INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1)

by Bradley Ernst

  Norman glared at him. Manny had to chew on his lip to hide his glee. He fished around in his pocket, found a toothpick, and popped it in.

  He’s going to say something. He’s going to demand to know the truth about the document. Don’t do it, Norman. The boy is on a roll.

  “I understand.” Norman looked behind him again to see who’d said it. Manny chomped the sliver of wood to occupy himself and counted to ten under his breath to let the tension rise. Then he gazed up at the ceiling, as if doing a difficult calculation. He tapped his thumb against each finger, doing math on his fingertips. “Let’s see, $1,500.00 should cover the bike—figure in another $2,000.00—that should cover the consultation with Nagel…” Manny nodded with finality “…$4,000.00 even.”

  “Thirty-five hu—” Norman started to protest but reconsidered.

  What if the bluff failed? As soon as he had his bike back, he’d probably call the lawyers. They would get the warrant.

  “Yep—sounds fair.” Manny gave the boy a bewildered look as Norman wrote a check. Silently, he mouthed a word at Bonn.

  Bugatti?

  Norman fumed as he drove away.

  The nerve of these hicks!

  At this point the bike didn’t matter. He placed a call to Casey Rainbolt, but it went to a recording. He hung up, disgusted.

  He’d dropped a $10,000 retainer to hire the guys—the least they could do is answer the phone.

  In the morning Norman turned a rental van down the alleyway to retrieve his motorcycle. He nearly ran into a car-hauler. The behemoth backed up the alley the wrong way. Several people milled around the entrance to Manny’s shop. A stern-looking man wearing a suede vest and a driving cap glared in his direction and barked orders at everyone. Norman cracked the window to hear what he said. “Left. More left!” Norman backed up and waited at the entrance to the alley. A man opened the doors of the trailer and stepped inside. Moments later a 1935 Bugatti Aerolith coupe rolled out. Norman was dumbfounded. He craned his neck to see the treasure, yet failed to notice the approach of an enormous man in a suit until he tapped on the window with a class ring the size of an egg. “Roll this down all the way.” Norman did. “Back up, point the nose of this vehicle in any other direction, and find another place to be,” the bodyguard hissed.

  “I just—”

  He could see his Scout.

  Norman pointed at the motorcycle for the huge man, like a toddler who knows what they want but can’t verbalize it yet. The bodyguard was impatient. “Mr. Turnbull will be done in twenty minutes. Do you understand me? It would be wise to look at me and indicate your understanding.” Norman nodded. “Then back up and go. If I need to, I’ll get in and do it for you. Do I need to do that?”

  There were two bodyguards now. The second guy made the first look like a dwarf. He approached the van like a carnivorous rhino wearing a suit the size of Norman’s refrigerator. His head was lowered. He swayed side to side, each step a notable event. He flared his nostrils and looked at the grill of the van as though he’d either eat or molest it. His jaw looked borrowed from an Asian beast of burden—

  Norman put the van in reverse and did as he was told.

  ~A Good Man

  Her mother’s ring was gone. Henna never did have the ring re-sized. She hadn’t needed to. She usually wore it around her neck. Ever since the Viesträ Alvar gave her the ring, she’d always known exactly where it was. She’d put the ring on her finger when Stephan held her in bed. She didn’t know why—it was too big for her, but she slid it on and spun it around her finger while she listened to Stephan breathe. She fell asleep with it on. When she felt it on her finger in the morning, she decided to leave it there for a while.

  Stephan made her feel safe.

  He was kind and funny. Gentle, intelligent. When anything exciting happened he was the one she called.

  She couldn’t imagine life without him. Would it hurt to imagine being married to him?

  She was too busy to be married—and too young. She had too much to do, but if she ever did get married, she’d want to be married to a man like Stephan. It didn’t matter anyway. She was certain she wasn’t his type.

  She was wrong. It did hurt. The ring was gone. Leaving it on her finger was so foolish.

  Henna searched her pockets. Then, in desperation, made Stephen search his. She cried with her eyes open so she could keep searching. She felt frantic and didn’t bother to wipe at her tears.

  There wasn’t time.

  The sadness swelled through the sinuses in her fractured nose, and she was forced to breathe through her mouth. She tasted tears and sat down. It was really gone. She’d lost so much lately, but the ring—it was too much.

  It was the only part of her mother she had left.

  Stephan called the front desk. A cheerful woman answered and looked in the lost and found drawer. “Sir, I don’t see any rings here, but I’ll check with the dayshift clerk in the morning.” Henna eavesdropped on the call and felt increasingly unbalanced.

  Even through the fight on the boat, she’d kept the ring. It had been so stupid to wear it.

  It was the size of her mother’s finger.

  She should have kept it around her neck.

  Henna looked at her hand again. She closed her eyes and willed it to be there, but when she opened her eyes, it wasn’t. She wished for Viesträ.

  If she broke gingerbread into three pieces, she’d have a wish. Childish. Her desperation was making her childish.

  It wasn’t just that the ring was her mother’s. It was the reverence her grandfather showed the ring that magnified the loss. When Henna wanted to hear a story about her mother, she’d let Alvar hold it until the story was finished. It was a part of her history.

  Winters were for remembering. That’s when the ring was passed back and forth between them.

  Henna had nothing of her father’s. As a girl she had made up stories about him. She imagined him tall, with kind blue eyes and straight white teeth. Her father had loved to tickle her—she did remember that. If there’d been no fire, he would’ve taught her to dance—to swim. He’d wear a thin blue sweater when he got home from work. He would have distinguished touches of grey in his hair. He’d smell like cedar. He’d wear glasses that made him look as smart as he was. Her parents were married in graduate school. Alvar said they were madly in love. They’d traveled the world together. Her father would’ve touched the ring, too—when they were married—whenever her parents held hands. She felt her neck for the string. It wasn’t there of course.

  She was losing herself. Could she remember the stories without the ring? Were the stories inside of it somehow?

  Stephan checked them out of the hotel two mornings later. It was time to return to the living. Henna stood in front of the hotel while Stephan checked them out. She couldn’t help but look along the edge of the sidewalk for the ring.

  It was ridiculous. Several hundred thousand pairs of eyes would have seen it already.

  It was in someone’s pocket now. Or in a pawnshop. It was melted down into something else. The stories burned out of it.

  Gone forever. Vaporized. Stuck to the windows of the tall buildings around her, where her stories didn’t belong.

  Stephan joined her. He had a smirk on his face. A note was stapled to the hotel receipt. He read it to Henna. “I found a ring that may be yours. Please call me at the following number.” Henna couldn’t believe it. She shook as she pulled her phone out of her satchel and had to sit down on the steps.

  Please. Please. Please be true.

  She got an answering machine. Her heart dropped. Henna left a message—along with her cellphone number. She considered giving a brief synopsis of what the ring meant to her, but what to say? The machine would cut her off before she could, so she left a simple message: “Thank you for doing the right thing.” Stephan gave her an optimistic look, but Henna felt worse. “Do you think they still have it? I lost it days ago. Will they pay roaming charges to talk to me if we fly back today? Wi
ll they believe me when I promise to pay them for the postage it’ll take to ship it to me?”

  Stephan shrugged. “It’s more than we had—I think you’ll get it back.”

  They had to go—Henna knew that.

  Airplanes don’t wait for rings.

  Stephan hailed a cab. On the way to the airport, Stephan held her hand. “The type of person who’d leave a note will also return your call. Try not to worry.” Henna wondered if they had to stop holding hands when they got back to Edinburgh. She hoped not.

  She checked her phone on the layover in Birmingham.

  Nothing.

  It seemed worse knowing that someone tried to return it. Maybe they sold it or turned it into the police by now. She sat and stared at her phone while she waited at the gate. She willed it to ring. Stephan brought her food and a magazine to take her mind off things. Too soon it was time to board the last leg home. Upon landing in Edinburgh, Henna checked the phone again.

  A text?

  Of course I would be

  glad to send your ring

  along. Text me your

  address?

  Warm regards,

  Bonn

  Henna dialed the number again. She needed to thank them. Him? Bonn must be a man? No one answered. Henna texted back.

  I insist on a reward. How

  did you find my ring? It

  means so much to me.

  Thank you~

  Henna

  She texted her address next. Her heartbeat quickened. She stared at the screen of her phone, waiting for him to respond. When he didn’t, she texted again.

  I want to thank you for

  being honest. I called

  you, but your mailbox is

  full. It wouldn’t allow me

  to leave a message.

  Stephan pulled at her elbow. It was time to get off the plane. He steered her through the airport by her elbow while she stared at her phone. Finally, in baggage claim she got another message.

  My phone acts up. I

  can’t access voicemail

  anymore. Time to

  upgrade I guess.

  I’ll head to the post office

  after work. Glad to help.

  Let me know when you

  receive the package?

  Cheers

  Henna relaxed. She would get the ring back.

  Bonn.

  Henna mouthed the name. “Bonum” meant “good” in Latin and the French translation for the word “good” was even closer: “Bon.” Henna smiled.

  There were still good people out there.

  ~Marionettist

  Bonn waited in a tree. The night was calm. The object in his hands was a rifle, though most people wouldn’t recognize it as such. He’d made it. He’d loaded the cartridges for it—he’d even turned the bullets for it on a lathe. The riflescope, however, was recognizable. Bonn looked through the glass on the Schmidt and Bender scope as a group of teenagers began to gather near a park bench on the path near Sheep Meadow. Bonn finally felt useful—the trouble with the history professor that led to the lawyers was a catalyst. A violent one, but one he’d been destined for.

  This was his calling.

  He didn’t share his secret with anyone. He didn’t really know anyone to share secrets with anyway.

  Maybe the Germans—certainly not Rupert, Manny, or Linda.

  If the Germans found out they’d be ambivalent. They were like machines and reminded him of Hedwig. He imagined Hedwig out in the rain. The rain turned her body into a worm. He imagined that he picked the Hedwig-worm up off the wet sidewalk and pulled her in half. Each worm-half became one of the German men. Her body, her age, all equally divisible. The German worm-babies would heal and morph on the rainy nighttime sidewalk. By morning they’d sprout legs, arms.

  And razor tipped shoes.

  The Germans weren’t normal. He knew that. They were interesting characters. A bit mysterious.

  They weren’t bad, though. They were like him, only less human.

  If he needed to confide in them, he could, but he didn’t need to. If he asked them to go do these things, they would. They’d do them perfectly—but this was his calling. This gave him purpose. Maybe when he had a larger project in mind, he’d ask them for help. Manny and Linda would be crushed if they knew about the lawyers, but there was no reason for them to find out. Since the trouble with Norman Trundle, Bonn checked in with Manny most mornings. Manny sounded relieved each time.

  Still no word from the lawyers, son—and I haven’t seen Norman since the Bugatti charade.

  The trick with the Bugatti worked flawlessly. The Aerolithe now occupied the container next to the Marauder. It was pristine. The car cost him a fortune, but it served its purpose perfectly. Norman didn’t need to die—he just needed a show of power. The actors were compensated well. Bonn hoped Norman didn’t attend too many plays in New York—or if he did that his seats didn’t provide good views of the actor’s faces.

  Bonn adjusted the scope. More teens joined the group. They loitered—high fives were exchanged. This wasn’t a sophisticated group. They moved to a park bench where Bonn had mounted a microphone. He turned on his headset and listened in. Snippets of conversation came through the static:

  “Dude. The car was like—”

  “That stupid job. When I get a real job I’m gonna—”

  Banal stuff. Nothing much. Nothing damning. Just dumb kids. The scope was amazing, though. Bonn checked his calculations and adjusted for windage. He let his thoughts drift on the light breeze that had kicked up.

  Henna Maxwell.

  With a name, an address, and a couple of razor-shod worm-Germans, you can find any information you could possibly need. Henna was born in a youth hostel in Chile. Her parents were also deceased. A grandfather had raised her. Henna was a toxicologist—a child prodigy who’d kept her momentum. Unlike most child prodigies, Henna didn’t fade into obscurity in her late teens.

  She’d turned into a smart and productive lady.

  The man with her in the park was a friend from the university—a martial arts instructor turned scientist. He had some strange hobbies: he liked to dress like a woman and sing show tunes in public.

  But who was he to judge? He was in a tree with a homemade rifle pointed at somebody’s head.

  Bonn thought about the wasp spray.

  Henna could concoct something so much better.

  Two more joined the group by the bench. Older guys. Tension in the group increased. Bonn counted heads. Seven. All male. It was almost dark, which in the city wasn’t very dark at all. Regardless, the timer on an automatic lamp hummed to life near the bench. It disrupted his view of the group through the scope. Bonn pulled an ultraviolet laser from a pocket and peered through a night vision monocular. He could see the beam clearly through the device, but it would be invisible to the group of teenagers. He focused the beam on the light sensor on top of the lamp. In a few seconds the bulb winked out. It was set to an eight minute delay. Bonn looked through the scope again.

  Better.

  There were nine teenagers now. A new arrival lit a cigarette. Several other boys hurried to light their own cigarettes to mimic him.

  He’s the alpha.

  Alpha jumped onto the park bench with a flourish and sat on the backrest. He was right over the microphone so Bonn could hear every word. Alpha explained a point system to the group. Different actions were assigned points.

  They were going wilding.

  ‘Wilding’ was a new term for an antediluvian activity; bands of kids got together and howled at the moon. Raised hell. It was usually random. They broke windows, bullied strangers. Recently, however, a woman was raped in the park and “wilding” was all over the news.

  “Knock someone out? Five points,” Alpha explained.

  Bonn adjusted his headset.

  “Take a wallet? Ten points.”

  The guy smoked his cigarette like a movie villain, blowing smoke out of his nostrils for effect. Bonn i
ncreased the magnification on the scope until he could make out Alpha’s facial expressions. Bonn had spent a lot of time in the tree. He’d ranged the distance to several landmarks. The bench was 271 meters away. Bonn adjusted the scope a touch—fine tuning the elevation—then pulled a long sound suppressor from his bag and screwed it onto the muzzle of the rifle. The baffle stack inside the suppressor was unlike any other. He had fitted flexible silicone O-rings between each baffle. Bonn could fire twenty shots in rapid succession before the silicone began to break down. It functioned more like a wet suppressor than a dry one and increased the accuracy of the rifle. Since each huge bullet traveled at sub-sonic speeds, the system was extraordinarily quiet.

  “Rape a woman? Twenty points—but you have to bring me proof.”

  In fourteen syllables, Alpha turned them all into targets.

  Bonn spoke under his breath. “OK, guys. If you don’t believe in rape, leave now.”

  Why didn’t police bug park benches? Where were they when things heated up in the park? Feeding the horses?

  Perhaps it was all talk. The First Amendment allowed even potential rapists to blather on about doing evil things, as long as they met peaceably while they did so, but if Bonn let it slide, one or more of these guys might deprive people of their inalienable rights somewhere he couldn’t intervene. He shouldn’t be so hard on the police. It would be a tough job if you had to follow rules. He didn’t want to live in a police state. Bonn put the crosshairs on Alpha’s nose. The young man’s minions milled about as he exhaled. “None of you are leaving, are you?”

  Alpha dragged it out.

  Would he stop assigning points at rape or up the ante even more? His minions would wait. He was in charge. If he didn’t die today, he would die in prison. After making many people’s lives complicated and miserable. This is better. Here he can die outside.

  One excited wilder broke away from the group. Bonn tracked him in the scope. He kept the crosshairs in the middle of his head. The guy walked a few meters and unzipped his pants. His urine began to flow. The sniper pursed his lips, thought of the curled letters on the Bill of Rights, then shrugged and pulled the trigger. This was not a peaceable assembly.