Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (49 page)

 
``Well, yes, I suppose I did. But I was also terrified that John would find out about us and that he would question my honesty. We’d built a life together by that time. The lodge was making a bit of money. Another few years and we’d be in the clear.’’

 
``Why did you let John hire Franz?’’ Brant asked.

 
``I wanted to be near him. One day Franz came to me. He confessed that he’d met a woman in Boston, a researcher. He’d seen some of her work on gene editing and he was intrigued. She began to tell him about her studies and about the company she worked for.’’

 
``Genepro Molecular,’’ Brant said.
 

Ingrid King stared back with deadened eyes. ``Yes, exactly.’’

 
``So he got her to steal Genepro’s intellectual property, is that it? Is that what this is all about?’’ Brant asked.

 
King pursed her lips. ``In a manner, yes. Franz was too stupid to understand what this woman and Genepro were doing, but he could see there was value.’’

 
``Her name was Allison Carswell,’’ Brant said with force.
 

 
``Yes, Allison. I found her name in Franz’s emails. Together they hatched an idea, some crazy thing about gene synthesis and a software program to hack DNA,’’ King said, ignoring Brant’s rebuke. ``I didn’t understand any of it at the time. I eventually began to appreciate what he was talking about.’’

 
``DNA hacking?’’ Mallek’s voice was steady, full of bravado.

 
``Well, more like gene editing,’’ King said. ``Franz told me that this woman, Allison Carswell, had an idea. She’d seen a patent application for something called CRISPR-Cas9. It’s a technique, apparently, to precisely edit genes inside a living cell. A way to turn them on, or off, or modify them. Genepro had already been working with gene therapy and viruses. It was her idea to engineer a cold virus through gene editing to cause an immune response. Not deadly. Not debilitating. Just enough of a response to motivate those who’d been infected to seek treatment. What if a synthetic version of the same cold virus could be manufactured to infect populations at a high rate? A new virus, with no natural immunity or treatment?’’

 
``You’re crazy. This is science fiction,’’ Mallek said, a smirk on her face.

 
King shrugged. ``Maybe, Christine, but maybe not, yes?’’

 
``Sounds like someone has been reading too much Michael Crichton,’’ Brant said.

 
King scowled. ``You’re fools. Do you have any idea how much money we’re talking about? Vicks Nyquil sales were more than $165 million last year in the U.S.’’

 
``So it was all about money?’’ Brant asked.

 
Ingrid King shrugged. ``Yes, in the end I guess it was.’’

 
``How did you plan on cashing in on this crazy idea?’’ Brant again.

 
King smiled. ``Franz was buying stock in vitamin companies and cold remedy makers.’’

 
``And shorting airlines and hotels in the event their stocks fell when the general population freaked out and stopped traveling,’’ Brant said, finally putting it all together.

 
King nodded. ``Remember the chaos SARS caused the airlines? We’re not greedy. We didn’t want billions. Just a few million and we’d be very happy. You have to admit it’s an elegant plan. And no one would get hurt. Not really. Just a mild irritation. A runny nose and a few days of rash and irritation. That’s it. Simple.’’
 

 
``You killed Eichel?’’ Mallek asked.
 

 
``He’d become belligerent. He went to Boston and he stole all the documentation he could find. Whatever he couldn’t take, he destroyed. Without the software, there’s nothing. He was going to keep it all for himself.’’

 
``Allison Carswell was coming to get it all back,’’ Brant said. ``You must have been afraid they were going to cut you out in the end.’’

 
``The thought crossed my mind.’’

 
``So you killed Allison Carswell.’’

 
Ingrid King shook her head, dismissing the idea as a tight smile appeared. ``No. That wasn’t me. A happy coincidence.’’

 
``I don’t believe in coincidences,’’ Mallek said, inserting herself into the exchange once more.

 
King shrugged. ``It doesn’t matter what you believe, Christine. The point is, Franz had the designs and he’d already synthesized enough of the retrovirus to prove the concept.’’

 
``So you decided to kill him?’’ Brant asked.

 
``I wanted to kill him right away. But I’m also a coward. I don’t want to go to jail. I thought about it for a long time, about how I was going to do it. I could make it look like an accident. But I could also make it look natural. I didn’t have time to concoct anything more elaborate. When I heard you had booked the cabin, lieutenant, I knew I had to act.’’

 
``What did I have to do with it?’’

 
``No coincidences, isn’t that right? I knew you must have been on to Franz. If I hadn’t acted, the fool was likely to have confessed everything. I couldn’t let that happen.’’

 
``Did John know anything about this scheme of yours?’’

 
``John’s a fool. He has no idea about anything but himself. All he cares about is the lodge.’’

 
Ingrid King took a shallow breath and continued:

 
``John was asleep. I had arranged to meet Franz to talk about this other woman and about the money, about what we were going to do. I was afraid that whoever had killed this Allison Carswell would come looking for us. I also wanted the designs. He’d agreed to meet in his room. I took the gun with me but I didn’t have any intention of using it.’’

 
``But you used it?’’ Brant asked.

 
``Franz taunted me. He was afraid, very afraid. That woman’s murder caused him great distress. He said he was leaving me. We started fighting. I demanded the USB but he said that he’d already destroyed it. I knew he would never be so stupid but he wouldn’t give an inch. That’s when I lost complete control. I pulled out the gun and, well, we started to struggle. I suppose I shot him while we were fighting over the gun. I don’t really remember the details. I just know that he ended up with the gun in his hand, it fired and he slumped to the ground. What could I do at that point? I won’t lie. A chill went through my body when I saw him fall. I thought to myself, well, this is it. He’s solved my problems for me. It’s all over.’’

 
``And John never heard anything?’’

 
Ingrid King shook her head. ``The fool could sleep through anything. He’s a drinker. He downs a couple glasses of whisky every night before going to sleep. Never wakes up. Never hears a thing.’’

 
``You must have been angry when John insisted Eichel’s death be investigated properly.’’

 
Ingrid King’s shoulders shrugged carelessly. Her eyes had gone stone cold. ``I thought I could get away with it. Franz had done a good job of hiding all traces of our relationship. There was no way anyone was going to find this place. No way, that is, without the help of Franz himself. I’m curious. How did you find it in the end?’’

 
``Eichel’s phone.’’

 
King furrowed her brow. ``I don’t understand. I wiped it.’’

 
``Yes, but you forgot the location software.’’

 
``Location software?’’

 
Brant smirked. ``It doesn’t matter anymore. The point is you were careless. Eichel left a trail of digital breadcrumbs. All it took was someone with a modicum of intelligence to find them. I’m not saying that’s me, mind you. But then again, here we are.’’

 
``Yes, here we are.’’

 
King shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she moved the barrel of the gun from Brant to Mallek. The bunker was hot and getting hotter. The overhead lights buzzed and hummed as a flash of lightening filled the doorway.

 
``So what happens now?’’ Mallek asked.
 

 
``We’ll go for a drive. This bunker is secluded, but eventually someone will find it. Wouldn’t do if they were to find two bodies in the corner with bullet holes in their heads. We’ll do this properly. You two have become quite attached, you see. Lovers running off together into the woods without understanding the risks. Quite romantic, wouldn’t you say?’’

``You drive.’’

 
Ingrid King flourished the barrel of the Glock in Brant’s face as she waved him behind the wheel of Mallek’s Range Rover. The rain had stopped. Ground fog swirled around their feet, enveloping the car. The high-pitched squeal of a warbler was answered by a distant chirp.
 

 
They’d been in the bunker longer than he’d thought. The night had passed. Morning was about to break.

 
``Where are we going?’’ Brant asked.

 
``I’ll take the backseat,’’ King said without answering. ``Christine, passenger seat.’’

 
They did as instructed. The Range Rover’s wheels hopelessly spun in the mud.

 
``Unbelievable,’’ Ingrid King said, virtually screaming the words into the dead air around them. ``Get out, Christine. Push this thing. Do anything stupid and the lieutenant dies.’’

 
Ingrid King aimed the Glock at Brant’s head. Mallek did as she was instructed. With effort, the Range Rover began rocking back and forth in the muddy, wet ground. The engine revved, throwing up a flourish of sound that reverberated throughout the forest. Eventually, the big car broke free of its boggy hold. Mallek, splattered with mud, climbed back in.

 
Liberated, Brant reversed the car and edged back out onto the road and then the highway. It was empty. The rain had left the asphalt surface slick with a black sheen glistening in bands of sunlight.

 
The Range Rover rocked, its heavy body hugging the road as Brant pushed the vehicle. On either side of the highway, stands of forest began to break apart, revealing open fields and clearcuts. The metallic surface of a lake shimmered to their right. A broken band of trees marked the boundary of the lake’s waters and a graceful rise of craggy pink bedrock. Further along, they came to another open field of grass. At the edge of the field, an abandoned farmhouse stood in lonely repose, its roof a tattered patchwork of silvery shingles and patches of moss.

 
``Do you find this absurd?’’ King asked.

 
``Absurd? Spurned love and money. The oldest reasons for murder. As killers go, you aren’t very creative.’’

 
``Creativity is overrated. It’s the results that count.’’

 
``You may have a point,’’ Brant said.
 

 
``How will you get back to the lodge? Won’t anyone miss you?’’ Mallek asked.

 
``I’ll say I noticed you were missing and I went looking for you in the storm. I’m an altruist after all.’’
 

 
``A regular Florence Nightingale.’’ Brant chuckled at his own wittiness.

 
``But what about the Range Rover? How did you end up in Christine’s vehicle?’’

 
King beamed with pride. ``It’s the only car robust enough for the weather.’’

 
He pressed ahead. He’d been told to keep right, to be watchful for a turnoff when they’d passed Winterville Forest. They were the only car on the highway. The road stretched out straight ahead now, a grass verge on the right, a thicket of pine trees, telephone poles and sloping lawns to their left. They were coming to the end of the highway, to the state even. Beyond was the border with Canada — with Quebec — and the Saint Lawrence after that.

 
King cleared her throat. ``He laughed. All I wanted was to talk to him, to get what was mine. In a way, I helped design the program. He rejected my offer.’’

 
``An offer?’’

 
``A 50/50 split. I didn’t ask for anything more.’’

 
``You must have had something to bargain with.’’

 
King smiled. ``Allison Carswell’s murder.’’

 
``But you said you didn’t kill her,’’ Brant said.
 

 
``I didn’t, but Franz didn’t know that. I told him I’d go to the police over Carswell if he didn’t give me what I was owed. I’d seen the emails between them, remember. I knew he’d been to see her in Boston. They’d even had a child together, not that there’s much relevance to that. It wouldn’t take much to implicate him.’’

``What will you do with us after you….’’ Mallek couldn’t finish the thought. Perhaps the seriousness of their plight had finally taken hold. Perhaps she was waiting for Brant to do something heroic and brave. She’d be waiting awhile.
 

 
``You’re very impatient. Don’t worry. We’re almost done. And I promise, I won’t make you suffer.’’

 
The road meandered as the Range Rover shot through a thicket of trees. A grassy clearing appeared, its boundary marked by a red fire hydrant surrounded by thick tuffs of scraggly brush. Ingrid King tapped his shoulder with the Glock’s barrel as a way of telling him he was to take the dirt road entrance that had seemed to appear out of nowhere. Brant did as he was told and began to slow the big car. The Range Rover swung wide, its tires chewing at the mud and gravel. The smooth motion of the car abruptly changed as they left the highway and began down a narrow path pitted with pools of muddy water.
 

 
The road brought them to a whiteframe farmhouse. Beyond the curtained windows of the main building, nothing stirred. A red-roofed barn, its silver cladding partially stripped away to reveal the bones of the building’s structure, sat adjacent to the farmhouse. Gray clouds scudded across the pale blue sky. The sun was fighting valiantly to break free.