Page 177 of The Pansy Paradox
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 15
This part never changes. Although to be fair, this particular event has never happened at an intersection in King’s End. Ophelia wonders about that, about this public display of aggression. But Botten stands there, leaning against the passenger side of an SUV while three Enclave agents take turns roughing up Henry.
Henry has made his fair share of enemies on his way up the Enclave career ladder. Certainly, Botten wasn’t short on volunteers for this particular task. No doubt there was a waitlist.
After the first blow, Gwyneth half emerges from her car, fingers curled around the door as if she needs the physical support. When Botten points a finger at her, the command clear, she defies him. But when Henry meets her gaze and gives his head a tiny shake, she complies and tucks herself back inside.
A moment later, one of the agents splits open Henry’s cheekbone with a left hook. Granted, that agent also suffers a fractured hand. Henry is stoic while the other man howls in pain.
Serves you right.
Ophelia hovers next to the man, whispering sharp words in his ear. He blinks in confusion. The pain, she thinks, opens a passageway. He can’t quite hear her or comprehend what she says. Still, she’s an unnerving presence in this unfair fight. He remains crouched, hand tucked against his chest as if he’s tapped out of this particular bout.
The remaining two are brutes, the sort who enjoy the more violent duties of an agent’s job, the sort you point at a problem and hope for the best.
Right now, Henry is that problem.
“Not too rough, boys,” Botten says, gaze on his cuticles, supreme unconcern in his voice. “I do need him conscious.”
The benign-sounding words send shivers of ice through Ophelia. This, too, hasn’t changed. Worry churns inside her. Have all her efforts been fruitless? Do all paths eventually come to a single point? This, right here, Henry beaten down, physically and then emotionally.
“You’re going to need more than that,” Henry says, oddly calm, as if all Botten needs is an extra helping of mashed potatoes.
Botten condescends to look at Henry. “Do you imagine I haven’t considered that?”
Henry wipes away blood with the back of his hand. “I imagine you have.”
The two brutes move forward and grab Henry by the arms, but otherwise, they’re frozen by this strange conversation. To be honest, so is Ophelia. Words are always exchanged between these two men, true. Henry’s sometimes involve more blood and teeth. Botten’s are predictable to the point that Ophelia wants to tune them out.
“So disappointing.” Botten shakes his head in mock chagrin. “You could’ve gone far, my boy. Such a simple task I set before you. And yet, you always falter at those moral junctures. So like your father that way. We wouldn’t be standing here now if not for him.”
Botten knows, better than most, Henry’s weak spot. That weak spot is Harrison Darnelle, and the uncertainty in Henry’s mind about his father and what happened here in King’s End thirty years ago. Had his father succumbed to the lure of a gateway, wanted power the way Botten did and still does?
In all the paths Ophelia has traveled, this blow always lands and lands hard.
But Henry stands there now as if Botten has spewed nonsense at him.
Ophelia swirls around Henry, battering those two brutes at his side. To no avail, but she takes great pleasure in trying.
Botten inclines his head. The agent on the right delivers a sucker punch to Henry’s gut. The air whooshes from him, and Ophelia is blown backward. Henry gasps for breath, knees buckling beneath him. But then he stands and raises his chin.
Botten frowns, furrows deep on his brow, as if he can’t quite discern why things aren’t going according to his plan. Ophelia wonders if he can sense all those other paths and intuits that this one isn’t quite right, isn’t delicious enough.
“Your father was a weakling,” Botten says, trying a different tack. “Always doing some woman’s bidding. Rose. Miranda. It hardly seemed to matter as long as Harry Darnelle had a mommy to tell him what to do.”
Henry tilts his head as if he’s truly considering what Botten has said, as if the man’s words are worth anything. Botten, seeing he’s caught Henry’s attention, continues.
“Your father was a sad, pathetic, craven man who gave up everything. For what? So he might live vicariously through you? Tell me, how did that work out?”
Ophelia boils with outrage on Henry’s behalf. She wants to beat her fists against Botten, kick him in the shins repeatedly. She swoops around, gathers speed, and shoots straight through the man. But Botten has warmed to this subject—indeed, he’s been planning this moment for ages—and her presence has no effect.
“He never met a decision he didn’t want to delay. Gummed up the entire Enclave with procedural nonsense. A man of action?” Botten scoffs, the sound dismissive. “How he got that reputation is beyond me. Then again, Rose was always at his side, picking up the slack.”
Henry is stoic, so like his father that fear thrums through Ophelia’s veins. She knows the photographs, the evidence of his father’s other—possibly happier—life have planted seeds of doubt in Henry’s mind. The before and after is so stark, she might wonder as well. Who was Harry Darnelle? Was he the man his son always believed him to be?
Panicked, she flits back to Henry and swoops around his head.
