But he didn’t.
“I was following you.”
Henna was silent. Bonn prepared to hang up. He could remove the SIM card from the phone and crush it.
She couldn’t find him.
She only knew his first name. It was an odd first name, but she didn’t know his last name. The phone was secure. The number led to nothing. Even crushing the SIM would be overkill. Why had he told the brilliant scientist the truth?
It was reckless, but it felt right. He decided to trust her—what did he have to lose?
“Why would you follow me?”
The moment of truth. He could pull the SIM card now. He’d be a puff of smoke—invisible in seconds.
“I wanted to make sure you and your friend made it to your destination safely. Some bad men planned to hassle you in the park.” He had already said too much—he might as well tell her. “I killed them.” A long pause. The lady breathed, but didn’t speak. “Your ring fell off near the fountain. I couldn’t think of a good way to return it to you without incriminating myself. I’m not good with people.”
She was still there.
“Which I am doing now, I suppose. Incriminating myself.”
Henna was still there. He could still hear her breathing.
Everything else became silent. Bonn stood on the top level of his fortress. He looked out of the thick glass window. A mote of dust floated up into view. It just hung there.
One shiny speck. It was beautiful, defying gravity like that. It had no reason to.
Henna swallowed hard. Bonn guessed at her thoughts.
The truth was easier.
He had given her no reason to fear him. He didn’t want anything. He was kind and polite, but he had said it himself—
He was not good with other people.
“Why were you watching me to begin with, Bonn?” The speck pirouetted into a bright beam of sunlight.
Henna’s voice sounded measured. She didn’t sound afraid.
Sparks of blue and pink reflected from the unlikely particle. Bonn was reluctant to speak; the air it took to answer Henna could create a draft and blow the shiny speck away. “I wasn’t. I watched the men. They were going to harm someone. They picked you and your friend. I decided to stop them.”
“What’s your last name, Bonn?”
The shiny mote of dust twirled and rose in an updraft. It spun toward the sun in little circles, switchbacks that led to thick ballistic glass.
That led to nowhere.
“Maddox.” Bonn told her despite the possible consequences. “My name is Bonn Maddox.” The speck was gone. A falling star lost—winked out. Several seconds passed. Bonn listened for the dial tone.
Now he’d be caught. He’d have to run.
“Thank you for what you did, Bonn Maddox.”
Not gone?
The speck multiplied. Hundreds—thousands of shiny specks now danced in the sunlight. Pairs of dots drafted each other, a messy cartwheeling cotillion whirled from an invisible spot on the sun-warmed concrete floor.
Brownian motion without the fluid.
Bonn didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He simply stood in the sunlight. He looked out the window, watched the world come to life around him, and listened to Henna Maxwell breathe on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
~Incarnation
Henna waited nervously at the airport. A thin man in a tailored suit stood nearby with a sign that read “Maddox.” The man held a soft-sided canvas bag with what appeared to be a box inside.
To thank Bonn for the return of her mother’s ring, she had sent him a copy of her latest book: An Illustrated Field Guide to Toxic Fauna of Australia. She’d sent along a note as well. The note was difficult to write. There wasn’t an established protocol exacting how to thank someone who may have saved your life from hardened street thugs.
What if Stephan had been hurt? She couldn’t bear to imagine it.
When they spoke on the telephone, her savior had seemed painfully honest. Of course, there were vigilantes in the world—their crimes propped them uncomfortably atop a moral fence, teetering left and right as prosecutors and defense attorneys assigned different weights to facts ultimately damning or redeeming the person in the balance—but all of that happened if they were caught.
A man on a subway who’d had enough. A father or mother who become proactive when some creep showed too much interest in their child.
Those events made the news all the time. Bonn was different. He went looking for trouble and something told her he’d never get caught.
The man in the suit held the bag at arm’s length, as if something alive moved inside. He grasped the handles delicately with just his fingertips. Henna stole glances at the man’s face. Beads of sweat formed at his hairline. He glowered suspiciously at the bag until a herd of people approached. Stragglers broke from the migration to seek restrooms and coffee, electrical outlets and French fries. The thin man held the sign high, his arm a desperate metronome. The movement advertised his urgency to rid himself of the bag.
Bonn knew what Henna looked like from the dust cover of her book. It was a big advantage. Henna had no idea what he looked like. She searched the faces of travelers and watched for one to recognize his name on the thin man’s sign. A dark-haired man came toward them—six feet tall, grey wool pants.
Nice shoes.
He approached the thin man with the sign in confident strides. He was muscular, but not bulky.
He looked—flexible.
His movements reminded Henna of a bipedal cat—dense muscles rolled beneath tailored wool skin. Stephan was fit, but this guy—
This guy was unreal.
His shoulders moved easily, as if they had ball bearing joints the size of shot puts. He tipped the thin man in the suit and took the canvas bag. He turned toward Henna fluidly. “Hi, Henna.”
In the letter, Henna encouraged Bonn to visit her in Edinburgh. He called her soon afterward to tell her he’d like that: next week, in fact.
I read your book. I’m fascinated by toxicology, but don’t know much about the field. I’ve been busy with school and a recent move. Your letter came at a good time for me. I could use a break from the city.
Have you been to Scotland before?
No—I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve never been out of the States. I’d like to remedy that.
And here he was.
Strong square jaw. Great skin. One green iris corralled by a thick dark limbal ring—and one white iris, the lost looking pupil floating conspicuously in a milky pool. A faint scar ran from Bonn’s cheek and terminated in a disfigured ear. He was an incredibly intense-looking man, and he seemed aware that the eye was off-putting.
“Welcome to Edinburgh, Bonn. Did you get your first ever passport stamp?”
The cat-like gentleman smiled and patted his pocket. “I did. It feels good. I’m a man of the world now.”
A small shock of white hair grew from the scarred area near Bonn’s ear. He looked so smooth, so symmetrical everywhere else, the irregularity drew Henna’s attention. Bonn ran a finger along the scar. He’d noticed that she’d seen it.
“Childhood was rough on me.”
She was quick to smile. “I keep mine on the inside. Now that my nose looks like a nose again, I mean. Last time you saw me I was pretty banged up.” Henna touched her own face to mirror Bonn’s scar. “What happened there?”
With his squared off features he reminded her of a taller, more handsome version of her gargoyle.
“My mother shot me on my ninth birthday.”
Henna’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Wow—you’re serious aren’t you?”
“I’m not very funny—serious is all I’ve got.”
Henna nodded. “Let’s go get your bags.” She felt a slow smile adorn her face and didn’t try to fight off the welcome feelings that accompanied her expression.
“No need. I’ve had some things delivered to a hotel.” The well-dressed American offered her his arm
and held up the canvas bag. “I brought you a gift. They may be a bit cramped, so do you mind if we stop by your lab on our way to conquer the city?”
“They?”
Had he brought her something—alive?
Bonn returned her smile, but his face seemed unaccustomed to the movement. “Cramped may not be the correct word. You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”
They took a cab to the university. Bonn slid down in the seat of the cab so he could more easily see out the window. One after another historical buildings drifted past—some older than the United States itself. Henna pointed out some of her favorite landmarks.
Henna passed cab fare up to the driver. “You can let us out here.” They were a few blocks away from the school, but Henna wanted to show the visitor one of her favorite spots on foot. It was raining, but the New Yorker didn’t seem to care. They walked down ancient stone steps into an even older cemetery. The verdant expanse was overgrown with moss-covered headstones and crosses. Some were so old the inscriptions were gone.
Bonn drank in his surroundings. “Everything seems so—”
“Old?” Henna squatted to read an inscription.
“I was going to say green. Green and gray. It reminds me of upstate New York. They used a lot of stone in the buildings there too. I snuck out of our house a lot to explore when I was little. Stonework always interested me.” The rain let up. Bonn looked inside the bag, then felt the box. “It probably isn’t accurate to say I snuck out. No one would have come for me even if they knew I was missing, but I practiced my stealth, nonetheless.” He seemed satisfied that the contents of the bag were dry.
They continued along the winding path through the graveyard. Bonn seemed awkward—he was so careful to choose the correct words that he seemed wooden. He spoke slowly, as if he wasn’t used to talking to anyone at all. “In fact my German nanny might have locked all the doors if my absence wouldn’t have rendered her nonessential.”
“A nanny? Where were your parents?”
“My father was either working or philandering. My mother was similarly occupied, minus the work.”
They left the graveyard. Bonn walked on the sidewalk closest to traffic until they entered campus. When they approached a bald panhandler with a spider web tattooed on his head and one pink contact, Henna noted that he positioned himself between them. He seemed naturally protective—like Mortimer. Henna told Bonn about Mortimer and the wolf. She couldn’t actually tell if he listened until the story was finished.
“That’s amazing. I’ve never seen a dog do anything like that.” When he looked at her, his eyes were so intense. Piercing.
Unsettling.
He seemed aware of it. He obviously tried not to look at her, as if he knew it would be painful and rude to do so. Henna attempted to break the tension with yet another story—about the day she picked wolfsbane. This time she could tell he listened. He was odd but apt.
He seemed a bit robotic.
He didn’t nod knowingly, interrupt, or even smile as she talked, but he definitely listened. He seemed to see and notice everything. It didn’t look comfortable to be inside his brain. There was an awful lot going on up there. But by the time they reached the University, she’d adjusted to his lack of emotion and expression and their conversations fell into a rhythm. When Henna opened the door to her lab, Bonn’s eyes widened slightly to take it all in. “Oh. Fantastic.”
It was the least enthusiastic utterance of the word Henna had ever heard, but the odd man said it with genuine intent.
Henna walked him through the lab. She pointed out animals. She used their common names and gave Bonn interesting facts like Alvar used to do for her. When Henna came to an enclosure housing a coastal taipan, she told him about her search for the inland taipan in Queensland—the snake that had eluded her. “I liked that part of your book the best. You mentioned road hunting in the foreword—the excitement of searching for one thing and finding another—I thought about that philosophy a lot, in fact, Henna. Without the motivation to find the inland taipan, you might not have encountered that perentie, but you recognized the opportunity. You took it. We are alike in that way.”
“You really did read my book. It was such an amazing trip. I remain optimistic about the taipan. Sooner or later I’ll have a pair of them in my collection.” Bonn handed her the canvas bag.
“I’ve found that optimism pays extraordinarily well.”
~Hard Objects
Bonn felt at home in the new building.
The living space was on the top floor. The architect was a fan of Fibonacci’s golden ratio. She’d made each space, each room, each window feel right. A great room divided six apartments. Each apartment was similarly furnished with simple modern decor. Two of the corner units didn’t have windows. Depending on an occupant’s perspective, they were either luxury safe rooms or elegant dungeons. A floor-to-ceiling window on one end of the great room delivered an illusion: it appeared one could float out into the cityscape. The glass was treated for privacy, yet still gave a dose of natural light to the room that made it feel alive. An immense mosaic occupied the other end of the great room. Constructed on a monolithic stand-alone wall, the artwork served to camouflage the unsightly elevator shaft. The artists used reflective bits of glass to create a nautiloid swirl: black, copper, cobalt, June-bug green—great plates of weathered copper covered the walls surrounding the mosaic.
The effect was bewitching.
The team of artists that created the piece was busy two floors below, on an even more impressive project. Each apartment was comfortable for two people. They were intuitive spaces. Each surface, each seat, the placement of each light made sense. They were ready for visitors, though Bonn didn’t yet know who those visitors might be. The finest materials were used in construction, yet nothing was overdone. A basket of toiletries sat crisply on each bathroom counter. Even the toothbrushes were luxurious. Soft, white, organic bristles sprung from wooden handles ready for grateful hands to make use of them. Bonn swung open the heavy door to one of the windowless apartments and carried in the Bill of Rights. He considered each wall in the main room and chose one. He propped the frame gently against the wall. It would be safe here. More secure than any museum. He’d be sure to invite only the most appropriate visitors to see it.
The floor below the living space would be Henna’s lab. His visit to Scotland had been fruitful. Henna agreed to help him outfit his own toxic menagerie, but the lab would be as much hers as it would be his. Bonn would staff it with a hand-picked team that could care for the animals and produce useful substances. The Germans worked out a floor plan for the space that optimized work areas, while tastefully showcasing the animals. One level below the lab was Bonn’s church. The gym was large and simple. Divider walls separated gear from the main area. The architect used a Japanese aesthetic to create a space where Bonn could practice Kendo and meditate. Shoji doors led to spaces where Bonn could climb ropes, use kettle bells, and practice powerlifting. One room housed only a fist-polished teak Mook Yan Jong, a wooden training dummy nearly two centuries old.
If you strike soft objects, you stay soft—to become hard, you must strike hard objects.
Bonn rode the elevator down two floors. He wanted to check on the progress of the larger mosaic. The artists were all women—two sisters and a cousin. They were born in Japan, but were very much New Yorkers. They worked together quietly and with great affinity. They’d measured Bonn before they started the project—both barefoot and with shoes. They’d rolled an elaborate jig up to him. He peered through tubes to determine the exact height of his pupils when standing and at rest. They’d measured his gait, his stride. Precision was imperative. They measured the room the piece would occupy, sketched and diagramed, talked in hushed tones and sourced materials for a week before they ever laid the first glass piece. Bonn gave them a blank check and a theme. They were determined to create a masterpiece.
This project, sir, is the challenge of a lifetime. We will assure that you are pl
eased.
The glass pieces were placed painstakingly. Each was now in place, but individual portions of each piece of glass were polished. As one woman adjusted and moved a large light on a boom, another woman polished the pieces. The third woman wore what appeared to be black suede blinders and stood on a small stool that brought her to Bonn’s full height. To further limit her vision, she peered through small black tubes at each piece as it was faceted. Bonn was unsure how she communicated with the woman polishing the glass. She twitched her hands like a spider checked its web. Bonn moved closer to her. He heard tiny tonal utterances. She seemed more conductor than director. She ignored Bonn for several minutes, so he sat to appreciate the process of creation. The woman on the stool made a curious gesture after a few minutes and swept off her blinders. She lithely dismounted the stool and took Bonn by the hand. She led him around the room so he could view the mosaic from several angles.
It was breathtaking.
The scene showed Musashi Miyamoto. He knelt in a rowboat. The water shimmered, clean and deep. Musashi wore tattered peasant clothing and carved a long bokken out of an oar. His most famous opponent, Sasaki Kojiro, angrily awaited him on the bank of a small island as Musashi put the finishing touch on the edge of the bokken with a small carving knife. The woman squeezed his hand. “Observe, please—the hamon.” Kojiro’s sword. The polished edge of the long weapon shone as Bonn moved through the room. He nodded in appreciation. “Amazing.”
“No,” the woman said softly, her eyes dancing from his face to the mural. The glass polisher pointed to Musashi’s bokken—where Musashi ran the carving knife along the cutting edge of the improvised wooden sword and a dazzling shimmer reflected back. Bonn walked around the room again to watch the effect—the oar seemed alive. The shiny edge of the wooden weapon illuminated the self-assured expression on Miyamoto’s face. “Only for you—the hamon on the oar. It can only be seen at your height—the pieces were set just so.”
INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1) Page 23
