Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. Any dialogue from the second episode, "Crackle", included is used only to further the story.

Inside a Broken Mind

x. crackle, part four;

It wasn't long after Abby left that Trish found him at the cabin. Henry had just enough time to finish cleaning up the bathroom, scrub his hands, wash his face, and put his purple shirt back on as if nothing had happened before she appeared in the foyer. Just like he expected, Trish never even stopped to knock.

He felt his face assume the familiar expression of happiness at finding her there; the grin stretched his face and his muscles gave a small twitch before he was certain he could pass for the Henry Dunn Trish was looking for in the cabin. His back was still tensed, his hands poised to fold back into fists, but he exhaled—one short sound—and tried to leave his anger and his anxiety behind him. He refused to let her know any of what had transpired that morning or that afternoon. Regardless of his plans, some part of Henry couldn't bring him to ruin their wedding week.

Especially since, of course, he had no inclination to actually allow her a wedding day.

She left the front door open behind her, her arms folded almost demurely over the waist of her polka-dotted dress. Trish was looking around the small room, looking everywhere, at everything before her eyes finally landed on him. He could see then that she was glancing at him curiously. He widened his smile, trying to force a welcoming grace to his features.

"Hey, honey, you finally made it," he said brightly, opening his arms even wider as he took three big steps, confident steps toward her. "I was getting worried you wouldn't find my note."

"I did," she murmured, her pace hesitant, her steps careful. Trish glanced around the room one more time, bit the bottom of her lip for a moment, and then blurted out: "Henry, what are you doing here?" She sounded confused, unsure. Considering this was Trish Wellington, that was as big a red flag as any. Henry felt one of his eyebrows rise, but he worked to keep his voice light, playful.

"You said you wanted separate rooms, remember?"

"Oh." She blinked, dropping her arms then as if she was dropping the shield she'd carried with her inside. "I did, didn't I?"

"I can move back to the inn with you if you want," he offered at once, already crossing his fingers that she wouldn't take him up on it.

"No, no," she said hurriedly, "that's fine." She regained some of her composure, flashing him one of her winning smiles. It barely made any impression on him anymore. "I like the idea of our wedding night being more special."

"That's why I did it," he told her. There was still something about the way she so readily agreed to the situation that made him a bit leery. Cocking his head to the side, examining her with his eyes slightly narrowed, he tried his best to sound sincere as he asked, "Hey, Trish, are you okay?"

She sighed. "It's just… the wedding, right? Maggie caught me earlier and—"

"Say no more," Henry interrupted with a small laugh, falling back into the old, comfortable, known routine as he straightened up and closed the gap between them. He reached out his arm to her, looping it over her shoulder and pulling her into his embrace. "I think I finally understand."

Trish immediately relaxed. He gave the impression that he was as calm, as relaxed as she was, but his mind was running a mile a minute. Henry Dunn was, as much as he tried to deny it, very much a suspicious character. Trish's hesitance had not gone by unnoticed, nor the amount of time that had elapsed since he saw her last.

Henry may not know where she'd been, but he was pretty sure he knew who she'd been there with…

Leaning in to him, Trish cast her glance around again, really seeing the room rather than trying to avoid his gaze. Which was a good thing. Just the mere thought of Hunter Jennings brought Henry's scowl to life; in that instant, he wasn't too confident he could hide his worries from her.

"It's a nice place, Henry," she said at last, oblivious to his stormy expression, "I really like it."

Controlling his jealousy and his fears, Henry managed to ask quite calmly, "Did you want to stay here instead? I can move my stuff back to the room…"

"That's okay. I like the room for me," Trish said hurriedly. Henry felt his suspicion simmer even faster. He was quickly reaching the boiling point and she had no idea. "You should think of this as your bachelor pad for the week and," she added, her voice dropping as she adopted the sultry tone he knew so well, "now that I know where it is, I can always visit again." She tilted her head back, inviting Henry to kiss her which he did, even if his mind was somewhere else entirely.

He had to get her mind back to the matters at hand. Like him, and how they were supposed to get married, and how she needed to play her part in this whole thing if Henry was ever going to get his happily ever after.

"I'm so glad you came down," he lied, though he was grateful her propensity for being late meant she missed the whole deer head debacle. He could only imagine how she would've reacted to find him elbow deep in blood and animal pieces. "Between the scavenger hunt and everything else, I missed you."

"Ready to taste some cakes again?" she teased, sticking the tip of her tongue out between her front teeth. "I'll never get enough of that chocolate."

"Possibly. There's still some time before the bonfire."

Trish's smile dipped and she sighed again. "Not enough." With a little push she moved away from Henry; following her cue, he reluctantly let go of her. She turned away slightly and he cursed inwardly. It was that much harder to discover what she was hiding when she refused to look him in the face. Oh, he knew she was hiding something, and he had a good idea what, but this was a hitch in the plan he hadn't anticipated.

If it took every ounce of cunning and charm Henry Dunn possessed, he had to keep Trish Wellington enamored with him—and oblivious of any other intentions he might have.

Lacing his tone with concern, he asked softly, "You're sure you're fine, right? You still want to get married… here… on the island? No cold feet or anything?"

Trish's head nearly snapped, she turned to look over her shoulder and straight at Henry so quickly. A small, sincere smile flew back to her face as if called, even if it wavered for a split second, and she let out a tiny purr of a chuckle. She laid her hand possessively on his chest. "Of course I do. I love you."

"I love you, too," he parroted, overlaying her slender with his.

"I'm glad we got that settled," Trish murmured, planting a quick kiss on Henry's knuckle. "We love each other very much and, in less than one week, I will be Mrs. Henry Dunn."

There was something in the way she said that that made his suspicions bubble up and nearly over. It didn't sound at all like she was reassuring him. No, he suspected, Trish was trying to reassure herself of that fact. He bit back his frown. It had to be Hunter Jennings, he was sure of it. He just wasn't precisely sure how he was going to get rid of the bastard.

It was so frustrating. His aim to remind Trish what she was doing on Harper's Island, and who she was there with, wasn't going as smoothly as he would've liked. She said the right words, but there was a hesitance to them that made them unbelievable. It was a programmed response, like she knew what she had to do but, suddenly, she was questioning it herself. A faraway look in her brown eyes and a frown she couldn't hide… Henry could read her like a book, but he didn't like what the story was telling him.

Clearing his throat, he tried his best to keep her mind from straying from him. "So, the future Mrs. Dunn, what would you like to do now? I haven't even checked out the bedroom yet…"

There was a clock on the mantle and, as if her eyes were drawn to it, she glanced at it. "I'm sorry, Henry, I really am, but I have got to get back to the inn. Lucy's feeling a little lonely without her boyfriend and I promised I'd get ready for the bonfire with her."

He chuckled though he didn't mean it. "Gigi's not good enough company?"

Trish gave him a light pat on his chest before shaking her head and purposely ignoring Henry's remark. Even if Lucy Daramour was convinced that her little white lap dog was people, it didn't mean everyone else did. She knew Henry found it ridiculous that she brought the rat-like creature all the way to Harper's Island while her boyfriend, Ryan, stayed in Seattle but she didn't push it. Instead, she said, "It'll be dark soon. Why don't you shower and get ready yourself and I'll meet you on the beach in a little bit, hmm?"

Henry froze, his dimpled smile staying in place as his thoughts started to race. Had he missed some blood? He thought he was fresh and clean and every trace of his busy morning erased. "Shower?"

She nodded and waved her hand underneath her nose. "Uh, yeah, Henry. You smell like you took a bath in bleach."

The relief was sudden and he wondered why he'd even worried at all. He knew what he was doing—and was it any surprise the smell of cleaning products lingered? He had just spent the last hour cleaning up after a deer's head in the bathtub! For a second he debated if whether or not he should tell Trish about the grisly sight before remembering why he'd rushed to clean it up in the first place. The less she knew about matters such as that, the better.

Instead, he said, "The bathroom was a little iffy. I thought I would give it a quick scrub in case we wanted to use it later."

Glossing over another of his suggestive comments—which was both unlike him and her, but he was testing her and she was failing—Trish wrinkled her nose before lifting it up in the air. "You should complain to Maggie. It's her job."

Sometimes the entitlement of the Wellington family was just too much. Maggie Krell was going through hell to put this wedding together, risking her life though she didn't know it, setting the scene for Henry and his father's grand plan… but Trish thought she should spend her evenings scrubbing tubs, or standing over her maintenance staff as they did. Of course.

Rather than argue though, he was slightly impressed when Trish's careless words gave him an idea. "You know what, honey?" he said, already slipping his hand inside his picket to draw out his cell phone. "Maybe I should do that. Do you have her number?"

He knew she did. After the hundreds and thousands of phone calls Trish and the off-island wedding planners made to Maggie to discuss details like what direction the chairs should be seated at the reception or what color the napkins should be—and they could never agree at any rate—Henry knew Maggie's number was ingrained in Trish's brain. She rattled it off immediately and Henry, memorizing it instantly in case he needed it later, made sure to plug it right into his phone before he pressed dial.

Henry held the phone to his ear, listening to the ring and wishing that Trish would take the hint and go. She hung back for a second before seemingly making a decision. Standing on her tiptoes, she laid a gentle kiss on Henry's cheek, murmured something about seeing him soon and, in a cloud of her favorite perfume, vanished back through the open door. Henry waited until she was gone before striding forward and closing the door behind her.

Just as the front door snapped closed, Maggie finally picked up on her end. "Hello?" She sounded slightly hesitant and more than a little out of breath. No doubt he had caught her in the middle of some ridiculous festivity preparations.

"Maggie, hi. It's Henry."

"Oh, Henry! My goodness, I didn't know the number and I wasn't sure if… anyway, what can I do for you? The cabin's fine, I hope?" The hesitance faded to recognition before professionalism took over. Already Henry knew that he had her right where he wanted her.

"It's perfect, but that's not why I'm calling. I… I need a favor. Do you think you could help me?"

"Anything for you, dear. Something for tonight?"

The stupid bonfire was on everyone's mind, it seemed, but that was the least of his worries. "No, no, nothing like that," he told her. "Actually, it's about one of our wedding guests. He never RSVP'd so we never booked a room for him but we think he might've decided to come after all. Do you think you could tell me if he's staying here at the inn with us? I know we booked the entire place but Trish got a message he was on his way and we were wondering where he was going to be for the week. She wasn't sure and I told her I'd try to find out."

There was a pause as Henry's hastily concocted story washed over Maggie. He could almost see her nodding to herself as she tried to work it all out. "What was his name?" she asked at last.

"Jennings. Hunter Jennings."

If the name of Trish's ex-boyfriend meant anything to her, Maggie didn't give it away with her voice. "The name's not a familiar one," she answered, "but I'll have a look into it as soon as I can. He may not be in my inn, but I could call around for you."

"Ah, thanks, Maggie. I knew I could count on you."

"No trouble at all, Henry… though…"

Maggie's afterthought of a "though" was nearly as bad as a whole-hearted "but". Henry's ears pricked up and, trying to sound indifferent, he murmured, "Hmm?"

"It's nothing… but, it's just, I was talking to Trish earlier. It's funny that she didn't mention another guest to me before."

"Wedding nerves, probably," Henry joked, though he was no longer smiling on his end. Maggie ought to be more careful, he decided. As of yet, her fate hung in the balance—he didn't care one way or another what happened to her as long as his aim of ridding Harper's Island of everyone but him and Abby came true—but it could quickly sway in the worse direction if she kept being so astute.

As if she could read his mind and knew the dark thoughts that lingered there, she agreed readily with his explanation. "Oh, certainly, certainly… I was even thinking to myself: now there goes one anxious bride." Maggie laughed, a cheerful tinkle of a laugh that, for no real reason, rubbed Henry the wrong way.

"Anxious?" he asked, only just managing to restrain himself from telling her to shut up already. "What do you mean, anxious?"

She kept on laughing and Henry found himself gritting his teeth as she said loftily, "I wouldn't worry, Henry, I couldn't tell you how many loyal wives I know were nervous brides-to-be. And I'll definitely let you know if I turn anything up about your missing guest."

"Wha—oh, thanks again, Maggie. I really appreciate it."

They said their goodbyes then, Henry barely paying attention to what she was saying as their conversation ended. Something about the scavenger hunt being a success—he tried not to scoff too loudly at that—and that she would see him at the bonfire later. Echoing the sentiments, he was only too ready to hang up.

But as soon as he closed his phone and made to slip it back into his pocket, he felt the familiar vibration as it pulsed against his palm. He glanced down at the screen, recognized the UNKNOWN for what it was even if he was irked to see the name flash again, and quickly flipped the phone back open. "Hey."

"Henry. You alone?"

Out of habit, Henry glanced around; he was used to these abrupt conversation starters. He wondered where his father was and if he had seen his two visitors as they came and went, and he praised his foresight in getting a cabin all too himself. It was a lot easier to have these important talks with Wakefield when he didn't have to worry about any unfortunate eavesdroppers.

"Yeah," he said when he was certain. He'd even glanced out through the front window, but he didn't see anyone out there anymore. Not Trish, not Mr. Wellington, not even his own dad. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to let you know I took care of things."

Still wrapped up in everything that had happened ever since he arrived at his rented cabin and found that surprise in his tub, it took Henry a moment to remember that he'd asked his father for help that morning. "The reverend?"

"Yeah." Wakefield chuckled lowly. "Now that's one body that'll never be found."

Turning his back on the window as he walked back into the center of the room, Henry rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me… it's in another tree."

"Nope. I left this one it to the fishes. You were a boatman, Henry, I thought you'd appreciate that."

"That's great, Dad. And," he began, knowing he would never forgive himself if he didn't ask, "you got the head, too?" Morbid curiosity would keep him wondering if Reverend Fain's head was hiding under a bush out in the woods somewhere.

But then Wakefield sniffed and Henry knew he had offended him. "Of course I did. I'm no amateur."

"I'm sorry," Henry readily apologized. "I didn't mean it."

His father wasn't an easily placated man but, luckily for Henry, he had a soft spot when it came to his only son. Sounding only partly miffed, he said, "Yeah, well, I took care some of your business, now I need a little help from you. You still have that folder with the newspaper cut-outs in it?"

"Um, yeah. In my suitcase."

"Bring it," Wakefield ordered, "and meet me in the trees again. Bring a marker, too, red if you can find one. I already got my hands on some ink."

There was no time to question the strange orders or even to argue that night would be falling soon and, if he slipped down to the woods again, he might be cutting it close to arriving at the beach before the bonfire started. Not that he wasn't going to head straight down to the woods to meet with Wakefield—he was. He just had to be quick about it.

He hung up the phone then but, before he put it away, he turned the ringer back on. The bonfire would be crazy, loud and rambunctious. He could easily miss the vibration if his father called again later—and, with a sudden spark of ingenuity, knew that he would need him to—and the ring would be harder to miss. Satisfied, he slipped the phone back into his pocket at lost before crossing the room, reaching for the luggage he stowed there hours ago.

After absently tossing aside half the contents, including more fresh t-shirts, a pair of socks and the screwdriver he would need when he tended to the church later on, Henry's fingers closed on the manila folder hidden securely at the bottom of the case. The clipping regarding Abby's mother—his mother—wasn't the only article from the newspaper that John Wakefield left with Henry or instructing him to bring with him to the island. He wasn't sure why exactly they were so necessary but at least he wasn't heading back to Abby's room with this one.

Tucking the envelope under his arm, Henry threw everything back into his suitcase, hastily zipped it shut and turned his attention to his father's second request. Where on earth was he supposed to find any color market on such short notice?

But luck, it seemed, was on his side. He found two thin markers—one black, one red—in the same dresser drawer that housed a Bible and the Candlewick Inn's room service menu. Taking that to be a good sign, he stowed the red marker in his back pocket, readjusted the folder so that it was mostly hidden under his purple sleeve, and quickly left the cabin. He spared a thought to the door as he rushed out, wondering if it would be worth the minute it would take to lock it. The deer head alone proved it was pointless but Henry was nothing if not thorough. He locked the door, pocketed the keys and took off for the trees on the edge of the property.

Having the cabin as a starting point rather than a room inside the inn was a huge advantage. He didn't have to walk through the lobby, hoping to avoid questioning stares, and, by a matter of tricky shortcuts and an in-depth knowledge of the wedding preparations, he already knew which route was the fastest to pass by unseen. After only a few minutes journey at a quick pace, he met his father under the same tree they stood at last night. Henry knew it was the same tree, too, because of the ominous head spade his father was handling almost lovingly.

John Wakefield set it aside when he saw his son approaching. There was a familiar sneer on his face but light in his eyes—and Henry knew that someone else was already dead. There was no blood on his clothes, not like Henry expected there to be. When it came to murder, the man was a true professional.

"Henry," he greeted, "great job with the reverend. Nice even stroke, good clean cut. Couldn't have done better myself."

Only us, thought Henry, only me and Dad could have a conversation that made decapitation sound as routine as swinging a baseball bat during batting practice. Still, he made sure to thank his father for what—for Wakefield—had to be a compliment before handing off the folder. "Just like you wanted."

When Wakefield took the folder, Henry took the chance to say, "So, two down today, huh? I thought you were going to wait for the bonfire."

Wakefield didn't even bother asking how Henry knew. Like father, like son, the twisted instinct was there. "I am. Like I said, it was just some business I had to take care of. A loose end I just about tied up."

"What did you do?"

"I staged a suicide," he answered indifferently, rifling through the various clippings kept neatly in the folder. "Strung a bitch up just to give that damn bastard sheriff a headache."

That made Henry curious. Who would Wakefield feel was worth his time and his rope to serve as bait for Charlie Mills? "Who was it?"

"You remember Kate Seaver?"

Henry nodded. Of course he did. Kate Seaver used to work as the secretary in the sheriff's office—and she was also one of the six victims from Wakefield's first rampage on the island, back in 2001. Kate Seaver got in the way and she ended up hanging in the Tree of Woe with Sarah Mills and Christopher Cullen.

"Her brat."

"Kelly?" He was taken aback by that. Kelly was a local, she had nothing to do with Henry's plan or Wakefield's revenge. At least, not in Henry's opinion she didn't. Wakefield sought revenge on those who offended him simply by breathing. Trying not to look like he was questioning his father's judgment, he asked, "Why her?"

So preoccupied with choosing the article he needed, Wakefield didn't look up until he found it and closed the folder. Only then did he justify his actions. "I had to do it, Henry. She saw me."

In the last seven years Henry had found himself visiting Harper's Island more often than he probably should've. In that time he'd heard rumors about some of the locals, including how Wakefield's rampage was still affecting many of them so long after it happened. Henry knew better than to argue with his father but, if Kelly Seaver had seen John Wakefield in anything but her dreams and nightmares, he would've been incredibly surprised. However, that was one thought he decided to keep to himself.

"Did you know she was banging your brother?" Wakefield asked suddenly, changing the subject. "I mean, I say brother but—"

"Yeah," Henry cut in quickly, stopping Wakefield from heading down that road again, "I understand. J.D., huh? With Kelly?" He shook his head. It made sense, in a weird sort of way. Lonely people needed love, too.

Wakefield's perverse pleasure was obvious, and it had nothing to do with sex. "Oh, yeah. I got her as soon as he slunk out the back door."

"No… no, I didn't know," Henry murmured, his mind more on how he could work this revelation to his advantage than the fact that his father had lurked outside Kelly's house, waiting for the opportunity to kill her.

It seemed like J.D. was looking for a little pleasure after all the trouble he caused down at the Cannery last night. And now Kelly was dead. Would anyone know he was the last one to see her before she died? Was this new revelation just another knot around the figurative noose that would hang J.D. Dunn in the end?

Well, he thought, it would be now…

Henry's musings were interrupted when Wakefield roughly shoved something in front of him. It was an article. "Here, I need you to write something on this for me."

Henry spared a glance at the article—it featured a familiar picture of Charlie Mills under the headline: Sheriff Kills Suspect – John Wakefield—before glancing to meet his father's defiant stare. He couldn't help but ask, "Why?"

"What fun is a cat and mouse game if the poor kitty doesn't know he's playing?"

It seemed like a risky move, leaving some sort of a taunting note when the last thing they should be doing was drawing the sheriff's attention to any sort of deaths. Then again, wouldn't a suicide—or what looked almost like a suicide—keep Charlie's attention away from any disappearances surrounding the Dunn-Wellington wedding?

"Okay," he conceded, "but why am I writing it?"

"Trust me," Wakefield said, very nearly chuckling under his breath, "he knows my handwriting."

It wasn't worth it to argue anymore; there wasn't any time left to, either. "What do you want it to say?" Henry asked, taking the marker out, removing its cap and placing it on the end. Spreading the article against the thigh of his jeans, he poised the tip above the newspaper, ready to write. In the long run, it was just easier if he went along with some of his father's more trying idiosyncrasies.

"I don't know, something like: catch me if you can? I'm going to drop it off at her house, he'll find it as soon as the girl gets found."

Well, there went the inconspicuousness of his father's actions. Not even Charlie could pretend—pretend like he actually shot and killed John Wakefield pretend—that it was a suicide with such a note left at the scene.

Still, Henry nodded and scrawled, just differently enough that it wasn't so obvious he was doing the writing: You found her. Now find me. He showed it to Wakefield. "Is that good?"

"Perfect."

"Great," Henry said, capping the marker again and fiddling it between his fingers. Thinking about Kelly and J.D. and the sheriff poking his nose around reminded him why it had been such a smart move to give Marty Dunn's phone back to his father. "Um, Dad? You still have Marty's phone, right?"

Wakefield patted his pocket. "Got it here."

"Do you think you could wait an hour or two then send me some sort of message on my phone from it? Just something to keep questions from being asked?"

"I'm sure I could figure something out."

"Thanks."

Feeling more confident than when this talk began, Henry handed the article back next, swapping it for the folder. He made to slip the marker back into pocket when his father stopped him. Wakefield held his free hand out, jerking his head at the marker. "Do you mind leaving that with me?"

Shrugging, Henry handed the slim red marker over before tucking his folder back under his arm. The sun was quickly setting and, breathing deeply, he was certain he could smell the faint whiff of the burning fuel from the fire down on the beach; it was getting ever later and, knowing Maggie, it had to be almost started. Shielding his eyes against the bright glow of the setting sun, he couldn't see any smoke or flames but he'd spent far too long away as it was. He shouldn't chance any more.

"Well," he began, turning back to look at Wakefield, "I really—"

And then he stopped. After all, here was no one there to listen to him.

His father was already gone.

End note: It's been awhile since I worked on this but, after writing and rewriting this chapter countless times over the last few weeks, I feel pretty confident that I was able to get in Henry's head again :) I wanted to finish episode two with this chapter but so much came up - an off camera chat with Trish, Maggie and Wakefield - that I didn't get the chance to show the canon scene. However, I plan on taking the end of "Crackle" on during the next chapter, plus an interlude that will set me up for "Ka-Blam".

- stress, 04.27.10