INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1)

by Bradley Ernst

  Someone approached?

  A knock at the door confirmed it. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Alvar made his way quickly to the door and slid outside. A woman’s voice mumbled something. Alvar laughed a lighthearted laugh. He came back alone, but held two bulging cloth sacks. He placed a sack in each of Mortimer’s baskets and slipped on his coat and boots. “My wish came true.”

  Mortimer loped down the path with purpose. Henna felt woozy from anticipation. She tried to estimate the weight of the bags when the dog stopped to poke his head in a snow bank, but she couldn’t. Everything seemed surreal. She could feel the cold in her nose when she took a deep breath, so she knew she wasn’t asleep. Mortimer emerged from the bank a snow-dog. He blinked and smiled at Henna, young and playful as ever. He sneezed to clear the snow from his nose and bounded ahead as if the baskets he carried were empty. Alvar seemed pleased. He whistled as they moved along the path. Henna knew it was no use asking him what was going on. She’d have to be patient. It was still early. The sun wasn’t up yet. Alvar and Mortimer waited on Henna as she picked her way along the path in the faint blue-white moonlight. Her stomach rumbled. The gingerbread wasn’t a filling meal, but it was a nice treat after the months of wild food. She thought of the buttery eggs Mortimer ate. Her stomach complained even louder.

  In a small clearing sat two chairs and a blocky table carved from packed snow. Reindeer hides sat atop each chair. Soft fox-fur blankets lay neatly folded on the snow-table. Three large logs sat on end, partially split and on fire—each log burned from the top. In the low light, they looked like smoldering stars. Crystalized branches of nearby trees sparkled like fireflies frozen on ice-perches. Mortimer understood. He sat by the blocky table and wagged as Henna unloaded the baskets. Alvar held his hands over a log to warm them. “Can you show me to a chair?” Henna helped her grandfather to a snow-throne. The forest was so still in the cold. Smoke curled in sweet ringlets from the logs.

  It felt like a dream.

  Alvar covered himself with one of the furs. “OK, let’s see what kind of forbidden breakfast we have in those bags.” Henna pulled the end of a bow and loosened the drawstring.

  It was treasure.

  “A little blue iron teapot, Grandpa!” A small jar of birch syrup was nestled inside the pot, wrapped in cloth. Henna packed snow into the pot and placed it on a log. Next came an iron skillet with a lid. The skillet was also blue. When Henna took the lid off, her stomach tumbled with urgency. “Butter, too.” Henna discovered a third pot, a jar full of batter, wooden forks, knives, plates, a carved wooden spatula—and two cups with tiny seahorses for handles. She placed the skillet on a log and opened the tin of butter. She checked the teapot and packed in more snow. It melted quickly. She placed a bundle of sweet smelling tea leaves tied with string inside the pot to steep. She poured the syrup into the second pot and placed it on a log. When butter danced in the skillet, she poured the batter in and replaced the lid. While the pancake cooked, Alvar smoked his pipe. Henna happily stirred and checked on the food then set the table. She eyed the second bag, but wanted the magic to last, so she made herself wait to open it. She poured tea for them both then sat to wait while the cake cooked. Alvar sipped his tea.

  He chuckled, mirth spilling from him flavored by his own excitement. “Open the other one, you silly goose.”

  Henna ran for the bag. “Grandpa—a knit hat! So soft—I can’t tell what it’s made from—some sort of wool? Softer than wool.” Henna removed her old hat and pulled on the new one. A small box with a ribbon held a carved wooden comb. When she opened the box a beautiful smell escaped. “Grandpa it smells like—like perfume.” She held the fragrant comb to his nose.

  Alvar smiled. “Sandalwood.”

  “Wood can smell like this?”

  “Wonderment lurks at every turn in this big world, Henna—if you watch for opportunities. If you recognize them.” There was more in the bag. A leather-bound journal, pencils for sketching, field guides—even a book on Latin. The last item she pulled from the bag was wrapped carefully in brown paper and tied with string. It was a plain wooden box painted black. Henna couldn’t figure out how to open the box. Wordlessly, she placed the item in the old man’s hands and watched his fingers. His knuckles were thick. His hands were strong and quick. He slid a wooden bar along the bottom of the box to unlock it. Inside sat several small glass bottles with heavy silver caps. Henna screwed the top off of a bottle. It was empty. She tried another—

  Empty.

  Inside each heavy cap sat a thick rubber stopper. Could something have leaked from the bottles? “They are empty—what are they for?”

  “Tinctures.” Alvar had a serious look on his face. He frowned down at his pipe. “Wonderment is not alone in the world, Henna. Some of the world is wicked. I’m going to teach you many different things from now on. Some of them may never prove useful, but they are things you should know. It is my job to prepare you for anything.” They were quiet for a few moments while Henna looked over the bounty. Alvar loaded his pipe. “Viesträ commemorates the three ‘Wise Men.’ Since I am only one man, I have a lot of catching up to do.” They feasted on pancake. With her belly full, Henna felt cold. She sat on her snow-chair and pulled a fur to her chin. The cake tasted floral—

  What was in it? Apple powder? Vanilla?

  The pancake was like a custard—a filling meal. Even Mortimer got some. Henna sipped at her tea. It was dark and intense. It smelled like her grandfather’s pipe tobacco before he smoked it. There were so many new tastes and smells. She thought about what her grandfather said about opportunities. She clenched the fur in her hands and closed her eyes. She smelled the sweet dry smoke, the evergreens, she smelled her grandfather’s pipe tobacco, the tea, the cake, the syrup. The rich butter. It was a special day. She wanted to remember it. Mortimer dozed at her feet until the bear dogs chased a moose through a nearby thicket. He opened an eye, but didn’t lift his head.

  “He isn’t going to live much longer is he?” Henna asked.

  Alvar puffed at his pipe. He’d always refused to weave a falsehood for her—temporary reassurances were always unfair.

  “No. He’s older than he should be already. Sometimes dogs and old men seem very vibrant just before they let themselves die. You don’t have to worry about me yet—I feel old and tired and sore today.” Mortimer groaned and lifted his head. He gave his long tail a slow fanning wag, but winced with the effort. He looked back toward the tidy stone house. He puffed his cheeks, waiting for Henna to tell “the story.” He chuffed, then aimed a low howl at the mantle-wolf. Henna patted her lap, an invitation to cuddle the dog while she finished the story. Eyes half closed, Mortimer rested his massive skull on the girl’s lap. She rubbed the base of his ears while she recited her half of the legend to him.

  Alvar frequently heard things neither Henna nor the dog could. He looked deep into the forest, as though he heard the wolves howling back. Henna wondered if wolves told stories too.

  “I’ve got one last thing for you.” Alvar pulled at a string around his neck and handed it to Henna. A gold ring dangled at the end of it. “It’s your mother’s wedding ring. You should have it.” Henna held the ring in her palm. She turned it, read the inscription, and held it to her nose to smell it. The ring smelled like Alvar, of course, not her mother.

  “How did you get it?”

  “Lucrece had it. She gave it to me the day she brought you up.”

  One of the only decent things she’d ever done.

  Henna slipped the string over her head and dropped the ring inside her shirt. The weight of it was comforting. It was the best present of the day. Her mother seemed more tangible. After the baskets were re-packed they seemed too heavy for Mortimer. Henna split the smaller items up between the two baskets, but slung the bag full of cookware over her own shoulder. She felt for the ring against her chest.

  It was there.

  They left the hides and blankets for Alvar’s accomplice. The sun was up. They made good time wal
king home.

  While they were gone, someone put a moose roast in the pot to cook. A strange basket sat on the table, conspicuously overflowing with fresh bread, tins of pudding, more butter. With no cooking to do, Henna laid a quilt by the fire for Mortimer. Alvar sat nearby to share the warmth. The dog groaned happily as Henna ran her fingers through his ruff. Flying embers didn’t wake Mortimer anymore, so each time Henna heard the wood pop she checked his fur. Mortimer whined. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. Henna brought his water to him. After a long drink he looked up at the mantle-wolf.

  Henna expected him to start the story, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked at her with grave expectation. “It’s OK, Mortimer. I’ll watch him. I won’t let him get away with anything.”

  Mortimer seemed satisfied. He laid his head to rest for the last time. Alvar and Henna dozed in shifts. When the dog stopped breathing, Alvar woke Henna. They held each other, petted the still—regal beast, and cried.

  ~Dead Reckoning

  When the state trooper pulled over to offer assistance to the driver of the oddly parked Jaguar, he didn’t expect a crime scene. When he discovered Raquel, he radioed it in. The car was locked. Although the woman was obviously dead, protocol indicated he feel for a pulse. He used his lockout kit to open the door and pulled on a rubber glove. She was pulseless.

  Obvious suicide.

  A small revolver lay in the front seat next to her limp hand. She had an exit wound on the back of her head, with no visible entrance wound—most likely she put the barrel in her mouth. A VHS tape sat on the passenger’s seat next to the revolver. It looked like pornography. The trooper backed up to look at the expensive car.

  Pretty woman, expensive clothes. The tape didn’t fit. Could be more to it.

  He eased the door shut carefully and returned to the cruiser to wait for the team. Dispatch crackled to life over the radio. There would be a delay. All local units including EMS were called to respond to an address in Cayuga Heights.

  A few days later, two homicide detectives finalized their report after one last interview with Troy Maddox. The exit interview was a formality, but considering the widower’s status in the community, they wanted to seal this one up tight. Troy Maddox entered the meeting with red eyes and shaking hands. He hadn’t slept in days. He was starting to hallucinate.

  “Hello, Mr. Maddox. Let me start by extending our condolences for your loss—”

  “I know the routine. Save the small talk. Let’s get on with it. Who was the man?”

  “Local tow truck driver. Retired porn star.”

  “Porn star,” Troy repeated. He scratched at his face where a grizzled beard born of self-neglect took hold. “A porn star was in my house.”

  “Yes, sir. Our investigation indicates he was in a British film.” Troy leaned back in his chair and studied the false ceiling. The irregular holes in each tile differed from one to the next. He wondered distractedly how they made them.

  Did a little machine make the holes? Did a person have to do it? Is that where I’m headed? To poke little holes in damned ceiling panels?

  The senior detective stood and poured Troy some thick black coffee. He tried to hand it to the attorney, but Troy ignored the gesture so the man set the cup on a nearby table. “What film?”

  The junior detective spoke. “Trencher’s Cafe.”

  “Is it a film with a plot?” Troy was near his breaking point. He was suddenly aware of his own smell—cheap cigars breathed from a dirty mouth, but with a tinge to it … like when the weird kid in second grade crapped in the sand under the slide after gorging himself on pot roast, boiled carrots, and a shot of Aqua Velva.

  “Yes, sir, a loose one.” Troy noticed the coffee and held the cup in both hands to take a drink. He slid back in the chair and spilled most of the cup on his shirt, but swiped his mouth with a sleeve and carried on.

  “What’s the plot?” The senior man stood. He rummaged for paper towels. He held them out for Troy, but Troy wouldn’t take them.

  “Sir, I’m not certain that will be helpful.”

  “Who is this meeting for?” Troy shouted at the ceiling. “Are you attempting, feebly, to provide me with the illusion of closure, or are you here to give me a sponge bath?” The junior detective raised his eyebrows and looked to his mentor. The older man nodded the go-ahead.

  “To summarize, the man killed in your home played a line cook—short skirted waitresses serially begged to have variations of dirty sex with him, plying him with their tips. He was a horrible actor, but he nailed the big penis requirement.”

  “Of course he did.” Troy poured a little coffee into his mouth, more down his shirt. “But he was only in one film. Why is that? What led the prodigal penis to my house by way of a tow truck?”

  “He gained a lot of weight celebrating the film’s success. He let himself go and couldn’t get any more work.”

  “In England.” Troy clarified.

  “Correct, Mr. Maddox.” The junior man shrugged at his partner, and the older man took over. “So he came to the United States, attended a trade school, and was placed at an import service shop driving a tow truck.”

  “And that’s where he met Raquel, my dead wife.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s where they met. He towed her Jaguar. They became—friendly.”

  “Who told you that? He’s dead. She’s dead. Who are the sources? I want some specifics. You guys write things down in little notebooks and run out of ink on the quotations alone. Take one of them out, flip to a page that’s germane—help me understand how my wife met this dirt bag.” The junior man did as he was told. His partner chewed a pen and studied his shoelaces. Troy watched the stressful dynamic unfold.

  This wouldn’t go well for them. It didn’t matter what they said. He didn’t want closure. He wanted blood.

  “Sir, let me preface this by saying—”

  “Random. Turn to a page at random, look for quotation marks, read.”

  “OK.” The junior man scanned desperately and flipped through the book.

  “Don’t screen the quotes, detective. Read one. At random.”

  “Yes, sir. OK. This one’s from a co-worker, Leon. ‘Tony told me the gal could suck a dime bar out of his molars from across the room.’”

  “The gal being—my dead wife, Raquel.”

  “Yes, sir. Raquel Maddox.”

  “What the hell is a dime bar?”

  The senior detective winced.

  Did he recognize the unlikely catalyst?

  He was fueled to immolate the department—the damned candy bar was the tripwire he needed.

  There was nothing for them to do—he wasn’t going to un-ask the question.

  “A candy bar. Spelled D-a-i-m—they’re from the UK.” The younger detective volleyed, eager to help.

  “No—I’m sure he said ‘dime bar.’” The senior man shot a warning glance at his partner. “It’s D-a-i-m though. It’s like a Heath bar.”

  Troy nodded, bent forward, pushed his fingertips into his gritty eyelids. “Thank you. I appreciate the measure of suction my wife could apply, foreign or domestic.” The detectives exchanged sheepish glances. “Continue with an urgent sense of thrift as it relates to similar minutiae.” Troy ran his fingers through his unkempt hair and looked back to the ubiquitous holes in the tiles of the false ceiling.

  I followed the formula. I did it all right. I shouldn’t be here. I’m ruined. This will affect my client base. I’m the town cuckold. An obese tow truck driver was my replacement in our marital bed.

  The senior detective provided a judicious summary.

  Almost there.

  The younger detective chimed in. “The boy may need counseling. He cleaned the murder weapon off with his shirt. Children frequently develop lapses in memory to deal with extreme situations like that.” The senior man sucked in his breath—a fearful sound that Troy recognized.

  Got them.

  Troy stood. “You think so? Write a name down. Write down the name of a person on E
arth who can help my son with the troubles he’ll accumulate over a lifetime by cleaning off a putter with a shirt. Maybe there’s a team of psychiatrists you know that specializes, say, in that, sure—but also, being shot in the face by your mother?” Troy walked to the coffee machine. He picked up the carafe. “You think when he wakes up, if he wakes up, that a phalanx of therapists could get him to the point where it’s all cool?” Both detectives shook their head. The junior man held his breath. Troy held the carafe aloft. “This? This is the worst coffee I’ve ever had.” He tossed the carafe into a plastic garbage can. “I’m going to go take a shower, shave, brush my teeth, put on a four thousand dollar suit, maybe the shark-skin shoes—I’m going to call my office, have eight of my associates meet me for a briefing, then march that parade of rainmakers in to make a personal visit to your captain. By the end of the day, one of you’ll be brewing that filth for the other one. You can drink it from chipped little cups at your new desk jobs.”

  Troy put the house on the market immediately. He didn’t expect it to sell quickly—the required disclosures assured that. A caretaker maintained the mansion. Everything of value was put in storage in a secure part of the office. Since the office also had a living space, Troy moved in for a few weeks. Word traveled. Troy felt pressed to reinvent himself somewhere before business dropped off.

  What a disgrace—everyone knew what she’d done—what she was. Reputation was everything.

  Bonn surprised everyone. He awoke despite his critical injuries. Surgeons and neurologists murmured amongst themselves—

  A millimeter here, a millimeter there, the bullet should have killed the boy.

  The bullet carved a trough through his son’s left cheekbone. It took off the top of his ear. He could see, but his left iris lost its pigment. Some days it looked white—others it appeared a dusky, dead, blue-gray. When his hair started to grow out, some of it was white too. Around the scar. He walked fine—he could move his arms—but Troy couldn’t bear to look at him. Bonn took the little mutt for daily walks. The dumb animal wasn’t house trained yet, so the office stunk. In a flash, everything good, it seemed—was gone. Troy asked Bonn if he was eating. Bonn said yes. Troy drank a little less, bathed regularly, and grew obsessed with boats. Bonn asked about Hedwig, but Troy changed the subject.