Read Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller Online
Authors: Phillip Wilson
Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller
COPYRIGHT
A KISSAKI PUBLISHING ebook.
Ebook first published in 2015 by Kissaki
www.kissakibooks.com
Copyright © Phillip Wilson 2015
Cover and backflap design by Olivia Truong
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Kissaki Publishing
All rights reserved,
including the right or reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.
Wilson, Phillip
Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller/Phillip Wilson.
1. Brant, Jonas (Fictitious character) - Fiction.
2. Police-Boston-Gene Editing-Fiction
ISBN 978-0-9969344-0-4 (ebook)
Even The Wind
A Jonas Brant Thriller
Phillip Wilson
Kissaki Books
``The prize is the pleasure of finding the thing out,''
Richard P. Feynman (1918-1988), theoretical physicist, winner of the Nobel Prize in Physics 1965.
The men were amazed, and said ``What kind of a man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him?’’
Matthew 8:27 King James Bible
Even
The
Wind
For Eriko
HAPTER
O
NE
Trees blurred green. The lake glittered, silver and iridescent in the sun.
Boston Police Lieutenant Jonas Brant rose in the saddle and pumped, furiously, passionately, as if his life depended on it.
In a sense it did. Or at least lives were at stake. Of that he could be certain.
Late summer. Afternoon. Leaves fluttering in a light breeze, semaphore flags flashing green and white. A sun-dappled road. Warm, luminous light. The air heavy with a thick smell of forest and mud.
He’d been pedaling for more than an hour and in that time his mood had dipped and twisted with the contours of the road. The idea had been simple. Maintain a discreet distance, keep pace, don’t be seen.
And for much of the time, the plan had worked. The man on the bike ahead had seemed to play along, oblivious to the exertions of his pursuer. If he had any notion he was being stalked, he guarded it well. Like cat and mouse, Jonas and his prey seemed to toy with each other, taking pleasure in the endless exchange of surge and counter-surge.
But with time, the game had become one-sided, the man ahead much more adept on the bike, much more at home on the asphalt, much stronger in all senses physical.
Brant tried to keep pace, but with diminishing returns. Sometimes he cursed himself, wishing he’d been stronger, hoping he could maintain the chase for just a few minutes longer. He was losing, tiring, fatiguing. The other man pulled ahead, the reflector on his rear seat post bobbing, taunting until it began to fade.
Brant’s borrowed bike was a Cannondale, a thing of beauty with an elegant black and white carbon fiber frame, a teardrop saddle, forward seat post and Shimano components. The wheels were from Campagnolo, the aerobar was a Scott. A ride made for speed.
Except not for Jonas. Brant was no cyclist.
He was a tall man with average build and close-cropped hair turning gray. His body was that of a runner’s — thick calves and thighs, gangly arms, a powerful torso. He looked like what he was. A middle-aged man, lean and powerful but with a hungry look. An acquired taste.
Still, h
e’d held pace for awhile at least. An admirable effort, even if ultimately futile. The failed pursuit seemed somewhat of a relief in a way. The last thing Brant needed was to be seen, to have his cover blown so early in the surveillance. And yet it hurt and he was angry.
Brant dismounted, planting his riding shoes firmly onto the gravel surface skirting the asphalt. Field birds warbled plaintively. The rustling of leaves was soothing, like water rushing over rock.
What to think of the day’s effort? He’d played it safe, too safe. He’d need to do better, had to do better. Another day. The afternoon’s shadows were growing longer. The light was fading, dying. Soon, he’d have to head back to the cabin and the lake.
These were the thoughts playing through his head as he stared at a patch of purple and yellow wildflowers. A break in the trees revealed whitecaps churned to froth. Beyond, the sun had slipped behind a broken line of cloud.
Brant inhaled, counted to three and exhaled. Gradually, with effort, his heart rate slowed, his pulse dropped to normal.
He felt it first. A buzz, a tingle at his back, then a chirp as he reached around to the mesh pocket in the borrowed cycling jersey.
``Where are you?’’ the man on the other end of the cell asked without pause.
``Not far away.’’
``But where? You just can’t walk away from an investigation.’’
``I didn’t walk away.’’
``Sure looks like it to me,’’ the other man said, his voice harsh, unfriendly.
Gareth Oliver was Brant’s commanding officer in Boston. He was a big man, and loud, well-known to have anger issues and a home life in ruins. While not unexpected, Oliver’s voice had been a violation, an intrusion.
``Are you still there Brant? I’m sending a team to get you. Tell me where you are.’’
``I can’t do that, sir.’’
``You can and you will. You’re running out of options.’’
``I’m not ready to come in yet,’’ Brant said, steadying his breathing. ``I’m following a lead.’’
``You’re off the case, Brant. I can’t make myself any more clear.’’
``Forty-eight hours.’’
``Time ran out days ago. The Mayor’s office is breathing down my back.’’
``Two days,’’ Brant repeated, hoping to buy himself more time.
``None of us has two days, Brant,’’ Oliver said finally after a pause. ``I’m pulling Clatterback in. He’s going to crumble like a Chinese fortune cookie.’’
Oliver laughed at his joke and the racial overtones. Charming, Brant thought, adding xenophobia to the attributes he despised in the man.
``I didn’t walk out,’’ Brant said, repeating the assertion. ``I’m following a lead.’’
``What kind of lead is it if you can’t tell your captain?’’ Oliver asked.
What kind of lead? That was the question wasn’t it, Brant thought, removing a sheet of paper from the carrying pouch cradled between the bike’s aerobars.
The notes weren’t much. An email. Symbols on a piece of paper, indecipherable at first. He’d scratched his head when he’d found them, at a loss to their meaning.
An Internet search produced a best guess. Stock symbols. Companies traded on the New York Stock Exchange. Pharmaceuticals and drug makers. Procter & Gamble had had a bad run. The chart on Yahoo Finance was a downward slope, a blue line dropping like a rock.
Brant ran his finger down the column, scrutinizing the hieroglyphics for the hundredth time. He was no financial sophisticate, but that wasn’t the point, was it? A cop’s job was about asking questions and drawing links, seeing patterns where others saw randomness. The symbols were a pattern, he was sure of it. Which is what had brought him to the most unlikely of places. A stretch of road in a forest by a lake.
He remounted the bike.
``Are you still there?’’ Oliver asked. ``Why are you breathing so hard?’’
Brant looked at the screen as he broke the connection and pocketed the phone. He turned the bike around, swinging wide as he attacked the downward slope of an incline.
No use pursuing the other rider, he calculated, making a rough estimate of the distance between them. The other man bobbed one final time before disappearing over the crest of a hill. Another day, Brant said to himself as he prepared for the return trip to the cabin where he was staying.
Patterns out of randomness. Yes, that was it, he thought, barely registering the black vehicle as it pulled out from a hidden dirt road. The driver must have been equally surprised.
The car was an afterthought, heading for the centerline of the empty road. Or had the driver been aiming for him? The thought flashed through his mind as the bike’s front wheel jerked and shuddered, sending him sailing through the air.
HAPTER
T
WO
Two weeks earlier. He’d been sitting in the squad room sucking on an iced coffee and chewing the remains of a scone.
August, which meant the doldrums. Like the trees out on the plaza wilting under the power of the sun, a lifeless pall had descended on the city. Streets were empty, parking lots vacant. Most tourists had headed for cooler climates — maybe north to Canada, or out to San Francisco where the temperature never seemed to rise above 75. Even the thugs and petty criminals had headed for the hills or to the beach.
At least that’s what it felt like to Brant. He’d have been at the beach himself with Benji in tow if he’d had the funds. A cop’s salary didn’t go far in Boston, especially since Maggie’s death had made him a single dad. The insurance money had been a relief but it would run out soon enough. He’d put some into Ben’s college fund, paid down the mortgage on the townhouse in Back Bay and invested the remainder in a term deposit. Three percent interest for two years. You couldn’t go wrong with that.
But screw the money. Nothing was bringing Maggie back. The car accident that killed her had torn a hole in his heart bigger than the Big Dig.
Brant placed forefinger against thumb and flicked at a wad of paper, sending the projectile across the room. The paper bullet bounced off the rim of the garbage can and fell to the floor.
Lucky for him he was a better shot with the .40 caliber Beretta in the holster nestled snuggly against his ribcage. Out of habit, he brushed the leather shell with the tips of his fingers and ran his hand along the casing of the Beretta’s barrel.
``You are one crappy shot.’’
