Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes.


Inside a Broken Mind


i. prologue;

The scuba tank was tucked among the luggage, half spent and inconspicuous as it leaned against one of Trish's high-end cases. It had been a stroke of genius to convince his fiancée and her family to load the yacht early so as not to crowd the Tarapunga when the guests began to arrive. How else would he have found an excuse to lure his first victim down to the harbor? Or find a place to stow his equipment when he was done?

Running his long, thin fingers through his dark brown hair, he tugged at a stray curl at the nape of his neck before using his palm to try and tame the unruly front. He was pleased to see how quickly it had dried. There was no sign that he had ever been down below at all.

Good.

It was easier than he thought to begin; so preoccupied by with the wedding details, Henry was worried he might have grown rusty while he waited agonizingly for his promised return to Harper's Island. But he had been determined and, with only one day until the chartered yacht set sail, he called Ben Wellington—conveniently using Trish's pink cell phone, just in case—and invited him out for an early breakfast.

Wellington, he wasn't surprised to find, was already drunk from a night out with an old friend of his when he called. Cousin Ben had money, a tendency to overdo it and was just too nosy for his own good. In the past few weeks he'd been asking too many questions. There was no doubt in Henry's mind: Ben had to be the first to go.

Besides, an obnoxious, entitled Wellington was too much for him to handle. Henry already had more than enough to worry about—more than enough Wellingtons to placate—without adding any more to the mix.

Despite a night of partying, Wellington had arrived at the little café just off the Seattle shore only twenty minutes past the time he agreed to meet Henry there. Henry was waiting for him. Always a step ahead, he had expected Ben to be late, he'd counted on it in fact, and, with a charming, dimpled grin, he already had a tall glass of orange juice set before the bleary-eyed, tousle-haired playboy's place for when he slipped inside and slouched at his seat.

The sedatives slipped into the glass were strong. Dosed just so, Ben was awake through a dry muffin, another cup of juice and ten minutes of mindless conversation before anything even seemed off. But when his red eyes turned redder and he began to yawn, Henry threw a handful of bills onto the table. Feigning concern, he offered to drive him back to his hotel. Ben, fighting off his hangover—and not quite understanding where this sudden onslaught of tiredness came from—nodded gingerly in agreement.

He was fast asleep and slumped against the side of Henry's car before the door was even open.

He never saw it coming.

It was a relief to drop his act the moment that Ben Wellington dropped to the dirt. Suddenly all business, Henry popped his trunk and quickly retrieved the two scuba tanks he'd prepared for just this morning. If Ben noticed how out of the way Henry had parked his car, he never said. The position was chosen specifically; this early, and so isolated, there were no witnesses as he stripped down to his wetsuit, grabbed the zip ties, strapped the tanks to both himself and his unconscious victim, and hauled Ben Wellington to the water.

It didn't take long to swim back to the docked boat; or, at least, not as long as Henry had given himself to accomplish the task. Before long, Wellington was where he needed to be, Henry had swum back to his car, and the plan—after months… years… of preparation—was finally in motion. Now the wetsuit was folded neatly, hidden underneath the spare tire in his car. The scuba tank might be necessary—especially if he wanted to take the chance to cut loose Wellington's corpse before he was discovered—and he brazenly brought it onboard when he made a purposeful visit to the Tarapunga hours before it was scheduled to sail.

No one, he was pleased to notice, even looked twice at this scuba tank—or the dark-haired, kind-faced groom-to-be they all imagined Henry Dunn to be.

The chartered yacht was empty except for himself, of course, the captain fiddling with the gears, and the decorator's crew putting last minute touches to the festive arrangement of crepe paper and balloons. All too busy with their own preoccupations, none of them noticed it when he slipped aboard to plant the scuba tank or hide the sedatives in his luggage. He would have to make sure to slip the plastic orange bottle among J.D.'s prescriptions once they arrived at the Inn; it would be a prudent step, making sure he planted the incriminating evidence if he wanted to set up his kid brother to take the fall for as long as he needed him to. For now, though, the pills would have to be safe stowed away in the toe of a spare sock.

He stayed aboard for as long as he dared. It was one thing to flaunt what he was doing; it was another to be foolish. He hadn't been caught once in six years. He didn't intend to start now.

It didn't matter if anyone saw him leaving the boat when he did. If asked, Thomas Wellington sent him down to check on the preparations. But no one asked. Henry Dunn was a Wellington himself—or as good as, as far as they knew—and none of the crew even glanced up and over at him when, whistling a cheery tune, he left the Tarapunga in favor of the harbor.

Besides, it never even mattered what any of them might have seen as he left because he'd already been able, thanks to careful planning and a touch of cunning, to begin the first stages of their grand, elaborate scheme unseen. Ben Wellington, with his cocky attitude and his annoying propensity to poke his nose in where it didn't belong, was in place. Tied tightly to the propeller shaft on the underside of the Tarapunga, a spare tank on his back to keep him alive (for now), he was right where Henry needed him to be.

Henry couldn't wait until two o'clock. What he wouldn't give to be able to slip below the waves again in time to see the expression on Cousin Ben's face when the sedatives wore off and he found himself face to face with the blades of a propeller…

Unable to contain his boyish grin, he glanced impatiently down at his watch as he casually strolled down the lengths of the Seattle Harbor. It was only a quarter to ten now. It had been hours since he started his day. Swimming so far and scuba diving so long—not to mention carrying the dead weight of an unconscious victim—had made him hungry; the promise of what was to come once they left the mainland made him ravenous.

So, with a pep in his step that had everything to do with what he had done, what he was going to do, and who he was going to see in a few short hours, Henry headed back to his car. He had promised Trish that he would meet her and her family for a celebratory brunch before the real festivities began and, slipping back into the comfortable skin of Henry Dunn, that was what he intended to do.

He just hoped none of them wondered where their cousin Ben was…


End Note: This is the Henry story that I've been thinking about starting. I think it'll be fascinating to explore Henry - his actions, motives and emotions - as he plays the role of Wakefield's son and accomplice. This chapter starts right before the show begins, but I will use the first episode as a starting point in the next chapter. After that, it will use scenes we know, scenes I imagine and a lot more to tell Henry's story. I hope you guys like it!

- stress, 08.16.09