“I’ve missed you so much, Grandpa. I feel like an odd transplant from the garden outside. I feel as though I stick out at the university. Like I stink it up? Like a paperwhite.” The girl joked, but there was sadness behind her words.
“No,” he reassured her, “you were a transplant even here. You were always destined for bigger things. That isn’t sadness—it’s your responsibility to realize your potential. When Lucrece dropped you off here years ago, you were wild, but you were already you. I only watered you. You are sort of a wild perennial—you keep coming back.” They laughed, drank tea, and ate small bits of chocolate until late in the evening.
“Let’s go for a walk in the morning. I need to smell the woods.” Alvar nodded and tucked the girl in like he always did, with a kiss on the forehead.
~Mississippi
Curfew was enforced at the boarding school so Bonn got creative: At 2:08 AM each day he climbed from his dormitory window. He jogged back onto campus a few minutes after 6:00 AM as if he’d just gone out for a short run. A cluster of old maples in the center of town provided cover for his experiment. Bonn spent hours in the canopy of the second tallest tree. Getting himself comfortable in the tree was improbable, but stability was crucial. By 3:00 AM Bonn dangled, prone, from a sling in the tree. The sling needed a spanner of sorts—it compressed his ribs proximally.
If he couldn’t breathe smoothly, it would affect his accuracy.
Bonn practiced for weeks in the tree. Each day he took notes, made adjustments, and watched the town wake up. Bonn measured the distance from his pupil to the ground with a string weighted on one end, a knot tied at one-foot increments. Sixty-eight knots bumped through Bonn’s fingertips before the weight touched the ground. He untied the hitch in the line that suspended him. Employing sailing blocks, pulling smoothly, soon he rested at an even seventy. From the new vantage point he had clear lines of sight up two streets: one at his ten o'clock, the other at his three o’clock. Bonn held a willow branch in lieu of a rifle. He alternated his aim down each corridor and took notes on stability. His spine limited motion more than anything else. Stability suffered when he compensated his aim with head and neck movements. One of the two blocks from which he hung gave a tiny squeak as he swung side to side. Frowning up at the pulley, Bonn scrutinized the system. Despite the second attachment point to the tree, he still swayed a lot—even with normal breathing. Bonn considered a third attachment, but dismissed the thought quickly.
Simpler was better.
The light breeze and leaves combined with the low light provided ample cover. Bonn wrote terse notes in a small notebook:
1. Transfer weight from chest to knees.
2. Prussic-adjusted rifle rest?
3. One corridor. Minimize. Focus.
If he did his homework, he wouldn’t need multiple corridors.
4. Timing.
By 5:00 AM it was functionally light.
There—movement at his ten o’clock.
Bonn peered down the length of the branch toward his target. The terminal bud on the straight green stick served as a primitive sight. Bonn trained the oblong bead on the chest of an early riser.
A woman.
As she approached, he made out more details. Her silver hair was piled loosely atop her head. She wore blue slacks and a red windbreaker. At approximately 400 meters, he saw that a small dog oscillated at the end of a leash the woman held tight against her hip. She looked as though she smelled of pie dough and furniture polish.
Close enough.
Bonn frog-kicked to simulate a rifle blast.
Click.
One Mississippi.
Bonn swung in the sling and experimented with maneuvers to stabilize himself. He saw silver hair through the leaves, but a follow up shot wouldn’t be possible if he needed to make one—not for several seconds. In a flash he recalled his last embrace with Manny. His friend’s beard had smelled of fresh laundry. And motor oil.
Two Mississippi.
Leaves blocked his view. Bonn peered through a gap in the branches at a point on the sidewalk where he expected the dog to emerge.
Three Mississippi.
The dog was visible for a moment and then disappeared behind a tasteful refuse bin.
Four Mississippi.
The tiny red head of the terrier emerged from behind the bin. The dog paused to consider what was either an old piece of sausage or a pile left by a previous dog. The lady jerked the leash. She took a wide berth around the treasure. For a moment the dog strained to achieve the prize while the woman walked in an arc around it. It reminded Bonn of an architect’s compass. The dog’s brain served as the needle—the pivot point. Bonn shifted slightly, placed the tree bud over the terrier’s static head, and squeezed the imaginary trigger.
Click.
Bonn propped the branch into a fork of the tree. He wrote in the notebook:
Follow-up shot too slow without tertiary stabilization.
~Shrikethrush
The university was just what Henna needed. The chemistry department had incredible resources. She found the unknown so exciting. Chemistry explained the world. There was so much other people already knew—or thought they knew—she pitied those who couldn’t collaborate due to large egos or personality defects. They would lose so much that was recently vetted—even replicated—by appropriate use of the scientific method. She was drawn to mathematics and physics as well as chemistry. She spent the balance of her precious time in the conservatory. The campus conservatory held tropical plants she’d only seen in books. The floor plan resembled a cartoon-sun. Triangular rays radiated from the central sphere in even jags. The main room was an immense glass dome. It contained tropical trees, ginger plants, ferns, lilies, and other exotics. Inconspicuous heaters warmed certain areas when the sun went down. Henna found the humidity and the foliage in the dome cleansing. She used the area to center herself. Although there was a dedicated study area near a pool of water, Henna preferred to explore the huge dome. She quietly walked the paths and marveled at the diversity of life.
One day she squatted to look inside the water jar plants she saw—without fail—a different tiny frog peering back at her each time. The triangular wings that radiated from the main room were dedicated to specific areas of research. Although it seemed unlikely, each researcher’s clothing—and even behavior—seemed affected by the wings they frequented. Some of the people seemed more captive than the animals. The rat researchers loved white coats. Most of the primate researchers were women. They preferred yoga pants. Tight tee shirts with droll messages. The few male researchers dedicated to primates showed a penchant for corduroy. Frog researchers as a whole wore leather. It also seemed you weren’t allowed to be a frog researcher unless you had visible tattoos. One afternoon a tall, handsome man emerged from the frog wing holding a camera and a small plastic box. He donned gloves and removed a beautiful tree frog from the box. It had cobalt legs and a yellow horseshoe-shaped mark on its head. He gently placed the frog inside a pitcher plant. He took pictures of the animal with the camera. Henna drew near. The man wore jeans and a simple sweater. He didn’t appear to belong to the frog tribe. “I haven’t seen a frog like that before.”
The man smiled. “Dendrobates tinctorius—the ‘dyeing dart frog.’ I’m taking some shots out here for a field guide. I don’t like the lighting in the lab. It’s unnatural.” The man paused to laugh at himself. “It feels much more natural under this glass dome, kneeling next to a plant that’s 1700 miles from home, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes, much.” Henna smiled and stooped to look more closely at the frog inside the plant. It seemed to be enjoying the field trip and blinked serenely back at her.
The tall man pulled out the legs of a tripod. “Have you been inside the lab?”
“I haven’t.” The man adjusted the lens of the camera. He clicked a few pictures then donned a new pair of gloves. He coaxed the reluctant amphibian back into the box. “It’s an interesting collection—come see it if you�
�d like.” Henna followed the man through the heavy glass doors and watched as he released the frog into his usual enclosure.
“I’m Stephan.”
“Henna. Thanks for inviting me in.”
Stephan pointed at the dyeing dart frog. “The pumiliotoxins in those little guys aren’t very potent, but it can still make a person feel sick if you hold them when they’re mad.” He walked down the aisle, pointing out specimens as they went. “Phyllobates are way hotter—sorry, that’s science geek for ‘efficacy of poison or venom.’ Anyway, they excrete an alkaloid…” he paused at an enclosure containing a tiny golden frog “…this one in particular.” Henna read the Latin name—Phyllobates terribilis. Stephan grinned at her—he wasn’t as young as she was, but his height could serve to mask his youth.
He probably wasn’t more than twenty.
“‘Terribilis’ sounds so much more exciting than ‘golden poison frog.’ They’re an important species to indigenous hunters in the Columbian jungle. They scald the little guys and smear frog juice on the tips of darts and arrows, but in captivity they lose their toxins. Without a varied diet of Columbian beetles and jungle ants, they aren’t quite so ‘terrible’ after all. Most of the researchers in here are studying indicator species of frogs, but I’m most interested in the toxins. Did you know the university is putting in a toxin wing? Dedicated solely to venomous and poisonous species? I’m really excited about it—I hope to be a part of that.”
Henna thanked Stephan for the tour. She rushed to the library. She found a book titled Neurotoxic Taxonomy and skipped her afternoon classes. An entire chapter in the book was dedicated to Phyllobates. She studied the chemical chains formed by steroidal alkaloids and wondered at the diversity of creatures that made the toxins. When toxins themselves were broken down into groups, an astounding diversity of animals used similar toxic defenses. Henna leafed through pictures of toxic beetles, pausing to commit each common and Latin name to memory. Astonishingly, there was even a chapter on birds—some birds in Papua New Guinea ate toxic beetles. It didn’t harm them—instead the toxins accumulated in each bird’s skin as a measure of defense. Some were colorful like the beetles they ate, but some didn’t broadcast their defenses at all. An unassuming mouse-colored bird had a great common name, “little shrikethrush.” The plain little bird seemed to look at Henna from a smooth tree trunk. Her very blandness made her more beautiful. Her shape was a perfect bird shape. She was a self-assured looking creature. She didn’t need flamboyant colors to advertise the deadly batrachotoxin stored in her skin.
She was perfect.
~Freak
Bonn guessed all boarding schools were about the same. Prestigious names and astronomical tuitions convinced wealthy parents to send busloads of kids. They were prepped for political posts. For elegant jobs, white collar lives. Each student looked forward to a top college placement and eventual high earning potential. Even the rebel kids sent to the school—by parents tired of their rebelliousness—rebelled in conformist ways. Bonn scanned the dining hall. He was the only boy who didn’t wear his collar up. He didn’t wear ‘boat’ shoes. He was the youngest boy. Usually no one paid any attention to him, despite the eye, the ear—the scar. People were socially complex, but they were still just animals. Although sharks are socially simple animals, they share some traits with humans. For instance, sharks frequently give a test bump before they commit to a full-blown attack on their oceanic quarry. One would-be “shark” decided to test Bonn after the dinner bell sounded one evening. He threw a fake lunge-punch to make Bonn flinch, a move his crew had recently seen on TV. The pubescent anticipated waves of laughter from his friends. What the preppy didn’t anticipate was Bonn’s reaction. Bonn tucked his chin and stepped into the punch, forehead first. The kid grasped his injured hand. He involuntarily threw his head back in anguish. Bonn punched the boy in the trachea, quickly finishing the fight.
Bonn offered a handshake to the nearest of the bully’s posse. “Bonn Maddox.” The boy nervously shook Bonn’s hand, but didn’t offer his name. “Always tuck your chin when someone throws a punch at your head. The frontal bone can take an incredible impact, but facial bones are fragile. Trust me, I know.” The boy’s hand felt limp and damp. The kid had no idea what to do. “Your hands sure feel soft—and very clean.” The boy tried to shake loose of Bonn’s hand, but Bonn held tight. “I’m here to study. Are you here to fight? If you are, we should get it over now.”
“Nuh—no—” stammered the terrified boy with soft hands. Bonn released him and surveyed the rest of the boys. None were capable of eye contact. The boy on the floor managed a few raspy inhalations but remained in the fetal position. “My guess is that none of you can fight worth a damn. It’s a shame you need to school together for safety, but I get it—safety in numbers.” Bonn squatted to peer at the downed boy. “A whole school of limp fish.” Bonn hooked a finger inside the bully’s cheek. He hoisted the bully’s head aloft by the tender flesh to send the point home. None of the boys made a move to help their friend. “Let’s keep the glass between us, fish. I’m not one of you.”
The school’s administrative secretary poked her head into Dean Creed’s office. He raised his eyebrows. “Yes, Margaret?”
“The bully called his parents. His dad is on line one.” Creed noted that the woman looked giddy. Gleeful. Theirs was a quiet school, usually bereft of intrigue. He guessed that the secretary would waddle back to her desk and put her phone on speaker with the volume down so she could listen in. Creed nodded and peered at the blinking light. He had reviewed the tapes a dozen times. He pursed his lips.
“You may stay and listen, Margaret, if you wish to do so.” Margaret grinned and leaned against the old mahogany molding surrounding the doorway. With a sigh, he pressed the button. The bully’s father, mayor of a Midwestern city, was enraged. Creed listened to the man for a while. His oral diarrhea was truly impressive. Finally he’d heard enough to establish how to deal with the man.
“Sir, I’d usually be receptive to your boy’s plight, however, I must interject—boys sort things out here. On their own. Furthermore, I know your son. He’s an ass. He’ll never be chief of state. He practices intimidation more than he studies. The little bully was bound to find someone he couldn’t intimidate. The Maddox boy sits alone, eats alone—gets perfect grades, uses perfect syntax. His father is an attorney. A good one. Troy Maddox recently donated four million dollars to the school, which we intend to use to put in a state of the art computer lab.” The mayor fell silent. Creed tapped a finger on his glass desktop, waiting for a retort. None came. Margaret shifted her heft back and forth unhappily—as though she’d been hoping for more excitement.
“Sir, would you consider contributing to the school’s upgrades? Our closed circuit TV system should be expanded. We couldn’t quite see the sneer on your son’s face when he picked the fight with the Maddox boy.” The mayor cleared his throat but said nothing. “Did you know the Maddox boy was granted early admission to the school? Your son is five years older. He outweighs the Maddox kid by forty pounds.”
“I’ll talk with my boy,” snarled the mayor. Dean Creed smiled and disconnected the call.
“That’s as far as it goes, Margaret.” Margaret tilted her head at him like an overfed parrot looking for the right word. “Margaret, that is as far as this will go. Do you understand?” Margaret nodded, wounded. “You may return, please, to your desk now, Margaret.” The woman creaked off with a scowl. Creed leaned back in his chair and studied his credenza.
It had better be as far as it went.
The computer lab opened the world to Bonn. He was a natural. When the school purchased the license to access “Usenet” Bonn was overwhelmed with information. Most of the posts were about computers themselves, but some historians and other enthusiasts started newsgroups to share information. Bonn was surprised to find he wasn’t the only Eugen Sandow fan. He took furious notes and filled notebooks with references on many topics. Bonn was most obsessed with Sandow�
��s physical accomplishments. Though the man was a ribald showman, he was very strong. The grip strength alone it took to achieve some of his feats of strength seemed implausible. He studied the fair photograph of his idol often. Sadly, the man died in his fifties. If he hadn’t burst an aneurysm, he’d be 113 years old, but Bonn imagined him tall and proud in his dotage. Rumors existed that complications from syphilis were his actual cause of death, but Bonn couldn’t imagine that a mere infection brought down his hero.
In the evenings Bonn visited the gym. He focused on calisthenics and bodyweight exercises. Soon he could walk the length of the basketball court on his hands. He studied nutrition and saw incredible gains. He cranked out one-armed pushups. Bonn’s classmates obsessed with free weights could do them too, but when he added one-armed pull-ups to his routine, the free weight guys were impressed. He wasn’t just strong.
He was a freak.
~Old School
Henna’s last year at the University she brought Alvar a cellular phone and a small solar phone charger. He memorized the positions of the numbers and grumbled a bit.
“I’ll only use one phone number. Let’s not make a big fuss out of it.”
Henna programmed her own number into her grandfather’s phone along with some emergency numbers. Henna’s own phone rang while she cleaned out the barn. “Hi honey,” Alvar said from a few yards away. “I think I like this thing.”
Henna completed her doctorate in chemistry and returned to Switzerland to defend her second thesis—a biological science doctorate. A toxicology fellowship awaited her in Edinburgh when she was ready—the world was full of opportunity. She worried about her grandfather. He was so alone in the mountains. She scouted out some areas in the suburbs of Edinburgh that Alvar might like, but he assured her he was fine where he was. He wasn’t forgetful—he was just slower each time she saw him. He’d kept all the tiny cassette tapes from her first years at school. He had them arranged by date. Now they had cellphones. Even though this was progress, Henna felt nostalgic. Tearful.
INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1) Page 10