About Henry Fellows

Post 102:

Episode Twenty

On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows

Chapter Seven Continues

            Before I can even get the words out, the black man is pushing his face right up into the camera’s lens. “You see that, Fellows? You’re next. I’m coming for you. Hide, run, whatever. See him?” the guy asks the camera, pointing down at the sad sack in the cuffs. It feels like we’re having a frigging conversation all of a sudden. Honestly, can the pile get any higher? “He was number two. Just a warm-up. Hope you’re watching. Get a good night’s sleep, Henry. You sick bastard.”

            The clip stops. The green in my eyes is giving way to red. “That’s not who’s been after me,” I say, trying to control my breathing. It’s self-evident—the need to seem collected and vacantly inscrutable. The room’s full of spies and cutthroats, after all.

            “So who is he?” Floyd asks, sitting up a little, peering right at Marie.

            “Yeah. That’s Deputy Trevor Hawker,” she says, patting me on the leg. “U.S. Marshals.” I recoil from the touch. “And if he wasn’t after you before, I’d say the game is officially afoot.”

            “You’re kidding me,” I say. “Hawker. Great name. Why does it sound familiar?”

            “I think you know his older brother. Former Director of the U.S. Marshals Service. James Hawker. Forced retirement after some nefarious allegations came up concerning his bank records.”

            “Wonderful.”

            “What do you mean?” It’s Floyd again, standing up now.

            “I slipped some dirty money to the guy, made it look like he was on the take.”

            “No wonder his brother’s pissed,” Billy says, ever the poignant one.

            “There’s five or six of these videos on the internet. Hundreds of millions of views. Films all his recent arrests, big time fugitives, drug traffickers, hit men. Always finishes with the same post script. He’s coming after you.” I give Marie a tacit acknowledgment, still trying to gather my wits.

            “So he’s good,” Floyd says, crossing his arms.

            “And clean,” Marie adds, closing the laptop. “As in not corrupt. I did a hard press on his background. Masters in criminology. Went to LSU undergrad on a baseball scholarship.”

            “Lemme guess,” I say. “Pitcher?”

            “No. Right fielder, I think.” Marie didn’t get my joke. She’s French, after all. “He’s about the best there is, Henry. Pushes the line of what’s legal, but as far as I can tell, this is the one guy you don’t want on your ass.”

            It’s more ominous news, but suddenly I get why the old man brought Marie here. At least she’s done some research. Not like anybody else in the room has a clue what’s going on. I get up from my seat on the couch and take a few steps toward the fireplace on the opposite side of the room. Need the separation. Need to breathe.

            Floyd’s face is heavier now. “Sorry I didn’t talk about bringing people in—look, I knew you could afford it. And you don’t have to pay me a dime.”

            “It’s okay,” I mumble, staring at the mantle. There’s three highly trained professionals behind me. Apparently a million bucks each for their services. Fine. Time to start making them earn it. “We know Hawker here is gunning for me, but let’s assume he has no idea what I look like.”

            “Cause you’d already be in chains,” Floyd says.

            “Right. Let’s also assume he’s the best, that eventually he catches up to me.”

            “Law of averages,” Marie says.

            I’m not looking but I can feel Billy wanting to say something. He does. “We could always just take him out.”

            “Shut up, Billy.” The three of us say it at the same time.