About Henry Fellows
Post 111:
On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows
Episode 24:
Chapter 8: Fishing
Can’t believe I’m doing this. Once more, sitting outside a police station. It’s Scotland Yard again, crowded as hell, right in the middle of everything. The Prime Meridian for retarded ideas. Cramped. There’s no space in London. Texas feels a planet away now. I think about my kids. They’re being watched by some decent people. I checked in with Nina earlier using a proxy, but still. Doesn’t seem like enough.
Traffic is swishing by, throwing the wet from the street against my jacket and jeans. I’m on a motorbike I pinched about an hour ago. Two earpieces, one listening over the police channels, one listening to local radio news. Floyd’s inside one of those big white vans across the street, the kind that makes me think of trapezoids. You know, European. Ugly. It fits right in. Billy’s on some nearby roof looking down on me, checking the surrounding streets and alleys for signs of anything interesting. No idea where Marie is. I’m starting to forget the whole plan.
Plan. What a joke. This is the best that three million of my money and a team of trained agents can come up with?
There’s a walkie in my leather coat pocket. I turn it on. “Anybody hear anything yet?” There’s nothing but silence. “Maybe I lost the tail? Or they’re not coming today? Maybe when I killed the last two—”
“Would you shut up, Henry?” It’s Marie. Now I remember. She’s across the street, parked in a tight spot between a Bentley and an area marked for construction. Everything’s under construction over here. “We’ve only been in position for three minutes.”
“Okay. Good point.” Yeah, probably give it a little more time. I’m just not comfortable. There’s the big box sign up ahead, the one that says New Scotland Yard. And the weird looking cops with the neon yellow coats. Guess it’s to let everyone know who they are. Mission accomplished. More women than men. Too many women cops in England. Not enough guns. Lacks a bit of teeth. Not that I would mention that to Marie. Just when I’m about to ask myself why Scotland Yard is in England, my walkie cracks. It’s Floyd.
“Everyone, turn your radios up. Civilian.”
I push the left earpiece in and listen to the news. It’s weird to hear a lady with a proper British accent talking about me. Can’t believe this plan is working: “According to police, there is credible evidence and eyewitness reports that the notorious American fugitive Henry Fellows is in the central London area. Please call 999 if you see or hear anything suspicious. In case you have forgotten, Fellows was convicted of brutally murdering his parents fifteen months ago. Most of you will recall that his father was the CEO of the Fellows Security Corporation and one of the world’s preeminentphilanthropists. He is also suspected of two more murders committed just outside his hometown of Fort Worth, Texas, two days ago. Fellows is an extraordinarily despicable, dangerous man.”
That last part was a bit harsh. Anyway, I take the earpiece out before the follow-up guy chimes in. The one that follows dances on a stage of facts with fear mongering and sensationalist imagery. I can’t stomach that guy right now. He’s a real asshole.
