hall. Most interrogations had a rhythm. They were like lovemaking. They started off slow with each of the participants probing and feeling out the mood, the temperament, the state of the other.

 
``Where were you when you heard Eichel had been shot?’’

 
``You mean when he shot himself, don’t you? That’s the theory, isn’t it?’’

 
``Let me rephrase. Where were you when you heard the gunshot?’’

 
Burnard paused in thought as he reached for the thermos of coffee.

 
``I was in my room. Reading.’’

 
``And where is your room again?’’

 
``Other side of the lodge. A few doors down from Mallek’s.’’

 
``And when you heard the gunshot?’’

 
``I jumped. It startled me so I rushed out to see what had happened. I met John in the hall if you’re trying to ask whether someone can vouch for me.’’

 
``I wasn’t, but I can check with him for corroboration.’’

 
``You go ahead and do that.’’

 
``I gather you didn’t care much for Mr. Eichel.’’

 
``Is that a question? It sounds more like a statement, like you’ve already made up your mind. I can imagine who you’ve been talking to so I have a pretty good idea what you’re getting at.’’

 
``You two had an altercation the night he died. I know because I was there and I saw you both go at it.’’

 
``Yes, I remember.’’

 
``So, not a very good look, is it?’’

 
``No, it isn’t,’’ Burnard said, the corners of his mouth showing the hint of a wry smile. ``You think I’d be stupid enough to kill him after getting into a fight just a few hours earlier?’’

 
Brant shrugged. ``You’d be amazed at how stupid people can be when they’re angry.’’

 
``I wasn’t angry.’’

 
``Really? You looked it to me.’’

 
``That was a friendly clash of personalities, lieutenant. Nothing more.’’

 
``Over what?’’ Brant asked, realizing he’d yet to hear an adequate explanation as to why the two men had gone at it.

 
``Franz was being an asshole. He kept hitting on women. He hurt a lot of people in the process.’’

 
``Anyone in particular?’’

 
Burnard shook his head in mock frustration. ``You don’t give up, do you?’’

 
``I try,’’ Brant said in response.

 
``You know about Chris Mallek?’’

 
``I do, yes. Anyone else?’’

 
``Other guests earlier in the season. He had a girlfriend in Boston.’’

 
``How do you know that?’’ Brant asked, his interest piqued.
 

 
``It was an open secret. He went down there a few times this summer to hook up with her.’’

 
``Any idea who she was?’’ Brant asked.

 
``No, no idea.’’
 

 
Burnard threw the remains of his coffee into the bushes abutting the wooden racks holding the lifejackets. He screwed the cup back on the thermos then took two lifejackets from the racks, tossing one to Brant in the process.
 

 
``Tell you what, lieutenant, why don’t we go for a kayak. The lake’s calm. The storm won’t hit for another couple of hours. The sun’s about to set in another hour or so.’’

 
Burnard looked at his watch. It was a Casio G-Shock with an oversized face and worn leather strap. The silver casing glowed in the afternoon light.
 

 
``We have just enough time.’’

 
Brant hesitated. Try as he might, he couldn’t dislike Burnard. He could feel the big man’s pull, the allure that Mallek had described earlier.
 

 
What the hell, he thought, eyeing the rippling surface of the lake and the wavelets washing the pebbled shoreline.
 

 
``Lead the way.’’

They pulled two kayaks from the racks. Both were single-seaters meant for the ocean. Burnard’s had a hatch in the front and in the back. The safety lines were worn and bleached from the sun. The kayak’s surface was matted, as if it, too, had spent a considerable time in the sun. Brant’s was newer. The fiberglass shone like a polished apple. His had a single hatch in the front covered with a black rubber seal.
 

Down at the beach, Burnard showed how to use the paddle, explaining that the tip of the blade should kiss the surface of the water but that pulling too deep would upset the balance and cause the kayak’s stern to fishtail. After the brief introductory lesson, they were out on the water, Burnard’s mastery of the sport immediately evident. The big man dipped his paddle into the water with confident, strong strokes. His kayak sliced through the water. It was a thing of beauty. No extra wake. No splashing or extraneous effort. All force seemed to be directed with infinite focus on each and every movement of the paddle. Brant, by contrast, seemed to flail inelegantly through the water. Sometimes, his paddle would go too deep. The stern would break out of alignment, and the kayak would set off in an unintended direction. Other times, the paddle would slap uselessly on the surface of the lake, breaking the kayak’s forward momentum.

 
``You’re using too much force,’’ Burnard called over. He circled back and came up alongside. ``You don’t want to be too gentle, but you don’t want to fight the water, either. Here, watch what I do. You’re right-handed, so use that as your control hand. That’s the one that’ll dominate. Don’t change the grip on your control hand.’’

 
Burnard tipped the right-hand side of his paddle into the water and pulled. Eddies formed in the water as the kayak shot forward. Brant imitated the motion with less success. Though he held the paddle firmly in his right hand, the paddle still seemed oversized and awkward. The blade slapped against the surface of the lake, sending a spray of water outward.

 
``You’re still trying too hard. Relax and let the movement of your body and the blade carry you forward.’’

 
Burnard stroked ahead while Brant fumbled. He wasn’t completely hopeless. He’d learned to balance his weight to the point where the kayak stayed mostly upright. His strokes were smaller, more measured. He’d learned to relax his shoulders and hips, meaning the kayak moved generally in a straight line. Burnard pushed him onward with encouraging comments and instruction.
 

 
``Let’s check out that outcropping,’’ Burnard said, pointing his paddle to a section of shoreline in the distance.

 
Out on the water, the sky seemed bigger, more expansive. The afternoon light had continued to mellow, and the surface of the lake glittered with an intensity Brant found unexpected. A breeze had arisen from nowhere and the water had become rougher, making the kayaking harder going. Waves lapped against the fiberglass hull. The bow had begun to crash through successive waves, sending a spray of water into the air.
 

Back on shore, Burnard helped steady his kayak as Brant pulled himself free of the craft. His body ached. His legs were tight.
 

 
``You’ll get the feeling back in your legs in a few minutes,’’ Burnard beamed.
 

 
Brant stood on the beach, wavelets lapping at his feet, his nylon shell sodden and heavy from the water that had sloshed over the sides of the kayak and into the cockpit. The lodge loomed above them on its hill. The waning sun, now a brilliant, fiery red, beat down on his back, casting long, alien shadows on the shoreline. A chorus of frogs filled the air with their singing. A beautiful summer’s evening, he thought. And yet there was a melancholy, too. The sadness of an ending, of a conclusion to a season that had given its best and had no more to offer.

 
``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.
 

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.