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Harlan's Mill Chapter One

Hello Barber-ians,
Here is a special treat for all you loyal readers out there. Chapter One of Harlan's Mill. Enjoy and I would love to hear your thoughts. If you've read my first novel, The Harrowing, I'd love a review on Amazon!

That's all for now, Barber-ians. Thanks and the excerpt follows!

CHAPTER ONE

There is a daily newspaper in the small Georgia town of Harlan’s Mill called, imaginatively enough, the Harlan’s Mill Daily (established 1832, the same year as the founding of the town). The Daily normally had very little of note to report. It just wasn’t all that interesting that old farmer Molton’s milk cow gave birth to a white calf with brown spots. Occasionally, the Daily would report something mildly interesting: a tourism bus stopping in town for the day or Mayor Harlan having a gala (most residents of the Mill could not tell you what this was). Even more occasionally there would be a report of something actually stimulating, like the time they filmed several scenes for a major Motion Picture (the people of the Mill still called them that, Motion Pictures), nearby. A few of the townsfolk had even gotten to walk through the background on camera as extras. But practically never news of real import. In fact, one could read the Daily for years and never encounter a single piece of actual hard news. But on July 5, 1986 the Daily managed to do something it had never accomplished before or since; it sold out.
On July 5, 1986 the Daily reported that Sheriff William Dell, father of little Thomas Dell, had locked two dozen townsfolk in his little jailhouse on the night of July 4, doused it with gasoline, locked himself in with them and burned it to the ground, roasting all twenty-five of them like Thanksgiving turkeys.
It was this humble periodical that Thomas Dell, now thirty-seven and a Special Agent with the Atlanta office of the FBI, was reading. Thomas, Tommy to his friends, had subscriptions to the Daily and six other newspapers from the area, including the almighty Atlanta Journal-Constitution, what the townsfolk of the Mill referred to as the real paper. Thomas had been ten in 1986 when his dad had murdered all those people and killed himself, and could remember with clarity the oddness of that particular summer, his last as a resident of the Mill.
A crime in Harlan’s Mill was a rare thing. In a town with a permanent population of just over three thousand, it was fairly difficult to get away with anything. Jaws would wag and the villain would soon be apprehended, if he didn’t just turn himself in first. But starting in late May of that fateful year, when the heat hitched up to just this side of unbearable and the cicadas had started their chainsaw loud buzzing, a string of unusual and shockingly violent events had begun with the death of Mrs. Penelope Folger, fifty-seven and lifelong resident of the Mill.
Penelope had arrived home from the farmer’s market with a load of meat and produce for her husband, Vincent Folger, to unload. Instead, he had unloaded both barrels of his twelve gauge into poor Penelope. When Sheriff Dell had arrived on the scene, Vincent had just been standing there over his wife’s body, which was now more like two, having been nearly sawed in half by the blasts from the shotgun, with a blank look on his face and spittle running from the corner of his mouth.
Sheriff Dell had cautiously approached Vincent, who gave no sign of awareness that Dell was even there, and removed the shotgun from his hands before cuffing them behind the sixty-two year old. Vincent had remained in that nearly catatonic state through two examinations; one by Doc Sturgess, the towns M.D./M.E./coroner; the other by Charlotte Perkins, the only psychiatrist Harlan’s Mill had ever had. Neither doctor could make a real determination, medical or psychiatric, about what was wrong with Vincent. Shock was Sturgess’ best guess. PTSD for Perkins. Vincent had simply come “awake” in his cell at the town jail after two days, with no apparent memory of what he’d done. Upon hearing the news he had promptly had a nervous breakdown.
Penelope Folger’s death in late May had been the primordial episode of the violence that had the residents of Harlan’s Mill living in fear that summer. The violence had culminated with William Dell’s mass murder/suicide. In between those two bookend events had been dozens of bizarre crimes ranging from armed robbery to rape to murder. Now it seemed it was happening again.
The issue of The Daily unfolded on the desk in front on Tommy was more than a little disturbing. The headline read Local man strangles wife, kills self. Son left orphaned. Such a thing had not been in The Daily since 1986. He knew. He had read every page of every issue.
The issue was four months old. That was the last time he had received the small paper from his hometown. Tommy had waited and waited but no new editions had arrived. He had renewed his subscription six months ago for another year, so it wasn’t a lapse there. The paper had simply ceased. “Now it’s time to find out why.” he muttered.
The number to the paper was printed on the front page, but Tommy didn’t need it. He dialed from memory and waited as the call went through. After a dozen rings he began to doubt himself so he verified the number against the paper and dialed again. Still no answer. This time he let it ring until the call disconnected and the buzzing of the busy signal began.
“Weird,” Tommy said. He opened the bottom right drawer of his desk and dug through a stack of phone books until he found the one for Harlan’s Mill. He flipped to a random page and dialed the first number at the top of the page. It was a listing for DiGesso, Alvin. He didn’t know Alvin DiGesso, but that wasn’t surprising considering how long he had been away. Though he had kept a check on the Mill through the papers, he had not set foot in the Mill for twenty-seven years.
After twelve rings he hung up, frowning. Three more random calls to the Mill produced the same result. Tommy slid open the drawer to replace the phone book and caught sight of a small silver flask. He froze, enrapt. His mouth was suddenly dry and his lips felt thick and sticky. The flask was beautiful; pure silver with a black leather wrapping around the top quarter and a tiny hinge near the cap which, when pressed, allowed one to open the flask one handed.
Come on, Tommy. One sip. One sip couldn’t possibly hurt you, right? No. In fact, one sip would actually be good for you. The docs all say so. A little every day helps your heart and your blood pressure, right?
Tommy was nodding slowly, unaware for the moment of where he was. The overhead fluorescents shining off the flask was hypnotic, mesmerizing. Tommy’s eyelids were droopy and half closed. He was in a near trance where the voice of a silver flask filled with Jack Daniel’s speaking in his head didn’t seem the least bit odd or crazy. No, definitely not crazy. The flask’s voice was quiet and comforting, like a mother’s soft singing to her sick child. Tommy could already taste the slightly sour spiciness and sweet aftertaste of the whiskey. Could feel the heat as it hit his belly and spread. Tommy… it called to him and he could feel his muscles tremble with the need to respond. Tommy….
“Tommy!” Tommy jerked and felt a sudden dizziness as the environment of the office- ringing phones, the clacking of keyboards, the soft hum of the air conditioning-  reasserted it’s reality on him.
“Wha..?” he muttered as he looked up. Angelique Beauchene was standing there, looking at him with her soft hazel eyes. Right now those eyes were nearly brown with worry. A slight crease marred the perfection of her forehead just above her narrow nose.
“I said, are you alright?” Angelique asked. Her accent was a slight and engaging Cajun. Some women named Angelique might have had to deal with men constantly shortening her name to Angie or even Ann. But not Angelique. She was tall and statuesque. Her skin was smooth and tan. Her waist was narrow, but her breasts and hips were full and, as the saying goes, she had curves in all the right places. She had hair that was long, wavy and a brilliant, shining black. She was dressed in a clinging dress of royal blue with a hemline that stopped three inches above the knee. Enough to comply with FBI dress code regulations but still providing plenty of leg to view. And they were very nice legs indeed. Her dainty feet were encased in four inch heels with lacy straps wrapping around her delicate ankles that made her nearly as tall as himself.
“I’m fine, Angelique.” He dropped the phone book in the drawer and slid it closed. Tommy knew that she could have any man in the office, married or not, at her beck and call. For some reason she had decided she wanted him. And he would be perfectly amenable to her advances had he been certain that all she wanted was sex. But he knew, the way he sometimes knew things, that she wanted much more than that. Every time Angelique brought her floral scented aura within touching distance of him he could feel the waves of domesticity rolling off her. She wanted marriage, kids, home; the whole nine yards. He couldn’t give her that. He was no good for any woman that needed emotional availability or romance. He simply had too much baggage.
She looked at him for another moment then apparently decided to let it go. “I was wondering what you were doing for dinner tonight?” she purred. She leaned forward, giving him the best view of her impressive cleavage, and grazed her nails along the back of his palm.
Tommy swallowed, his heart hammering. He didn’t want to get involved with Angelique, but he wasn’t dead. “I’d love to, Angelique.” He folded the paper in half and stood up, gently dislodging her hand. “But I have to go home.”
“Pooh,” Angelique’s lips twisted in a moue. “You can sleep later,” she cooed.
“No, you don’t understand,” he said, tucking the paper under one arm. “I don’t mean to my apartment. I mean back to Harlan’s Mill.”
“Oh,” Angelique said in surprise. “Why?”
“There are some personal things I need to take care of,” he said evasively. And someone I need to see. “I’ll see you when I get back, okay? Now if you’ll excuse me I need to use the restroom.”
“Okay,” Angelique said uncertainly. Impulsively she threw her arms around Tommy and hugged him tight. “Be careful, alright?”
Tommy stood stiff for a moment, then his arms snaked around Angelique and he hugged her back. It felt good. Very good. “I will,” he said.
They held each other for what felt like a very long time then they parted. “See ya,” Tommy said and walked away toward the bathroom. A few minutes later he returned to his desk. Angelique was gone. He grabbed his light tweed jacket off his chair and headed for the elevator.
Downstairs he pushed through the double glass doors and into the oppressive heat of the Georgia summer. Simply stepping from the air conditioned offices of the FBI into the heated air outside was like putting himself into a convection oven.
Sweat rolled down his forehead and stung his eyes. His antiperspirant fought a valiant, but losing, battle to keep his underarms dry and within moments his blue Oxford was stained with sweat. He rubbed the sweat off his head with his hands, running his fingers through his hair. His hair was dark brown, wavy and still thick, showing no signs of thinning. He wore it in a loose part that looked intentionally casual, but was in reality casual. He just didn’t fuss about with his hair and he was lucky enough that it worked for him. If it came down to it, he’d rather buzz it all off then have to deal with combs or brushes.
He glanced at the weather app on his phone. 101 degrees. It was a brutal summer already. This was the fifth straight days of temperatures exceeding 100 degrees and it was only mid-July. The air was thick with humidity. It felt more like he was swimming than walking. Sucking in a searing breath Tommy turned left down the shimmering sidewalk and began the short walk to the parking deck.
He felt something strike him in the back. Something small. He turned to see what it was and something else hit him in the stomach. Looking down he saw the stark white of his shirt staining quickly red.
“Hunh?” he uttered. Then the pain hit and he fell to his knees, hands folded over his stomach. This time he heard the gunshot and the squealing of tires. The bullet missed him, flinting a chip from the sidewalk a foot and a half in front of him. The shard of concrete flew up and slashed his cheek open. The pain might have been intense, but Tommy was already feeling dizzy and darkness was flickering around the edges of his vision.
His vision cleared and he was staring at the mill in the distance, with that big tree standing beside it. A figure was moving toward him with jerky motions of arms and legs. As it grew nearer Tommy saw that it was his father. He also saw why his dad moved with such a spasmodic and lurching locomotion. Marionette wires extended upward from his hands and feet, knees and elbows, disappearing into the sky. His father lifted one hand, palm outward, in the ancient gesture meaning stop. Tommy saw that the wire punched all the way through his father’s hand and was knotted against the flesh of his palm. Blood oozed from the wound. Distantly he heard the wailing and screaming of a multitude of voices. There was a pattern in the screams, like the voices were all shrieking words, but he couldn’t understand them. His father shook his head and opened his mouth. The unearthly wailing burst from his throat. Now Tommy understood what all the voices were saying.

“Help,” he choked weakly and then toppled over on his side. The mill was gone and he watched the strikingly blue, cloudless sky narrow to a pinpoint of light and then the velvet curtain descended and he knew no more.

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