“I know I left a hole there, Rupert. It can’t be filled by me. It’d be best for us all if the locals thought I’d sold out. I’ve hired a couple guys to help. They’re machines. I don’t want to tell you too much about them, but don’t be afraid to work them. Throw whatever you want at them. You’ll see results. They work fast. I’ll pay their salaries on my end. And Rupert? I know you worry, but you can trust them.”
Troy was right. Rupert didn’t trust them, but the men were workhorses. Somehow Troy was using the firm to legitimize his dealings in the Caymans. If the firm had been turned into a front for something else, at least it was a working front. The men mowed through legitimate busywork quickly and efficiently. They didn’t have big egos, and they didn’t put anything off. “Machines” was an apt description, but they were more than that—they seemed like—connected guys. High-profile types. He didn’t know who they were connected to, but they were certainly a part of a larger machine somewhere. With the new men at the office, Rupert was superfluous to daily operations, which was fine by him. He came in as late as he wanted. He cherry-picked his clients.
Business surged ahead regardless.
The tropical storm that killed Troy wasn’t even a notable one—really just a weekend side note on the news between commercials for toothpaste and sexual enhancement pills. Rupert learned more details from the insurance company. The swell hit the Oyster Bar broadside. Rupert stopped to shake his head.
The original name of the boat was better.
It listed heavily to port. An unusually shallow trough followed. Troy went to look over the side and the boat bottomed out on the reef. Troy didn’t drown—he died from traumatic impact. Witnesses said he fell from the ship headfirst into the reef when the boat bottomed out. The reef pierced the hull of the ship and it took on water. Guests fled to shore on jet skis.
It wasn’t the glamorous death Troy would have chosen.
Rupert reviewed the paperwork detailing Bonn’s trust. He was the fund’s administrator. Troy drafted the papers years ago. For his troubles, Rupert would receive three percent of the net worth of the Maddox estate. Rupert knew Troy did well financially—he worked, not because he had to, but because that’s what he did. The Maddox family never seemed to sell things, but they didn’t allow assets to lie fallow either.
Once Troy had invited him for a weekend of upland game hunting in Texas. Rupert wasn’t the only one invited. An ambassador from South Africa attended, a lumber executive, several oil executives. The lodge was posh. They ate seared buffalo steaks encrusted in lavender with Armagnac. Crab omelets were brought in a silver steam tray into the field for the men at lunchtime. Wild game sausages adorned with bits of citrus peel were punctured by tiny hand-carved wooden pikes. A Model A Ford, restored as a mobile bar, accompanied the men on their hunts. The topless driver and bartender, a doe-eyed nineteen-year-old from Galveston, wore the cloche of a flapper, jodhpurs, and Italian riding boots. She would receive enough tips to pay her tuition at Stanford for the coming semester. Ceviche was served beneath the heads of large African animals—each spot prawn, the lime-brined crown jewel on each flute, still held the sheen of life. Top shelf liquor was served to the fat-cats on a massive veranda. The sun set in exclusive tones of crimson and honey, like a cocktail from the menu. They sat in hand-carved plantation chairs. A beautiful woman with an Australian accent offered cigars and described the next day’s hunt. High stakes poker games followed for those that chose to join. Men spoke of things foreign and wondrous: boxlock rifles, elephant polo, an anecdotal account of an ambergris smuggler. Rupert wondered how Troy knew these people. Troy seemed very at ease in that environment. He acted as if he owned the place.
And in fact—he did.
With a sigh, Rupert dug into the pile of papers. It was time to find out exactly how well Troy had done. The first document reviewed the sale of the Maddox house. A French actor saw the for sale sign during a morning run. Being an A-lister, he wasn’t the least interested in the disclosures, although his depressed-looking daughter loved the dark past of the place. The anthropology major gave her father a nod. The sign came down. Rupert picked up the report of Troy’s death.
Thank God the boat was insured. It was a total loss.
A light on his phone flashed. Rupert picked up the call. “Hi Rupert. Listen, I’m in a field full of old cars that I intend to gift to a friend. When I call you back in a few minutes, you’ll hear the voice of a startled woman. She’ll quote you an astronomical number. I’d like you to round her down by twenty percent since she’s been a bit rude, but agree to the sale.”
“Ok, Bonn—will do.”
“Thank you, Rupert.”
“A field full.”
Rupert fully expected the kid to blow his inheritance on odd things. The call didn’t surprise him one bit. Bonn had no restrictions on how he could spend his inheritance. He’d probably buy a jet next—or take on a drug habit like his mother. Those details weren’t Rupert’s to monitor.
Troy’s assets brought from the boat included some oddities. Many of them couldn’t be easily explained.
Lucky thing—so far no one came looking for explanations.
The salvage team shipped Troy’s safe back, unopened. Either the behemoth was waterproof or it was never submerged because the contents were dry. Rupert dialed the combination on the gleaming wheel and pulled the beast open. Although he was the man designated for the job, he didn’t like looking through Troy’s things. It felt much too personal. Rupert shrugged and removed an expensive aluminum briefcase from a suede-lined shelf. Inside the case rested a collection of Victorian-era jeweled daggers.
Odd.
Rupert frowned and closed the case. He inspected the bill of lading. The safe was, of course, from the Oyster Bar. He kept the combination to it in his own safe like Troy had asked.
Why would Troy own items like this?
It didn’t make sense. He pulled two heavy black polymer cases out next but left them on the floor.
He’d start with paperwork.
He removed a brown leather file case and opened it at his desk. The first section contained deeds. One for a golf course in Colorado. Two more golf courses on Maui. Rupert opened the next file. An eclectic stack of bearer bonds thicker than a 1950’s JCPenney catalog was nestled inside.
This changed things—it might be difficult for the boy to spend all of Troy’s money after all.
Rupert needed new bifocals. As he leafed through the case, he appeared to be nodding slowly as he shifted his gaze between lenses. Hundreds of banks in Wyoming, Colorado, and Nebraska were listed on a ledger—an account in each bank held the exact sum the FDIC insured. An investment algorithm paper-clipped to the ledger outlined the strategy. Each account bore interest—when the interest grew fourteen percent over the insured amount, a new account in a new bank was opened. None of the accounts were in Troy’s name. They all belonged to the trust.
Troy didn’t pay many taxes.
Someone managed these accounts. The ledger outlined dates new accounts were opened. Every FDIC monitored bank in Kansas, North Dakota, and Montana also had an account.
Line one lit up again on his desk phone. Rupert pushed the speaker button. A woman’s shrill voice made him wince. “Hello? Is this a joke? A kid here just said he’d buy all of the cars I’ve got for sale here at my farm. Said I could name my price.”
“Yes madam. What is your price?”
“Well, there are 104 cars here. Some are worth more than others. Some don’t have engines. If I said I want $25,000.00 a car, what would you say?”
I’d say you were dreaming.
Rupert did some quick calculations. “Can you provide me 104 vehicle identification numbers?”
“OK, no—there are ninety-six cars. It would take me all afternoon to write the numbers down.” Rupert tapped different numbers into the adding machine.
Twenty percent for being rude, five percent for being dishonest.
“I’ll draft a check for $1,800,000.00. Would that su
fficiently offset the chore? It’d save you years of lowball offers. Take it or leave it.”
“One mill … yon … One point eight? I’ll take it.”
Rupert disconnected the call. Although the figure was a drop in the bucket, his stomach didn’t feel right.
His home cost less than an eighth of that.
He stood for a moment and wiped his glasses clean with a handkerchief. He struggled to understand the depth of wealth contained in the safe. It held only a portion of the funds eventual worth. It didn’t feel real. He held the glasses up toward the main office, where the light was better.
Clean enough.
He paused to watch the new men. They worked steadily. They moved quickly, yet only seemed able to move one body part at a time: first an arm, then a head. They looked more like stop motion animations than men. Rupert sat. He rubbed his temples to clear his mind and returned to the files. He reviewed another deed. One for a casino.
A casino?
More deeds. A manufacturing firm in Singapore. Apartment buildings in Prague. Rupert sped through the files, overwhelmed. The only way to estimate Bonn’s inheritance was to sell everything. Until that happened, a sum would remain theoretical. It seemed Troy excelled at the silent partner gambit. Another ledger showed holdings in hundreds of medium-sized high-growth companies. He’d made a mint on IPOs. Normal people didn’t get to buy IPOs.
No wonder Troy was constantly on the phone.
Things became surreal. The safe seemed to swell. It was a library of wealth. The trust owned a cattle ranch in Idaho and another in the Black Hills, complete with mineral rights. The attached quitclaim was signed in 1958. That put Troy in his—teens?
Thirteen. Troy bought a ranch at thirteen?
The attorney leaned back to survey the documents and assorted treasures that littered his desk. Here was a legacy of wealth to make Midas feel impotent. He had no idea how to proceed. Three percent of this was his.
He’d need help. His glasses were smudged again. He needed fresh air.
Rupert headed for the window but stumbled over one of the heavy black cases.
Might as well open them.
Rupert stooped to lift one onto his desk.
It was heavy.
Each thick hasp opened with a dull thud. He swung the lid open.
Cash.
About fifty pounds of hundred dollar bills. He felt nauseated. Rupert stooped to open the second case where it sat on the floor.
More cash. Identical to the first.
He really needed that air now. Cash meant danger.
Cash brought questions.
The cases shouldn’t be in his office. Rupert felt like he was choking on money. He opened the window and took some deep cash-free breaths. He looked nervously into the main office. The new guys continued their jolting movements. He tried to imagine them kicked back on that veranda in Texas. What would they drink when they leaned back in their chairs?
They wouldn’t.
They didn’t seem capable of kicking back—or even slowing down. If you offered them a plantation chair, they’d probably sell it. Though he couldn’t decipher content, he heard the inflection in their voices as they worked. Each hiss and roar the men uttered into their headsets seemed perfectly metered.
Not too little. Not too much. Just right.
Rupert daydreamed he was at home, sitting in his chair by the window, reading his granddaughter Goldilocks.
That towhead enjoyed such a nice resolution.
Though his granddaughter always demanded he re-read the book at least once, it was always a clean ending.
Predictable.
Step 1: Girl raids abode of apex predators.
Step 2: Girl messes things up.
Step 3: Girl makes a clean getaway.
Step 4: Repeat.
As if on cue, one of the new men returned his gaze.
Ryker?
He was slightly shorter than Rickard. Otherwise, it was hard to tell them apart. The man held eye contact with Rupert and tilted his head with a precise chop, like a bird of prey might investigate a subtle movement in the grass, wings at the ready. He reached to the keypad on his phone without looking down at the device. Rupert was startled when line one lit up. Ryker’s tongue seemed to snap in and out as he spoke. “Let’s visit.”
To taste the world for heat? For blood?
The taller man stood and removed his headset. Rupert’s nausea worsened. He felt the glands under his tongue squirm and pulse. His diaphragm began to spasm.
He was a good man. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was now the senior partner in this thriving law firm. Why did he feel like crawling out the window and running for his car?
The men approached Rupert’s office. They tilted their heads with choppy motions. They considered the door like confused birds. Rupert felt exposed. Vulnerable. Ryker’s lips moved. Rupert realized he was still holding the telephone—
Frozen—like an idiot.
“We’ll sort it out. Unlock the door. We’ll explain.” Rupert recognized the clipped accent as German. He considered leaving the door locked, maybe even hiding, but that seemed juvenile. He was already standing up gawking at them through the glass door. Troy said he could trust them—trust them to do what? Should he trust Troy? A German accent?
They’d explain what?
Rupert unlocked the door. Rickard slithered into Rupert’s chair while Ryker closed the heavy black cases full of cash and stacked them by the door. The taller man tapped buttons on the Danish phone system that would send all outside calls to a pleasant digital voice. The voice promised eventual satisfaction if only the caller left a number.
~Intuition
Henna became the Jane Goodall of the venomous and poisonous. Shortly, she was offered the chair in the toxicology department at the university. Since she wasn’t required to lecture as the chairperson, she spent most of her time traveling. The university granted her some space to compile a modern cabinet of curiosities in return for writing grants and publishing research. With access to lab equipment, secure spaces for live and frozen specimens and a steady income, Henna had it made.
In the field Henna trusted her instincts. She watched for clues. When none presented themselves, she became quiet. She listened, watched for something to present itself. It was an art. She learned the technique from her grandfather. Intuition, Henna knew, was inside everyone.
Most people just ignored it.
Alvar had always encouraged Henna to trust her intuition, yet it was a bit like a divining rod: if she were pressed to explain how she made decisions, it would sound too mystical for non-believers to grasp. When barriers presented themselves, she didn’t rage—she became fluid. Solutions waited when she became receptive. When her mind relaxed. It’s important to have a goal, but imperative to recognize an opportunity—
Opportunities visited only those who were receptive.
A team couldn’t achieve what Henna accomplished alone. A team would break for coffee. A team would argue, seek out romances and drama. Egos were barriers to progress. A team was a machine. At idle that machine sounded like static to Henna. She couldn’t focus around static. But alone? Alone Henna was a dynamo. Soon her ability to recognize opportunities opened the entire world to her. She collected toxins and stories—some of the most scientific minded adults in the world were social toddlers and the stories made eventual collaboration easier.
Australia was particularly fruitful for both. Her goal was to collect live blue-ringed octopuses. She needed Tetrodotoxin (TTX). The beautiful little Hapalochlaena maculosa had it. Initially the species eluded Henna, but she befriended some local spear fishermen on Fraser Island who promised to keep their eyes open. When it came to the ocean, Henna thought, scientists should always start at a bar.
Fishermen knew where to find things—especially the nearest bar.
Fishermen discovered a live coelacanth in 1938. The fish was long considered extinct. Thousands of fossils of the creature existed, but then one day,
a fresh one was dragged on board a boat deck. Fishermen said, “That’s something different.” The captain of the boat took the initiative to notify a local museum official, who consulted her friend, an ichthyologist. Along the way, each person to see the fish knew it was special, but it was the museum official that was honored in the naming of the find—not the fishermen. Granted, Ms. Courtenay-Latimer gave the coelacanth a ride in a taxicab. She did have it stuffed to preserve it, pending scientific review, but it was fishermen who recognized the prehistoric lunker. Latimeria chalumnae would likely be “Goosenia” chalumnae after the Captain of the boat, named Goosen if Ms. Marjorie Courtenay-Latimer hadn’t spent time befriending fishermen. Fishermen who knew she wanted to see something interesting.
Henna was about to purchase a ticket to New Zealand when one of the spear fishermen called her. He had three live blue-rings and a bucket of beaked sea snakes. He promised to bring her a box jelly. He’d sent a group out to look for stonefish. Henna smiled. The fishermen at the bar were certainly drunk, but they were good listeners. For the price of three rounds of beer her bounty exploded.
Henna stayed on the mainland for three weeks. She kept a courier service busy around the clock, shuttling live specimens back to Scotland. With the fishermen scouring the ocean for her, Henna took time to hunt specimens on her terrestrial wish list. She collected a pair of aggressive eastern brown snakes, Pseudonaja textilis. They carried textilotoxin, a presynaptic neurotoxin. She hunted and was eluded by the inland taipan. Oxyuranus microlepidotus had both presynaptic and postsynaptic toxins. The snake was extraordinarily lethal, yet famously easygoing. The most lethal known venomous snake was a peaceful snake—nothing to prove to anyone.
Nature did have a sense of humor.
Henna’s last night in Australia she used a technique called “road hunting.” She drove the few asphalt roads on the map of South Western Queensland just before dark; cold blooded animals living near the dark tarry highways seek them out at night. The roads stayed warm for hours after the desert cooled. The road was thick with snakes that took advantage of the heat. Henna remained optimistic that she’d find an inland taipan. She drove the rented HiLux slowly. She turned on the high beams and let her mind relax. As the sun set and the desert sands cooled, she willed the snake to seek the heat of the road.
INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1) Page 12