INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1) Read online

  The meaning of a name mattered.

  “Cloutier” meant: “one who sells nails.” He did sell them actually, yet to Lucrece nails, though no doubt necessary, seemed grimy and plebeian.

  How exciting! Perhaps she’d change her first name too …

  Lucrece tried to conjure one she liked, but each name that came to mind reminded her of someone she disliked. Her face became pinched with disappointment. She dismissed the new idea as overly complicated. She checked her lipstick in the mirror. It didn’t matter of course. The blind dullard wouldn’t appreciate the precious maquillage, and she certainly wouldn’t kiss him.

  A vulgar woman squatted to weed a roadside garden as the car thrust forward. Lucrece couldn’t imagine dirt on her hands. Those who chose to grow their food seemed very bad off. Fortunately, it hadn’t been necessary to breathe even a drop of Finnish air since the Winter War. Helsinki was bad enough—but the north of Finland? Alvar must intend to hide until he became a part of some garden.

  Well let the old women squat over your bones. I did what I had to do.

  Lucrece glanced back to the mirror to check her teeth. The sullen foundling peeped back at her. In the will, her daughter had entrusted Alvar of all people with the girl. No one in Connecticut knew how to reach him—how would they?

  He had no telephone.

  If his address was in her daughter’s home, it burned in the fire. Lucrece was only able to find him through the university. Finland’s stagnant mail system made correspondence of any sort difficult. She had written him the very moment it became clear she couldn’t tolerate the child and didn’t hear back from him for weeks. Henna was a pretty girl—

  If her inheritance was accessible, maybe she would raise her herself …

  Some work was needed to erase the intellectual damage. Most parents didn’t realize that a girl who knew so much would never attract a mate.

  How would she ever support herself? No bother. Her inheritance was locked in a trust.

  Lucrece wasn’t privy to the amount, though she’d tried valiantly to find out. Henna would get the money at age twenty-five. Twenty-one years was a hell of a time investment to help the girl with her money. If the orphan weren’t so contrary, she might be worth it as the fund could be immense, but she was quite contrary indeed. Lucrece was amazed the social worker in Connecticut was able to track her down as she hadn’t seen her own daughter since she was this girl’s age.

  News of her daughter’s death didn’t surprise her—people died all the time. Who she’d married, however, was a surprise. The man was a mogul: an absolute jet setter. Lucrece still pictured her daughter in a dirty little frock, asleep in the apartment in Helsinki. She glanced at the child in the backseat. She looked the same as her own daughter at that age—except for the clothing. For all her smarts, Henna didn’t appreciate Lucrece. She didn’t grasp what she could offer her. The toddler was certainly intelligent enough to learn how to live well, but what the girl knew and what she said didn’t match. If Lucrece kept the child, it was just a matter of time before the overly candid youngster embarrassed her, or worse. What if she took her to Nice?

  People would ask questions.

  The girl wasn’t capable of maintaining a story. She wouldn’t keep her mouth shut. Henna fell into the boorish percentage of people for whom the truth was more important than comfort. Lucrece focused back on herself. She smoothed a bit of hair from her face. The fact was, she’d stepped up proudly to claim the girl. They simply weren’t a match. For instance, the child recited the alphabet in several languages when she should be asleep. When Lucrece asked about it, she said: “Daddy and I said them every night. Sometimes he would say one wrong—so I could catch him.”

  What a terrible habit! It was disconcerting to hear.

  She sounded like a tiny teacher in a refugee camp—it was downright creepy. “French is the only language you’ll need from now on.” Lucrece reassured her. “There is no reason to learn inferior languages.” The girl regarded her coldly. She still spoke in tongues at night, she just did it discreetly. Henna seemed to enjoy aggravating her. She refused to sleep on the daybed Lucrece made up for her as well.

  She’d even put the Frette linens on it!

  Instead of thanking her, she soiled them in the night. Lucrece scolded, but it didn’t help. Once the brat knew it bothered her, she wet the bed often. Her well of patience was dry.

  She felt no connection with the girl.

  That very morning she’d found the stray curled in a blanket near the radiator. She was like a dog and seemed to choose her quay more based on heat than dignity. Lucrece rammed the accelerator with the toe of her delicate shoe. She hoped this sodden path led to Alvar’s burrow. If she couldn’t leave the disagreeable stripling there, she’d take her to an orphanage.

  Let Finland raise her.

  Perhaps the little beast would enjoy these unseemly mountains—this vacuous countryside.

  Henna boosted herself to look out the window. She wondered how the ground could change so quickly underneath a plane as you rode in one. It was drastic. Sunlight flickered through tree trunks as pines turned to birch. Her mother liked trees—she’d known all their names. The powerful car shot through a meadow. Lucrece cursed in French and they careened sharply around a corner. The trees seemed too close to the car. Henna felt her empty stomach flatten into her back like a crepe. They rocketed up into thinner trees. Henna tried to identify them, but they were going too fast—up and up they catapulted—into a thin spruce forest. Lucrece stomped on the brake so hard that Henna nearly slid off the seat. She craned her neck to see what she could—a small stone house stood nearby. Lucrece got out. Henna hadn’t been told their destination, but she knew they were in Finland. She read the signs at the airport. Henna used to practice speaking Finnish with her mother.

  Lucrece wouldn’t know that.

  Two nanny goats approached. Each wore a bell around her neck that clanged when they walked. A dog with a head like a lion arose from the porch. It looked from the car to the door of the house and back then shouldered open the door and gave a low woof, to broadcast news of the arrivals. Henna broke off handfuls of wild grass for the goats. The animals nibbled at the offering while the adults concluded a hushed exchange. Lucrece pursed her lips—she didn’t stay long. She patted Henna’s cheeks with both hands and roared off in the big car. As the thrum of the engine faded, the dog swept his great tail and came to inspect her. A goat nibbled her hair, but the Leonberger gave a warning cough and the goat darted off. The dog folded himself earthward for inspection. Henna threw her arms around the beast’s neck and squeezed until his eyes bulged. The man grinned.

  “Gertie likes your hair.” He nodded in the goat’s direction. They didn’t seem selective about what they ate—one chewed a bit of fence wire. “If Mortimer likes you, you’ve passed security. How about a hug like that for your grandfather?”

  “Are you my grandfather?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a cat too?”

  “Do I have a cat that I feed? No—” The man looked thoughtful for a moment. “There are a few cats in my barn, but they belong to themselves. Mortimer’s enough company for me. The other animals are sort of …” The man grinned when he thought of the correct word. “Livestock.” Henna looked around for the barn. “I have a few chickens also. They like to hide their eggs from me. Would you use your good eyes to hunt eggs with me? Mine don’t work. I suspect Mortimer here steals most of the eggs he finds.” Mortimer looked into the forest innocently, as though he couldn’t recall such antics.

  His eyes don’t work? Was he blind?

  He looked young for a grandfather. Trim through the waist. Thick grey hair. He looked strong. Henna stepped closer. “Did you miss me before you knew me?”

  “I’ve always known you.” Alvar held his hand out. “I’m so sorry about your mom and dad. I never got to meet your father, but I’m sure he was great. Your mom wanted to bring you to visit, but it would’ve been a really long
trip from the United States.” Henna wilted and looked at her feet. “I’m glad you’re here,” Alvar offered brightly. “My guess is you’ve had a rotten few weeks since the fire. There isn’t a great way to sort out what happened, but we can try.” Henna stepped closer. His face smelled like mint, limes, and pipe smoke.

  “So it was a fire. No one told me directly, but I figured it out. It is good to hear someone say it. Not good—more—cathartic. My problem with most adults is that they whisper just as loud as they talk. If something is so secret that whispering is considered, adults should just leave a room. It would be more effective and less patronizing. Less ageist.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “The social worker told me they were ‘gone’ and she was sorry. I asked what she meant by ‘gone.’ If she’d said, ‘Henna, your parents have been killed in a fire,’ it would’ve been better. ‘Gone’ sounds like they might come back. ‘Just gone’ she said—then she cried. She didn’t know my parents, or how special they were. That wasn’t empathy, that was laziness. It was unfair. I don’t think she wanted to ‘go easy’ on me since I’m little. I think she assumed me incapable of conceptualizing death and she couldn’t be bothered to explain it to me.”

  “Yes. That was unfair. Well, I won’t do any whispering unless I whisper something to you.”

  Alvar recalled the letters his daughter had written since Henna had been born—she’d written so many things to be proud of, but Alvar knew how a parent’s estimation of their child could be magnified. If anything, she’d been humble in her accounts—it was obvious. He grinned at the tiny intellectual appreciatively, as though she had a bus engine sitting between her ears.

  “Why are your eyes funny?”

  “I put some glass eyes on top of my real ones, so people wouldn’t think I looked spooky. It doesn’t usually matter—I don’t get many visitors, but there is a lady who helps with my mail. I’ve never wanted to disturb her and now, you. I want to look handsome for you.”

  “Oh…” Henna ran a finger along her own eyelid “…that’s sad, but thank you.” Henna started to cry.

  Alvar knelt down and Henna wrapped her arms around his neck. It was his first human contact in over a year—the directness of the girl’s affection was overwhelming. For years he’d felt—useless. He cried with Henna for a while, then dabbed at their cheeks with the cuff of his sweater. He cleared his throat.

  “Should we see about those eggs?”

  “What are the rules? Grandma has so many. I don’t agree with some of them.”

  “Only one. Find the eggs before Mortimer does.”

  Henna smiled. “Can I say my alphabets at night? She hated that, but I like to.”

  “Of course. Your mom told me in a letter that you’ve done that for a couple of years. Maybe you could teach me.”

  Henna reached for Alvar’s hand and pulled him toward the chicken coop. “Yes, but we should hurry. Mortimer must have heard you.”

  “Heard me say what?”

  “Grandpa, he’s going for the eggs!”

  ~Troubled Child

  Troy took the call from Bonn’s scoutmaster in the library. There was trouble. From the range of pained facial twitches his father broadcast, Bonn correctly guessed he was the cause. It wasn’t the first time. Trouble took root years ago. It was well established now. Bonn didn’t seek trouble out—it seemed naturally fond of him. A week into the second grade Bonn asked his homeroom teacher a question. “May I please have a copy of the curriculum you intend to use the rest of the year?”

  Bonn’s homeroom teacher balked. She used the word “disquieting” in her report to the principal. In truth, it completely derailed Barbara Stebbins. It was the first thing Bonn said to her. Although his reading and spelling scores were perfect, she suspected the boy suffered from stunted social skills. He used a lot of eye contact. That shot her earlier autism theory, but something was certainly amiss. She’d taught for thirty years—she knew when something was wrong. Most children doodle on their schoolwork—extraneous creations, sneezed from developing minds through busy fingers. Drawings, shapes. Even little scenes were common. It was the small things that cued an apt educator to look more closely at certain children, and Barbara hoped she was that educator. She sensed trouble with the Maddox boy, but couldn’t put her finger on it—that was before the request. To Barbara, the request for her curriculum was a cry for help. She reviewed Bonn’s schoolwork then and found the doodles.

  “Well not doodles, exactly,” Barbara told the principal, “graphs.” They hadn’t covered graphs yet. To Barbara, the graphs seemed a logical way to start a conversation with Bonn’s parents. She needed to know more about the unusual boy. She couldn’t let him slip through the cracks if he needed something more—or something entirely different. One graph was a bell curve with initials written neatly along the probability density. She couldn’t decipher it. “B.M.” was written at the far right hand of the bell curve. Barbara assumed that was Bonn himself. He’d also made a bar graph—on the back of a spelling test. Initials were printed neatly below each column. The school’s principal was unimpressed. To get her out of his office he encouraged her to consult the school’s new counselor, which she did. Someone needed to speak with the boy’s parents! Raquel Maddox agreed to meet. Tom, the counselor, would sit in too. Barbara didn’t like Tom, but since the principal wanted him in the meeting, she agreed. Bonn and Raquel Maddox were on time. The boy sat quietly. Unlike Barbara, he seemed completely at ease. Barbara pulled the graphs from a folder and handed them to Raquel.

  “I hoped we’d discuss these graphs first. We haven’t covered graphs in class yet, but these are quite good. It’s the content I’m interested in. You should know, I’m a worrier.” Barbara chuckled, hoping her icebreaker would be well received. It was not.

  Barbara cleared her throat and continued. “Today, I am worried that Bonn’s trying to tell me something and I don’t understand it.”

  Raquel shrugged. “Did you ask him what they mean?” Since neither she nor Tom had, an uncomfortable silence followed. Tom forced his gaze from Raquel’s cleavage. He looked at Mrs. Stebbins expectantly, as if he had asked the question. Barbara shook her head, embarrassed. Tom Talbot fancied himself a modern Casanova. So far in the new job, he had bedded one first grade teacher and two fourth grade teachers. He hadn’t considered tapping into the deep pool of children’s mothers yet, but Raquel Maddox was very attractive.

  “Good idea.” Tom grabbed the stack of papers. He held the first aloft for Bonn to see. “What’s this one?”

  Bonn thought the question was premature. “Could we start with introductions?”

  Tom’s face flushed. He forced a smile and wrote something in his notepad. “I’m your counselor. My name’s Tom and I’m here to sort things out. In order to do that, I need to ask you questions.”

  Bonn looked incredulous. “I have a lawyer? That’s curious. I must be in quite a bind. What is your last name, Tom?”

  Raquel shook her head. “At our house, counselors practice law—Bonn’s father is an attorney.”

  Tom suffered a feeling of inadequacy, but in the time it took to straighten himself in his chair, it passed. He wore a disconcerted look that said: “I’ll have to be on my game with this kid.” Tom started over. He stood and walked around the table to offer a handshake to the boy. “Thomas Talbot.”

  Bonn scanned the walls of Tom’s office for a diploma, but found none. A print of a woman on a horse hung above Tom’s desk—she was naked except for her long hair. The counselor waited, hand extended and nervous. He stared down his hooked nose at the little boy, who seemed determined not to notice his gesture. Finally Bonn extended his hand, but let Tom clasp it before he gripped back.

  Steer the conversation when you can.

  “Lady Godiva …” Bonn studied Tom’s face. “Do you know the story?”

  Tom squeezed Bonn’s hand hard.

  When you do squeeze, make eye contact.

  Bonn squeezed back.
He raised his eyebrows to illustrate his ongoing expectation of an answer—

  If Tom did know the story, it was a foolish choice in artwork.

  “I’m sure we all do. Let’s talk about the graphs instead.” Tom released Bonn’s hand.

  Since Tom hadn’t attempted to turn his palm up, Bonn realized the handshake was a success all around. Bonn folded his hands. It was a large table so it took Tom a while to walk back to his seat. If the man was trying to intimidate him with the gesture it had failed miserably. Tom wrote some notes and held a graph aloft for all to see.

  “Thank you, Mr. Talbot. I am interested in your questions. Please do ask some.”

  Though the tension in the room was thick, Barbara appeared relieved. She was right to worry. There were obviously issues to illuminate. Now she shared the burden. After all, it was called a school system. Barbara glanced at Raquel, but the woman was busy rummaging through her purse and didn’t notice.

  Tom seemed increasingly irritated. “What is this Bonn?”

  “It’s a bar graph I drew on the back of my spelling test.”

  “Correct.” Tom smiled like an idiot. “What is ‘L.F.?’”

  “Who, actually. Those are initials. That may not be immediately apparent however, so I appreciate your need for clarification. Mrs. Stebbins, should I discontinue the habit of using the margins for my thoughts, or would a key afford less worry for those, like yourself, who find it necessary to analyze my diagrams?” Barbara didn’t know how to answer. “If my childish scribbles have puzzled you, I apologize. I try to occupy myself quietly. I seem to finish my work before the other kids. I’m left with ample time to scribble.”

  Tom wrote something down. “Who is L.F.?”

  “Lou Ferrigno.”

  “Lou Ferrigno? Incredible Hulk, Lou Ferrigno?”

  “Yes. I’m a child. I think of superheroes often. Most likely it appeals to my powerlessness. Do you like superheroes too?”

  The counselor’s eyes narrowed. He might suspect Bonn would try to bait him. Tom seemed inclined to prove this a tempest in a teapot.