About Henry Fellows (Chapter Three Continued)

Post 72:

Episode Six:

On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows

Chapter 3: BMW (Continued)

            …There’s a few reliable people out there, a few individuals that presently need to be engaged. What? You think I survived this long completely on my own? That would truly be a talent. As I make my way southward on I-35, I call Floyd. I can use his name because it’s not his name. Not about to throw anyone under the bus. Besides, nobody knows Floyd’s real name. I can tell you that he has snowy hair and that his robust forearms hint at the physique he once had. Can tell you he drinks only good scotch and how many times he’s been shot. A lot more, too. Just not the name his mama gave him.

            “Yeah?” His voice is gravel but nevertheless a welcome sound. He doesn’t know this number; I’ve probably thrown away fifty phones since the last time we talked.

            “Floyd. It’s me. You drunk or asleep?”

            “Well, I was both. Now I’m just the one. What’s going on, Deer?” Floyd knows my name is Henry but he calls me Deer. There’s a story behind that. “You staying underground?” he asks. “Don’t tell me you’re doing that police station bit again? Crazy kid.”

            “Not a kid, Floyd.”

            “But you are crazy.” I feel around my right jean pocket for my pills but pull out the wrong bottle. Not those. Not right now. There’s a method to staving off madness. It’s all about timing.

“Kid?”

            “Yeah,” I say, turning my attention back to the call and the road. Have to be cautious, stay between the lines. I can’t get clipped for some traffic violation, even with the fake face and the fake papers. Inconvenient. “Look. I’m back in my hometown. Just heard on the radio that someone spotted me.”

            “It’s bogus.”

            “Yeah, just hold on.”

            “No. It’s bogus.” I can picture him through the phone, hand over heavy eyes, still trying to teach me right from left.

            “Just let me finish.”

            “You have the floor,” he grumbles. “Thirty seconds to make sense or I’m hanging up.”

            “The news report. It said where I was staying last night. Even knew the car I was driving.”

            “Impossible.”

            “And yet it happened all the same. Not making this up for kicks.”

            “You ditched the car?”

            “Like I do every morning.”

            “Well,” he says, obviously more awake to the situation. “Change rides twice a day now. Until we know what’s going on.”

            I check my mirrors and frame a shot in my head of the cars behind just in case. “Floyd?”

            “Yeah, yeah. Thinking. So someone who knows your new face put out a tip, but didn’t bother until you were where?”

            “Just like before.”

            “You mean…?”

            “Yeah. I mean I was sitting outside the frigging Fort Worth PD building ten minutes ago. They didn’t have a clue.”

            “You’re a nutbar. These little experiments are gonna get you shot.”

            “Chastise me later.”

            A few more grumbles. “Okay. I’m up. Let me get back to you in twenty. Just keep moving. And don’t try to see your kids. What good would it do? You know the drill.”  

            I sigh at the mention of my children. “I’ll call you. Changing phones.”