INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1)

  INHUMANUM

  By Bradley Ernst

  Copyright © 2015 by Bradley J Ernst

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To Sara,

  The love of my life …

  For laughing at my jokes

  Table of Contents

  INHUMANUM

  ~Prologue

  ~Conspicuous Consumption

  ~The Stray

  ~Troubled Child

  ~Old Haunts

  ~Mother Figure

  ~Morel Day

  ~The Gifted

  ~Wolfsbane

  ~Guttural

  ~Give and Take

  ~Dead Reckoning

  ~Different

  ~Polymath

  ~Mississippi

  ~Shrikethrush

  ~Freak

  ~Old School

  ~Barn Find

  ~Just Right

  ~Plenty

  ~Intuition

  ~Fork-Tongued Children

  ~Mantle-Wolf

  ~Evolution

  ~Homesick

  ~Marauder

  ~Conus

  ~Motivation

  ~True White Devil

  ~Survivor

  ~Timing Screw

  ~Magic Show

  ~Homecoming

  ~A Good Man

  ~Marionettist

  ~Homicide

  ~The Myth Of Closure

  ~Truth

  ~Incarnation

  ~Hard Objects

  ~Forty

  ~Great White Hope

  ~Modus Operandi

  ~High Art

  ~Everything That Comes After

  ~The Act

  ~Conviction

  ~Metal Crowd

  ~Ingliston

  ~Sympathetic Tone

  ~Mala Mujer

  ~Spectacle

  ~Bespoke

  ~Hunting the Devil

  ~Tiger Man

  ~Rabbis’ Anonymous

  ~Free Wi-Fi

  ~Behest

  ~Out of Business

  ~Rohypnol

  ~Fresca

  ~Catch and Release

  ~The Oath

  ~Epilogue

  ~About

  Inhumanum: (Latin) “Brutal.”

  “When you meet a swordsman, draw your sword: do not recite poetry to one who is not a poet.”

  ~Ch’an (Zen) Buddhist aphorism

  “As surely as I live, says the Sovereign Lord, since you show no distaste for blood, I will give you a bloodbath of your own. Your turn has come!”

  ~Ezekiel 35:6

  “I will fill your mountains with the dead.”

  ~Ezekiel 35:8

  ~Prologue

  The ’69 Mercury Marauder’s aged suspension moaned as though a heavy corpse was in the trunk. It was not a body—just money. The driver stuck to back roads. Operating the aged car, hoary with rust except for its glistening black skin, was a joy at highway speeds. Although he had hit a flat stretch of road, the needle on the accelerator wavered between seventy-five and sixty. New York City wasn’t built for speed of transit. It was built to shelve millions of people, each with their own goals and reasons to want or need to be shelved. His mismatched eyes didn’t blink as the windshield took a bullet-sized rock low and to the left of his field of view.

  Better still. He liked the car’s imperfections.

  Old. Drafty. Aged vinyl turned sweet-smelling by years of sun exposure, motor oil, lead and oxidation. The metal harmonics of the springs in the bench seat groaned as they compressed unevenly beneath his solid weight. It was nearly 2 AM. Odors from the countryside hammered through the cracked driver’s side window. Whup. Whup. Whup. Hay. Mud. Wet stones.

  A cellphone rang for the last time—a glance.

  Detective Grimaldi’s number.

  Cool, dry hands hardened by extreme measures stayed on the thin black steering wheel, but the set of the man’s jaw changed. The call went to voicemail. The fingers of his right hand flared. He palm-spun the wheel into a turn and slowed to enter a covered wooden bridge—one of many in New England. It was a flimsy avian bivouac badly in need of restoration, like the car.

  A nice place to stop.

  Easy pressure on the brake, new pads hissed rust free from the drums onto the patchy creosote. The white dice hanging from the rearview mirror swung. Front, back. Front, back. The well-dressed loner turned the smooth key counterclockwise and walked the tarred planks while he listened to the voicemail. Detective Grimaldi seemed hesitant—he didn’t speak right away. Finally the ex-boxer cleared his throat. “You should know I’ve been promoted. I took Bill Turret’s spot. I’m the station chief—”

  Tall, broad through the chest, the man leaned against the bridge railing for a moment. He peered over the edge, into the water. Almost absent mindedly, the vigilante tossed the well-used police baton into the river. “—and although I appreciate what you were trying to accomplish … what you did accomplish, I remain in steadfast disapproval of your methods—”

  A sleepy bird peered down at the specter from an overstuffed nest. He glanced at the bird for a moment then leaned into the decrepit muscle car to push in the cigarette lighter on the cracked dashboard. “—in summary, we remain in pursuit. If you and your—” The lighter popped out. The man tugged the knob from the dash and rolled the device between his fingers. The hot coil cast a glow like an angry electric ring. Cracking the phone open as easily as an egg, the most wanted criminal in New York state history removed the SIM card from the device, placed it on the railing, and pressed the hot coil of the cigarette lighter down.

  The woman he loved was safe—the Germans would assure it. So would the other man. That mattered.

  A deep black pool had swallowed the baton. In his pocket lay his last link to New York. The Germans had made the tubular device. Titanium—anodized to a dark bronze. A green led light recessed in one end, a rounded screw cap with ornate crenulations for grip adorned the other. If the green light flashed, they needed him. If he unscrewed the cap and pushed the button beneath, the Germans would dispatch help his way. Satellites were involved, amongst other technologies. Pulling the device out was instinctual—cathartic. For a moment, he held the tube out over the water. Relaxing his grip, he let it roll to his fingertips. A car approached the tunnel. It stopped at the entrance of the one-way bridge and flashed its lights. Amiably, the fit man waved and slipped the tube back into his pocket. The springs in the seat sang their complaint. He turned the smooth key clockwise. He wasn’t on the run—

  This was a trip about perspective.

  He would let fate steer his actions.

  You can look, Detective Grimaldi, but you won’t find.

  ~Conspicuous Consumption

  Ithaca, New York.

  Troy and Raquel Maddox received frequent compliments on their son’s good manners, however it made the five-year-old feel uncomfortable. He wanted—more than anything else—simply to be left alone.

  Bonn is such a well-behaved child. He seems just like a little man, Troy. Raquel, you must be so proud of him. I see a lot of your influence there.

  Tonight Troy entertained his client at the Black Bow Inn. The old stone building had elegant chandeliers. The expensive wine list afforded the chef license to serve pigeon, but call it “squab.” The little boy liked to watch people, but he despised being scrutinized himself. He wondered why everyone fussed over him.

  Good manners came naturally. Why did everyone feel obligated to comment on his?

 
Bonn finished his meal. He wiped his mouth and folded his napkin, crossed his silverware on his plate to indicate he was finished. People stared rudely. Some went so far as to point in his direction. A well-dressed couple stopped at the Maddoxes’ table on their way out. The man seemed to know his father and tousled Bonn’s hair aggressively. His date, a well-dressed younger woman, loomed awkwardly. She seemed out of sorts, unsure where to stand or even to look. Bonn could appreciate her dilemma: seating was tight, the tables close together. It would have been rude for her to march on past when her date stopped to rub elbows, yet no matter where she pointed her shapely bottom it faced someone seated nearby.

  Some of the men didn’t seem to mind, but the women sure did. Perhaps for several reasons.

  The boisterous man had failed to introduce the attractive woman who seemed a transient, nervous orchid in a marigold patch.

  She had been set up to fail.

  The glad-hander had planted them all in the social muck. He, for instance, would have preferred to shake hands with the man rather than suffer the pet-grade hair fondling.

  Bonn remembered the steps his father taught him—steps to ensure the success of a handshake:

  1. “Don’t be the first one to squeeze.”

  2. “When you do squeeze, make eye contact.”

  3. “Never let anyone turn your hand ‘palm up.’”

  4. “Steer the conversation when you can.”

  The most important step came at the end:

  5. “When shaking hands, never be the first to let go. No matter how awkward it becomes.”

  Bonn didn’t know why that would feel awkward but remembered the rule anyway. The woman loitering uncomfortably above him blinked apologetically and offered Bonn a small smile.

  One of the other adults should have engaged her by now. If they wouldn’t help her, he would. Someone had to do it.

  “Did you enjoy your chicken?” Bonn asked pleasantly. “Francois frequently sends it out a bit dry.”

  His father’s client sat just to his left. She was a wealthy woman. A very proper woman. A lady. To that point, she had managed to ignore the impromptu visitors at their table, though her crossed arms indicated the imposition on her dinner felt—offensive. The boy was correct to address the interloper, and her eyes shone with pride and perhaps a bit of embarrassment that she, herself, had not risen to the girl’s need. The unseemly interaction and Bonn’s salutation caused a chuckle to bubble up from her chest. She attempted to stifle her belly laugh by pressing an embroidered napkin against her lips. Her mirth spilled around the edges nonetheless. She couldn’t help herself. She laughed harder still. When she came up for air, she sucked in a piece of inadequately chewed shellfish and began to choke. The scene intrigued Bonn. Each adult took a break from their struggles for power, money, or validity to watch his elbow-mate suffer. The shrimp was hopelessly lodged in the lady’s airway. His father stood, grasped the woman from behind, performed an inelegant maneuver, then—

  Entropy made its move.

  The woman’s breasts bounced with each jagged squeeze. Her dark wig shifted to a rakish angle. The clasp on her necklace broke. Gleaming gems joined the shallow pond of shrimp, butter, and wine from inside the woman. Each of them was spattered, except for the young orchid-lady. She ran.

  The catalyst that kicked off the event—what was it?

  Bonn reviewed events:

  It was him.

  Once it was clear Troy’s client would live, the intensity in the restaurant waned. The waitstaff banded together, each person—white shirt and black slacks—smiled with insincerity, yet made no eye contact with patrons.

  Nothing must be misconstrued. There was a protocol to follow.

  Order was, eventually, restored. A new tablecloth was placed with a flourish. Troy Maddox checked his shiny watch too frequently and lit a cigar to occupy himself. Raquel gamely failed yet attempted to reassure the gentlewoman that no one had noticed the scene. A thought occurred to Bonn—a thought that would become truer as he aged:

  People should be careful around me.

  His mother stared at him with what appeared to be—disgust?

  He was never sure.

  Bonn and his mother exchanged unblinking gazes.

  What could she be thinking?

  Raquel returned the dead-eyed look her son cast her way. Life was increasingly unbearable. She wished he would give her a short, happy wave—or even stick his tongue out at her like a normal child might. It was terrifying when he spoke like a Rhodes scholar. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised to see him pull a sleek tin from his toddler-sized suit coat, pluck out a cigarette, ask her for a light. Raquel felt cold. As her son studied her, she made an odd realization—one she would have shared with Troy if she loved the man:

  She’d never seen her own son smile.

  ~The Stray

  Ruka, Finland

  Four-year-old Henna watched as the forest closed in on the road. The driver of the rented Mercedes was her grandmother.

  Henna’s grandmother, Lucrece, seemed only to care about clothes, perfume, and money. Lucrece Cloutier was elegant, but emotionally barren. She wasn’t born wealthy. That was part of her problem. She was, as much as a person is something they have, “new money.” Unlike people with “old money,” her wealth mattered greatly to her. When a family prospers for several generations, plentitude is often taken for granted—whereas those with new wealth remember their struggles. They grip their fresh prominence with aching hands, afraid to sleep for fear of loss, afraid to wake in case they simply dreamed their good fortune.

  Lucrece didn’t intend to lose her stature.

  Her maiden name was Mokri. She was the daughter of an unexceptional Iranian cartographer. To date, Lucrece collected three married names. She was Lucrece Takala, then Lucrece Dupont, and most recently, Lucrece Cloutier. She liked the sound of Dupont the best, however—now that she’d tucked Mr. Cloutier into the ground she considered changing her name back to Dupont. Although she grew up Persian, Lucrece’s mother was from Saint-Germain-en-Laye. The woman refused to speak any language but French and frequently reminded her father that she gave up a lovely life in France for him. As a girl, Lucrece felt she, too, belonged in France—so she joined her mother’s cause and spoke French exclusively. Lucrece still preferred all things French—unless she could find a superior Swiss or Italian replacement. She vehemently resented the scrutiny of her undiluted Parisian associates. To them she was “exotic.”

  “What are you?” They asked too frequently. “We must know.” Lucrece wouldn’t say her father was “Iranian.” She preferred “Persian.” “Persian” sounded similar to “Parisian” if said quickly, however some caught her trick. She resented the task, but became accustomed to confessing her heritage in a dismissive tone:

  “Persian. Of course I said Persian. A great man.”

  “Yes. Persian. Persia. Near Pakistan.”

  “A cartographer—an excellent one. He gave up so much in the move.” If her audience knew about the Middle East, she’d lie. She was born in Qom, but she was prepared to say “Tehran.”

  Tehran sounded less ordinary.

  Lucrece was eight when her family moved to France. Her mother was tired of Iran. She gave her studious husband an ultimatum. Lucrece watched her father mull over his decision. For a while it appeared he might choose to live a quiet life, alone with his maps, in Qom.

  “Of course, you will go—we will ALL go,” her mother exclaimed with finality and too afraid to argue, he went. Lucrece immersed herself in French culture. She practiced being Parisian as only the non-Parisian can and increasingly resented her father. When conversations arose that involved the man, she would promptly change topics. Lucrece was confident that what her compeers genuinely meant when they announced she was “exotic” was: “Lucrece, the unfortunate mongrel.”

  On her nineteenth birthday Lucrece attended a talk at the university. The debutant practiced her seduction skills on the speaker, a Finnish chemist, with marked succe
ss. Lucrece enjoyed the prestige gained by fraternizing with the scholar—and wanted more of the feeling. The perfumed temptress married him and embarked on an adventure. The self-made Parisian would bring elegance with her to Scandinavia—dole it out there—and be revered!

  No one in Finland would guess she wasn’t French.

  Unfortunately for Lucrece, no one in Helsinki gave her much thought whatsoever. Lucrece learned to speak Finnish, but the language felt coarse in her mouth, like freshly salted sprats.

  Tails flicking in their reluctance to perish.

  Fortunately the chemist spoke French. When her mother invited the family to convalesce in Saint-Germain-en-Laye after Alvar was blinded in the war, Lucrece returned to the country and language she loved most. Alvar faked a Swedish accent. The French seemed able to overlook Sweden’s steel profiteering with the Nazis but would never tolerate a Finn. When she met Mr. Dupont, Lucrece promptly left Alvar.

  He was damaged by the war after all.

  She moved up! Closer to her natural station. She deserved a richer life—one without sprats and moldy bread. Who could blame her? If Mr. Dupont was able to endure children, she would surely have brought her baby daughter along, but he clearly could not. Lucrece convinced herself the girl was better off. Now she could send money her daughter wouldn’t have benefited from otherwise.

  “Dupont?” Lucrece whispered to herself—maybe Dupont was also inadequate. If she moved somewhere completely new, she could be anyone. Nice perhaps? Her money would certainly go further in Nice. She gave it some thought.

  It must be Nice.

  Paris was saturated with privileged, beautiful people, but Nice was not. She could re-invent herself in Nice. She could be “Lucrece Chalon,” or perhaps “Lucrece Montebeliard.”

  Now those were names.

  Mr. Cloutier made his fortunes selling hardware—although his estate eclipsed that of her second husband, she felt the name Cloutier unworthy.