INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1)

by Bradley Ernst

  The kid had been through enough already.

  “She’s fine, Son. She quit, though. It was all too much for her. She told me she’d look in on you one day soon—hey, do you like boats?”

  Troy bought a 290-foot yacht—sight unseen. The vessel had disclosures of its own—a diving accident in the Bay of Bengal. The accident involved a swimming elephant. Two women were dead. The owner, a sheikh, wished to sell quickly for superstitious reasons. The asking price was $80,000,000.00—less than half the ship’s worth. The purchase price included two years of the crew’s salary and delivery. The original name of the ship was sensitive information, but Troy liked the new name. The Élan Petite required a staff of sixty-five. It could accommodate thirty guests in opulence. It had all the necessities: jet skis, helipad—swimming pool. A 55-foot catamaran speedboat served as a tender in shallower waters. Troy started to take better care of himself—the new start was something to look forward to. Troy decided to set up shop in Grand Cayman.

  Élan Petite—it had a ring to it.

  The name suggested there was a larger Élan cruising about somewhere—perhaps a 400-foot behemoth. Since Troy would live aboard the ship, new clients visiting the Caymans would appreciate his sensible nature. “The boat’s pristine,” the broker promised. “You’re going to love it, Mr. Maddox.”

  When opportunities knocked, he answered.

  Troy arranged for Bonn to attend junior boarding school in New Hampshire. “You’re going to love it in the islands, Son. When you visit. There’s world-class golf and a warm ocean. We can even ride horses on the beach.”

  Although Bonn seemed indifferent to horses on beaches, he took the news well.

  ~Different

  Bonn packed for boarding school while Troy explained the trust fund. It would pay for everything Bonn might need so Troy could focus on growing his new clientele from the Caymans. The caretaker would drive him to the school in New Hampshire. Troy seemed to have arranged for everything.

  “Pack light,” was the last thing his father said to him before he left. There could be worse parting advice. Troy’s partner in the local firm agreed to manage Bonn’s fund. He knew Rupert’s number, but slid the man’s business card in his pocket with Eugen anyway. On the way out of town Bonn stopped to see Manny. His friend promised to take care of Jelly Bean. He even invited Bonn to keep some things at the shop if he wanted, but he still seemed surprised when the caretaker carried the heavy-framed Bill of Rights into his greasy shop.

  Linda brought a casserole and they ate. She and Manny never had children, but she loved them. Linda was a tall, fine-featured lady—a gracious hostess. After the meal she gave Bonn a long hug. “Please come and visit us.” Manny and Bonn said their goodbyes next. Manny teared up. Bonn wondered at his friend’s raw emotions.

  Should he say something?

  Instead, he handed him the old deck of cards. The words came to him as the mechanic flipped through the deck.

  He must think it an odd gift.

  “Manny, I want to thank you for taking time to get to know me. You and Linda are the most genuine people I’ve ever met.” They clasped hands. Manny held on for a long time. The handshake felt paternal—fatherly, but like a real father shook his hand. Not Troy.

  Manny admired the framed document. “It’s good you’re leaving something here, so Jelly Bean knows you’re coming back.” The boy nodded and looked at the puppy. “Are you going to spend all your breaks and vacations on that fancy boat, or would you consider coming here? You know what it’s like here—common food, lots of laughs—we’ll stay up late and fix up old cars every night. I can’t compete with a big boat, but I’m sure gonna miss you.”

  Tidbit circled Jelly Bean. She had different smells on her. She seemed big and healthy. Tidbit smelled Bonn on the puppy too. She wagged and bowled the puppy over with a playful lick. Jelly Bean sprung to her feet and bit the skin on her mother’s throat with a jubilant growl. Tidbit allowed the puppy to menace her and panted happily.

  “If you decide you don’t like boats, you could spend some time here with Linda and me—we’d sure be glad to have you.”

  “Thank you, Manny. Really.”

  Manny pulled Bonn into a bear hug. He spoke softly. “You know, son, sometimes people just say things. A thing they think they’ve got to say, but everybody who hears it knows they don’t mean it. I mean it. There’s a place for you here if you want it.” Bonn closed his eyes tight and hugged him back hard.

  “I’ll see you at Christmas break then. Save some things for me to do—I don’t want to loiter.” Manny smiled. He’d watched the boy try so hard to speak with feeling. He still couldn’t do it, but he sure tried. He wondered what it was like inside the boy’s head. Bonn seemed to know he was different.

  It didn’t matter. The kid had heart. He’d do big things. He was sure of it.

  Jelly Bean pulled on the cuff of Manny’s coveralls as the town car rolled down the alley. Linda stooped gracefully and picked up the puppy. She cried, but still smiled in the way that always made her look extra beautiful. Manny took a deep breath and surveyed the dusty shop. He paused on the framed document.

  They did a fine job aging the reproduction.

  The edges were wrinkled. The yellowed dappling must have been achieved with some chemical—there were water stains too, which seemed like overkill, but the effect definitely worked. “Looks pretty authentic.” Linda put the puppy down and stood before a poster of a Vargas girl.

  “That thing is lewd. Let’s put Bonn’s picture up here instead.” Manny hung the document in its new place. They held hands on the couch for a while. Linda spoke first. “You know, it brings sort of a sophisticated air to the room.”

  Manny nodded. “Someday he’ll want it back. Then I’ll put my girlfriend back up where she belongs.”

  Linda smiled. “I’ll be sure to store her somewhere real safe.” Manny and Linda talked about Bonn for at least an hour. He’d been dealt a bad hand with the silver spoon, but he didn’t seem to choke on it.

  Everyone else did.

  After dinner, Linda had an epiphany. “He isn’t afraid, Manny. That’s it. The boy isn’t afraid like normal people are. I’m not saying he’s bad, I’m not saying he’s crazy—I saw him with the pup. I know how he is with you, but that’s the thing I couldn’t put my finger on. That’s how he’s different. Terrible things have happened to that boy, Manny. He isn’t just dealing with it all extraordinarily well—he doesn’t have superior coping skills. He isn’t dealing with it at all. He’s like a fearless, matter-of-fact little machine. Some of that he needed to survive his terrible family, but some of it he was born with.”

  Linda was right. No doubt about it.

  The dead retriever—on his birthday no less—the murder of his nanny, his drug-crazed mother shot him in the head before she’d offed herself, the selfish absentee father. Little Bonn just kept ticking away, one eye white, a white shock of hair framing his clipped ear. Bonn was in the hospital for a week after he was shot. Manny wondered why he never came back. It seemed odd. When he showed up with his head shaved and scarred up, Manny had been aghast, but Bonn just shrugged. “My mom shot me.”

  That’s what he’d said.

  He said it like Manny might ask, “Pass me that wrench.” Manny couldn’t even remember his reply. Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough. They had a good couple of months after that, when Bonn came by every day. One day, though, Bonn saw a floor jack tottering when Manny removed a wheel. The boy reached to steady it, but the car fell. It trapped his hand. Manny was nauseated and frantic when he realized what happened. He rushed to free Bonn’s hand. Even Tidbit stood by, barking and nervous, but not Bonn. Bonn stayed calm. He patted the dog with his good hand until the weight was off. He continued the conversation they’d been having about carburetors.

  As if nothing terrible had happened at all.

  When his hand was finally free, Manny ran to get ice. And Linda. He was too upset to drive. When he returned, Bonn was mashing
on his injured hand. “I feel some crunching. The first metacarpal’s broken.” Linda drove them all to the emergency room. The physician confirmed Bonn’s suspicion. Manny watched Bonn as the physician realigned the bone. Bonn didn’t grimace or wince—he just watched. “Do you feel this young man?” the physician asked.

  “Yes,” Bonn replied. When Troy finally arrived, the physician gave Troy an odd look.

  “Humor me a couple minutes, Mr. Maddox.” He jabbed a pin into the bottom of Bonn’s foot. Bonn’s breathing remained steady. He didn’t pull away.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I wanted to make sure you could feel pain. Did you feel that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t react normally. Some people can’t feel pain. It’s a rare condition, though—are you sure you felt it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did it feel like?”

  “I’m not certain what you mean. It felt like you pushed a pin into my foot.”

  “But you didn’t react.”

  What Bonn said next gave Manny a cold shiver down his spine.

  “What’s the correct reaction?”

  ~Polymath

  Alvar ran out of lessons for Henna. By age thirteen, it was clear that Henna was a prodigy. Alvar drafted a letter to the dean of the University at Cambridge:

  Dear Sir,

  A correspondence from a pleasant hillside in the north of Finland.

  My granddaughter has been my ward for the past nine years. Although I’m a learned pharmacist, chemist, and naturalist, her young mind is no longer sufficiently challenged by what I can provide her—I assure you, she is a phenomenon. Henna exhibits eidetic tendencies—she is a gifted painter—with her knowledge of physics, chemistry, languages, and the natural world, it would be shameful for me to keep her my secret. With access to microscopes, telescopes, linguists, the equipment and minds inherent to an institution such as Cambridge, I have no doubt her mind will bloom at an even more accelerated rate. Please reciprocate my correspondence. Imagine adding Marie Curie to your roster of alumnus and allow this young polymath to outgrow your gardens as well.

  Warm Regards,

  Alvar Takala

  The letter was shared via university channels. That spring, Henna was invited to attend interviews at École polytechnique fédérale de Lausanne, on the shore of Lake Geneva. To Henna, the interview seemed informal and rambling. The head of the physics department and a famous chemist met with Henna first. The chemist couldn’t stop smiling. Soon the small group moved to a conference room. More people arrived. People brought in urns of coffee, bread with small bowls of sweet mustard, chocolates. Everyone seemed well dressed. Polite. Reports of the gifted prodigy traveled across campus: “Come meet the genius—they are serving lunch.” Things settled down when food was placed at a large round table. A dozen people spoke to each other in several languages. No one in particular seemed to be in charge. The chemist returned. Introductions were made, platters of pickled fruit placed on the elegant table. Plates of perch, potato cakes, cream tarts were served. French seemed the most common language, but some spoke German, Italian, English. A professor of theoretical physics asked Henna in German, “How many languages do you speak?” Everyone listened for her answer, which she gave in Latin.

  “I’m fluent in nine languages.” The woman clapped and gave a pleased smile. “Nine? Wonderful—why, though, did you answer in Latin, if you understood my German?”

  Henna gestured toward Alvar, who sipped coffee in a chair by the door. “My grandfather taught me it is most polite to answer a question in a language common to the greatest number of listeners. It appeared that each of you stopped for a moment to listen.”

  A beaming professor of linguistics asked in Portuguese, “Why Latin and not English?”

  “Most of you have already spoken to me in English. I hoped to practice my Latin a bit on this trip and I’ve guessed Latin is a language we all share.”

  The group insisted Alvar join them at the table. He said that coffee was enough, but a plate of food appeared in front of him, regardless. The man who brought it took a moment to describe the contents of the plate, as they would relate to time on a clock.

  “Professor Takala, a fillet of perch sits at five o’clock, a cream tart rests at nine o’clock. A small assortment of cheeses and fruits span the other hours. Would you like more coffee?”

  Henna never considered her grandfather’s title, but it was correct. As Alvar visited with the academics, she was reminded how amazing he was—he was humble and funny. Though he chose to live alone above the Arctic Circle, he maneuvered his silverware and napkin with class. He was a quiet gentleman. He made people feel good about themselves, but steered most topics back to her. The meeting continued another hour. Finally a lady asked a question from the official interview form.

  “Why would you like to attend EPFL?”

  Henna answered truthfully. “Although the lunch and conversation have been very nice, I’d like to see the school’s library. Perhaps tour any labs I would be allowed into. If it’s not too much bother, I would feel more comfortable answering your question afterward.”

  She was admitted that fall on a full ride scholarship. She would be the second youngest to gain admission to EPFL to date, but her knowledge of the sciences was already at a post-doctoral level. Her options were staggering.

  Alvar missed Henna terribly. He worried day and night.

  Did her door lock? Was it a thick door? Was she on the first floor? Who would she call if she lost her key? What if that person didn’t answer? Was she ready for this? Was he?

  He smelled things she left behind. A sweater—a hairbrush. He still spoke to her despite her absence. He couldn’t help it. He considered a telephone, but the logistics were impractical. There were no phone lines—or even electricity for miles. One day a box arrived from Switzerland. It was a book on philosophy adapted to braille and a small electrical device with earphones to teach him braille and a small box of chocolate. Henna left a tip for the postal clerk, who read the accompanying letter.

  He hadn’t read anything at all since the war.

  Dear Grandpa,

  It’s time for you to catch up. This technology exists. You should have it. The registrar is a bit of a brood-hen. She has taken me under her wing, attempted to organize chaperones, meals, other similar nonsense. They celebrate, yet are certainly unsure of me. I wish I were a bit taller. With sunglasses on, my age may not be so evident. Maybe I will grow a bit more this summer? I can only believe the chlorophyll can aid my egress from under the threshold of Ms. Ebersold’s pendulous embrace … although pleasant enough, I would prefer my privacy.

  Love, forever your garden perennial,

  Henna

  Henna was right. It was time to rejoin the world. If she was that brave, he could learn a bit too.

  Without Henna to cut the brush back and clear the springtime roots from his usual paths, Alvar began to fall. He used a stick to feel his way about the little homestead, but he frequently felt short of breath. The lady who helped with his mail stopped in to help frequently. She brought him a pie now and then. She thought he should stop smoking. He’d known Akka for years—she was his accomplice each Viesträ. Akka was right about the smoking, of course, but he’d already smoked so much.

  What good would it do him to quit now?

  When Akka brought him a box a week later, he told her he’d burned his pipe in the fireplace. “Good. You’ll live longer and be able to eat more pie. Would you like some help with your parcel? I might be as excited to see what Henna has sent as you are.” The years spent with Henna seemed to have passed in just moments. He didn’t feel eighty, but he was.

  Maybe he’d live to be really old—just to see how things turned out.

  “I’d like that. I’ll make us some tea.” Akka watched Alvar stoke the fire, hang the kettle. She waited for him to sit beside her before opening the box.

  “You know, Alvar, I’m almost seventy, but I find
myself amazed about at least two things every day. You’d think a person my age would run out of amazement, but I don’t seem to.” Alvar reached into his pocket for the pipe and then remembered it was gone. He sighed. He wondered what to do with his hands while he sat. “It’s the surprises that keep me going, I think.”

  Akka opened the box. Inside they found a tiny tape recorder. A dozen tiny tapes. A few packages of batteries for the device. Alvar poured the tea while Akka read the instructions for the recorder. One of the tapes was marked. She put it in the device to play. Henna’s voice was strong and confident. The little device fit into his hand perfectly. When Henna’s recording ended, he put it into his pipe pocket. Over the months they stayed in touch that way. Henna asked him to send her some dried mushrooms, to tape his voice next to the brook—he asked her to describe the buildings and the laboratories she studied in. One day he sat by the fire and spoke into the recorder. He described the contents of the stew pot and then told Henna stories about her mother.

  At the end of the school year Henna came home to visit. Tall, her neck frequently wrapped in a silk scarf, she was becoming a woman. The smell of an expensive bouquet caressed the air behind her. She had discovered perfume. Excitedly, Henna caught him up on her studies and theories. As she talked he felt past her scarf to her face.

  Beautiful.

  He pulled his hand back, but she retrieved it. While she told him about extremophiles, Henna traced his knobby knuckles. She’d received a research grant to study them. The world awaited her. He had always known.