About Henry Fellows (Chapter Three Continued)
Post 75:
Episode Seven:
On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows
Chapter 3: BMW (Continued) Henry’s got to move…
…“That’s my boy. Got it.”
As he hangs up I put my knee under the steering wheel, freeing my hands to crack the now useless burner cell.
Mysteries. Never a good thing for a man in my situation. Somebody out there is on to me, has been for a while, and neither Floyd nor I have a clue who it might be. My head is hurting. Like a bell pealing away. The pills. I reach for the other pocket and pull out the right ones.
Put yourself in my place—you’d probably need them too.
It doesn’t bother me that Floyd calls me crazy all the time. He’s a grizzled old man, seen it all, and I’m not talking front porch wisdom. World wisdom. Lived in a hundred places, touched the parts of life normal people wouldn’t go near with a ten-foot pole wisdom. He knew me before the pills, before the headaches and the shakes and all the rest. I think that’s why he still answers my calls. In his own way he feels responsible for my erratic tendencies. Maybe he is.
I look back at a police car cruising up toward me in the left lane. Can tell by his speed that he’s going to pass and I relax. As much as a guy like me can, anyway. I’m trained for this. That’s what they didn’t know when they locked me up. You didn’t know it either. Blame Floyd. He’s the one who recruited me. For what, you ask?
A lot’s happened since then, but if memory serves, I was in some sandbox in one of the world’s orifices, trying to take a nap. Had gone over to fight after school at the insistence of dear old dad. He had his mind on having a politician for a son. Nothing like a war record. Figure it was a win-win for him. Either I serve with distinction or die. No telling the outcome he would’ve preferred. To my surprise, I was a pretty good soldier, though I never made it past Lieutenant. Had a bit of a knack for pissing off the higher-ups. Anyway, there was some mission, blah blah blah, and here comes this guy from Agency X saying he needed a couple guys from my unit to sort it out. We were a squad of about ten, used to the rough and tumble, but he only needed three. I was in charge, so of course I volunteered.
It wasn’t bravery. Not even close.
It was insecurity. Most of the guys doing the fighting are insecure. Bravery, cowardice, selflessness, endurance, it all comes from pretty much the same place. An indictment? Hell no. You try getting shot at by people that mean it, then tell me how secure you feel. Maybe it’s happened, but in the cacophony of mag checks and radio cues preceding a true firefight I’ve never looked over and seen the face of a guy relaxing at the beach.
So anyhow, I volunteered for a suicide mission because I didn’t want to look bad.
There’s no way to know, but by then I’m fairly sure I was starting to go a little crazy. Tremulous hands. I’d get cold when it was 130 degrees for no reason. Symptoms? Nah. Rub some dirt on it.
Somehow or another, we pulled it off. Killed a couple guys, one of mine took a slug in the shoulder, but not too bad. Apparently the jerk from Agency whatever had come up with a pretty good plan for getting us in and out. That was Floyd. I was impressed, and to be honest, a little mystified to still be above ground. He never told me exactly what it was, but apparently I had done something to impress him as well. I was out of the sandbox and working for him and a few others 24 hours later. This is why my service record wasn’t part of the defense proceedings in the trial you people watched with such glee. Redacted. Expunged. Never happened. Life’s a real stitch. Seems like the good things go to some incinerator in subbasement who gives a shit. The bad feels like it all gets put on tape. In my case, this is not a metaphor.
I pull out another burner phone to call Floyd and figure out some sort of plan going forward. Do another check of the mirrors to see if any trailing cars match the picture I took earlier. There’s one—a black BMW. Something about it doesn’t sit right. Still about a hundred yards back, still one lane over. It could be a tail. Could be the people that sent in the tip. Like I said, I was trained for this, so I pull the wheel right for the next exit to see if they follow. No matter what you see in the movies, it’s not that easy to spot a tail. Movies. It’s always two guys talking about their wives or the electric bill, and all of a sudden one of them says, “we picked up a tail.” Rare. Unless you’re working against real morons. One, I’m on a highway. It could just be a guy going south to Austin or San Antonio set on cruise control. Two, any decent follow job requires multiple vehicles to pass you off as you go along. In this case it’s unlikely, however. Nobody knows where I’m going, including me. Having somebody stationed around this exit ready to pick up the follow would be prophetic.
Damn. I see the BMW swerving just in time to catch the exit. My headache is going away. It’s been a while since I’ve been this close to getting caught. I know what you’re thinking. This, coming from a fugitive whose favorite hobby is sitting outside police stations. I do the math. They aren’t cops. Cops don’t drive BMWs, and with a guy like me, they’d have a freaking helicopter overhead by now. Roadblocks, flares and all the rest of that nonsense.
The exit is outside the Fort Worth city limits and just south of the surrounding suburban areas. A large hill separates the highway from the frontage road now. I assess. They’re pretty close behind. I’d love to slam on the brakes and let them ram me but that might render both vehicles inoperable. That wouldn’t be good at all. It’s too hot to be walking along a feeder road for miles. I opt for the crazy choice. Off to the right there’s a fairly steep embankment, so I start to slow down, checking my jacket pockets for my fake papers, phone, pills, and pull my 9mm from the glove compartment.
