About Henry Fellows
Post 100:
Episode Nineteen
On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows
Chapter Seven Begins
Chapter 7: Security!
“I need a gun,” I say. She’s entering the flat like she owns the place, like she enters every place. The gun isn’t for her, but my mind is so discomposed it’s the first thought and the only thing that comes out of my stupid mouth.
“You’re probably going to need more than that,” she says, dropping bags by her side, setting a laptop on the coffee table so that all may huddle around and see. Plopping down on the couch she punches up a video clip circulating on the web. I see it has millions of views. That’s all I see. She’s right next to me and I have to close my eyes. No time to prepare, no warning at all that I might be in her presence. I think our legs are actually touching. For someone isolated for over a year, this whole situation is an assault on the senses.
Her name is Marie Vigier. Not her real name. She’s like Floyd, like Billy, like I used to be. Claimed to be from France, and with her slight accent, guess nobody ever had reason to doubt it. She’s not exactly the type you question. Everybody just called her Marie V. Doesn’t matter. She’s full of crap. A spy. A rogue. Most important, she’s someone I came close to being involved with. Kind of. Way back in the day. It never went all the way, though for a spell I thought it was going to ruin my marriage; you know, before I knew my wife was boning other dudes.
Warning: Never try your hand at romance with trained killers. Especially women. First, they’re moody, secretive, and given to wild turns of emotion. And that’s just the woman part.
The incredulity scale is redlining. What have you done, Floyd?
“Million bucks, right?” She presses play and motions everyone over with her index fingers. It annoys me. Like saying “gather around” would be putting her out. God knows she couldn’t actually use a whole arm to signal her request. My left pocket pills are beckoning, but they’re so close to her leg they almost seem contaminated. The only recourse is to watch the screen with one eye open and fix in the fetal position.
“What is this?” Floyd asks, leaning in. Billy’s on my right, trying to position his bulk comfortably on the armrest of the couch. I could move over, but then again, no.
“It’s the guy that’s after the whimpering fugitive here,” she says. I open my other eye. The video is rough, like it was shot from one of those little cameras people wear on their bodies to make themselves feel important. Yeah. There’s two men in the picture, one chasing the other through a dingy urban alleyway. The man being chased turns and fires two wild shots. Amazingly, one of the bullets hits the man in pursuit.
It’s crazy. Somebody in the background screams, “deputy’s been hit!” but the guy keeps running, rabidly, insanely. The camerawork is fitful, adding to the tension of the scene.
“Probably had a vest on,” Billy says, trying not to be impressed.
“Yes. But he didn’t even stop to catch his breath,” Floyd says, stroking at his mustache.
The prey is clearly running toward a chain-link fence at the far end of the shot. As he jumps for it, the chaser throws something that connects with the guy’s head, crumpling him to the ground.
“What just happened?” I ask.
“Keep watching,” Marie says. There’s a note of ironic humor under her voice.
Standing over his splayed out game, the hunter gives the body two dirty kicks to the ribs before checking for a pulse. Finally, he looks up into the camera. I’m almost surprised it’s not the face of the devil. Nope. Just a normal looking black guy, mid-thirties, shiny bald head. Handsome I guess, save the snarl on his face.
“He alive?” asks a voice from off-camera.
“Living. For now,” he says, applying handcuffs to the runner.
“What’d he throw?” Billy asks.
“His gun,” Marie says.
“That’s idiotic,” I say. “Who throws their gun in a gunfight?”
