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.
