About Henry Fellows

Post 123:

On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows

Episode 30:

Chapter 10 Continues

            Chris would be nice to have around at the moment, but he’s on the other side of the ocean. Hope he’s doing well. Hope he still has a job with whatever it is they call Fellows Security Company now.

            I’m not doing well. Still waffling from post-epiphany shock. Then there’s the two captives in the basement and the question of what to do with them. They’re down there stewing in the what’s next, probably imagining all the different kinds of impending horrors yet to be visited on them from the baleful Henry Fellows. That’s all they know about me, my name. My vicious, checkered past. That’s what I’m trying to explain to Marie, Floyd and Billy. They’re having a hard time understanding me.

            “So why aren’t we tuning these pricks up, again?” Billy asks. He’s standing in between Marie and Floyd, arms crossed. We’re all packed into the little kitchen space of the loft. They want answers. Another beer is the only thing on my mind. Sometimes booze mixes well with the pills.

            “Because,” I say, cracking open another Newcastle. “He wouldn’t have told them anything. He’s too good. They won’t even know who they’re working for.”

            Floyd’s carrying himself cautiously, but he’s clearly agitated. “Who we talking about here?” he asks, fiddling with his mustache again. “You’re freaking me out, Deer. A minute ago you said you killed your folks. Are we dealing with some kinda schizoid type situation here?” He takes a second to look me up and down, leaning away, like I’m a brand of wild animal needing to be tagged and tranquilized. “You aren’t saying that you’re He, right?”

            “They never found his body.” I’m mumbling now, head down, dangling by the neck.

            “What body?” Marie asks.

            “Never found his body.”

            “Okay, if I can’t beat it out of you, I’m gonna go back downstairs and beat on somebody. They may be stupid but at least they’re sane,” Billy says, striding over to the door in the floor.

            “Never found his bo—”

            A slap across my drooping fake face brings me back. Sometimes the booze really screws with the pills. Floyd delivered the blow. He’s got a hold of each of my shoulders. I can smell the Old Spice wafting from his old man-ness. “Whose body?”

            “Marks.” One name. One syllable. It’s all that needs saying. For a while now I can go over to the couch and check out. Taking a seat and another pill and another sip of beer. The sound of a debate thickens. The others can see the no vacancy sign pinned on my head. On and on they talk.

            “Marks is dead.” Don’t think so.

            “Stover Marks?” Yep.

            “I thought he lost it in that big bombing in Lebanon? Or was it Syria?” Iraq.

            “Think it was Iraq.” Yep.

            “Yeah. That was a bad one. He was good agent. Kinda nuts though.” Yeah.

            “He ran a couple ops I was on back in the day. Ran it hard. But his people trusted him. Not the friendliest sort, really cut and dry. But his family and all. Bad stuff.” Yes it was.

            “Who was he with?” Does it matter anymore?

            “Does it make a difference? Remember which outfit you were with at the time?” Thank you.

            “They found the remains of his wife. The two little girls.” Indeed they did.

            “Closed casket.” They’d pretty much been cremated by the blast.

            “And Marks? His casket?”

            “It was empty,” I say, checking back in. “That’s what I heard, anyway. That’s what they told me after I got out.”

            “Was he running you, there at the end, Hank?” Floyd asks.

            There’s nothing left but to spill it.