Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (38 page)

King had brought two flashlights. He kept the bigger for himself and handed the other to Brant. The path to the kayaking center took them through thick brush. Spruce, fir and northern hardwoods spread out on either side of a rutted, narrowly cut path. All around them, the air was musty and heavy. Earthy smells rose up from the dank ground. A chorus of sounds emanated from unseen frogs and insects hidden within the dense undergrowth. Wet leaves and sodden earth squelched under foot.

``I didn’t know what to do,’’ King said, his voice once more adopting a plaintive, pleading tone.

 
``Why me? What is it you think I can do?’’

 
``You’re a cop, right?’’

 
``What?’’

 
``Sorry, it’s just we do background checks on all our guests. It’s for your protection as much as ours.’’

 
Brant began to protest but thought better of it. He’d follow up with King later. The man was obviously stressed. Whatever had happened had been traumatic enough to break the man’s confidence.

 
They arrived in the foyer. Embers burned in the hearth of the stone fireplace.
 

 
``Follow me,’’ King said when he’d folded his umbrella.
 

 
Brant followed King to the back of the main floor to the dining hall. King’s wife sat at one of the long wooden tables near the back of the room. She’d been staring at the screen of a laptop computer but closed the lid abruptly when she saw them enter. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.
 

 
``Wi-fi’s down. I guess the phone line’s been cut. At least we still have power.’’

 
The woman rose to greet them.

 
``What’s going on? What do you mean you still have power?’’ Brant asked in confusion.

 
``There’s a storm on the way. Some of the phone lines are down,’’ John King said. ``This is Ingrid, my wife. I didn’t get a chance to introduce you earlier tonight.’’

 
``We didn’t know what else to do. This is just terrible.’’

 
Ingrid King frowned with worry as she stifled a sob. A fog of concern seemed to hang over her. Her hands remained in constant motion, first dealing with an errant hair, then smoothing the creases of her tan hiking shorts. Despite her state, she was the most beautiful woman Brant had ever seen. She was tall, thin and athletic. Her shoulders were wide and she had a narrow waist. She wore her blonde hair short and straight. Her face was open and honest.

 
``So what is it? What’s going on?’’

 
``It’s Eichel,’’ John King said, running his hands through wet hair pasted to his forehead. ``He’s been shot. I think he might be dead.’’

 
``Dead?’’

 
``He’s in the back.’’

 
Brant followed John King from the dining room into a narrow hallway. Ingrid King remained behind and resumed her seat.

 
``Who else is back here?’’ he asked when they were alone in the hallway.

 
``Just me and Ingrid. The others are on the opposite side of the lodge.’’

 
They continued down the hallway. Mark Burnard, dressed in a pair of boxer shorts and t-shirt, rushed them as they approached. Chris Mallek stood off to one side.

 
``What the hell’s happening, John?’’

 
``Please, stand back,’’ King said as he cleared the way for Brant.

``What’s he doing here, John. What the fuck is it? What’s going on? Where’s Franz?’’

 
Burnard raised his voice in a panic.
 

 
``Let him do his job, okay?’’
 

 
Burnard began to protest but was cut short by Mallek as she took his arm, gently guiding him to the side of the hallway to clear the path for King and Brant.

 
``Over here,’’ King said to Brant over his shoulder.
 

King showed him into a room lit only by the light from the hallway. The air was fetid and heavy. The smell of blood and shit assaulted him instantly. A tapping sound came from somewhere outside the room. A moth — or was it the rain? He couldn’t be sure. King moved to the opposite end of the room and turned on one of two bedside lamps.
 

 
The body was beside the bed. Eichel wore a pair of pajama pants but was naked from the waist up. A revolver lay on the floor next to him. Bright red blood had spilled freely from a hole in his chest. The skin was chalky white.

 
``We didn’t know what to do,’’ John King said, a tinge of panic entering his voice. ``We heard the bang and ran back here as soon as we could.’’

 
Brant crouched for a closer look at the body. His knees protested. The pain in his head had intensified. A migraine aura seemed to be weighing him down, making every movement labored and slow.
 

 
No medical examiner was needed to tell them that Franz Eichel was dead. There was no breath. No pulse. Bits of the man’s chest cavity had been sprayed against the wall.
 

 
He’d seen suicides before, of course. Bridge jumpers. Car accidents that weren’t. Slashed wrists and bathtubs full of blood. Most successful suicides tended to share the same quality — the victims showed an unwavering determination to finish the job. In Brant’s experience, suicides weren’t crying for help or seeking attention. They had no desire to find themselves in the hospital or with injuries from a job half done and botched. Suicide by gunshot was a case of infinite more complexity. There was a violence in death by handgun that made him shudder.
 

 
``We need to call the local police and get someone up here.’’

 
``We’re having trouble with the phone lines. Can’t get a call through.’’

 
Brant looked around the room. The bed was unmade. The curtains were half opened. The lampshade on the bedside light had been knocked ajar. A faint smell of burnt powder tinged the air.
 

 
``Did you find a note?’’ he asked as he turned back to John King.

 
``What do you mean?’’

 
``Suicides usually leave notes.’’

 
King shook his head.

 
``No note.’’
 

``Try not to touch anything.’’

 
Brant stood up as he studied the body, eyeing the black and crimson spray on the half-made bed and the head board. Even without touching the body, he could tell there was no exit wound, meaning the bullet would be lodged somewhere in the man’s chest cavity.

 
The pattern of blood, the location of the gun, and the way the body had slumped to the floor all seemed to suggest that Franz Eichel had killed himself. Why was another matter. But from what Brant could see, there was no mystery as to what had occurred in the bedroom. He said as much to King. The other man stood grim-faced at the foot of the bed.

``When can the local police get here?’’ Brant asked.

 
King shook his head. ``We’re covered by C-Troop. Earlier news report said they were tied up with the storm down in the valley. I doubt we’ll have much luck getting through.’’

 
``It’s imperative that someone reviews the scene.’’

 
King stood rigid, his blank stare betraying a look of shock and despair.

 
``Don’t touch anything. The scene needs to be preserved,’’ Brant said, noting the smell in the room. Bile began to catch in his throat as he felt the urge to retch.

 
``The troopers won’t get here for hours. Maybe days with the storm,’’ King said, repeating himself. ``We can’t just leave him here.’’

 
Brant frowned. He was loathe to do anything. All the same, King was right. Decomposition would set in quickly, especially in the humid air.

 
``We’re going to have to do something,’’ Brant said, regretting the words almost immediately.

 
``We have a cold room at the back of the kitchen where we keep most of the food,’’ King said. ``It’s empty at the moment. We only use it to store supplies when we have big groups.’’

 
``John, listen to me. We’re going to have to do this ourselves. Are you up to the task? Because if you aren’t, I’m going to have to get someone else.’’

 
King mumbled a reply, indicating he’d heard Brant and was ready to comply.

 
Brant began taking photographs of the room with his cellphone. He walked the perimeter, taking shots from various angles and heights. He was careful to leave the body undisturbed while he made a mental map of the room. A rolled-up sleeping bag and hiking knapsack had been placed at the bottom of the closet. Most of the clothes had been packed away. A few books had been placed atop the bedside tables. Rain gear had been hung on hangers and left to dry against a far wall.
 

 
``That’s about all I can do here,’’ Brant said when he’d finished photographing the scene.
 

 
``When did you find him?’’ Brant asked.
 

 
John King looked at his watch.

 
``Twenty minutes ago. Maybe half an hour.’’

 
``And you heard a bang?’’

 
King shook his head in the affirmative. ``My wife and I have the bedroom on the other side of the hall. We didn’t realize it at the time but we heard the gunshot then a thud. I guess that’s when he hit the floor.’’

 
``And your wife?’’

 
``I was in bed. She was in the bathroom.’’

 
John King’s face had recovered some of its color. To Brant, the man seemed to be recovering a semblance of his self.

 
Brant took a gulp of air. His migraine aura had begun to build. Another hour and he’d be forced to retreat to his bed for the better part of the day.
 

 
He pressed his fingers gently against the dead man’s neck. The skin was cold and tacky to the touch.
 

``You can forget about a pulse.’’ John King said, stating the obvious.

 
``I’m not interested in a pulse,’’ Brant said. ``I’m checking for rigor mortis.’’

 
``And?’’

 
Brant backed away from the body.
 

 
``Rigor has started to set in. By the looks of it, I’d say your timing is about right. The body will stay rigid for the next twelve hours then it’ll start to lose rigidity. Can you lock this room?’’

 
``Yes, of course.’’

 
``Good. Do it but let’s move him first.’’

The cold storage room was at the back of the lodge.
 

They’d needed three to move the body. Reluctantly, King had called for Burnard’s help. The task had taken the better part of half an hour. King had fashioned a stretcher from a bedsheet. They’d rolled the body onto the stretcher, covered it with a separate white sheet, then hauled the body into the hallway. Brant supported the head. King and Burnard guided the feet.
 

 
King thanked Burnard when they’d set the body down atop the storage room’s kitchen counter. Wooden planks had been laid down, fashioning a makeshift table. Burnard made a dismissive, guttural sound when told he’d have to leave.

 
``Is he always like that?’’ Brant asked when Burnard had left.

 
``He’s having a hard time processing what happened.’’

 
``You two don’t get along,’’ Brant said. It had been a statement, not a question. King read it as such and shrugged the thought aside.

 
``Mark and me have a history. But he’s a damned good instructor. We wouldn’t be able to operate the school without him.’’

 
``What was that about earlier this evening when he and Eichel almost took a swing at each other?’’

 
``A woman. What else.’’

 
``Ah, I see,’’ Brant said, filing the information away for later reference and followup.
 

 
King found a canvas tarpaulin.

 
``This’ll have to do for now,’’ Brant said as they pulled the covering taut over the body.

 
``Hell of a thing,’’ King said. ``This is the last thing I would have expected.’’

 
Brant smiled as he patted the other man’s shoulder in consolation.
 

 
The storage room was small and intimate. With the arrival of the body, the air had turned sour and thick. While Brant had done his best to push his feelings aside, he couldn’t help but notice how the mood had turned dark and foreboding. Understandably, John King’s playful demeanor from earlier that evening had been replaced by dark melancholy.

 
Brant turned to King and was about to say something when the other man doubled over.
 

 
``Jesus, I think I’m going to be sick,’’ King said as he bolted for the door and the freshness of the outside air.
 

``I still don’t understand,’’ King said to Brant when he’d recovered and regrouped. ``This isn’t like him at all.’’

 
``You saw the revolver and the shot to the chest. There’s no other explanation.’’

 
King looked contemplative.
 

 
``Sorry but I don’t buy it.’’