Harlow

Prologue

The yellow truck arrived in the middle of the night and backed down the incline. When the rear bumper hit the edge of the loading dock, the cargo inside the truck shifted, causing the vehicle to rock. The driver killed the engine and, as instructed, remained in the darkened cab and waited for the men. He didn’t wait long.

A spill of brightness from the dock lights and the rattle of the opening dock door alerted the driver to the men’s arrival. He pushed himself up in the seat, grabbed the door handle, and pushed it open. He stepped out of the truck and into the damp October night. Clouds of vapor puffed from his mouth and nostrils. Snow would fly before the month’s end. With any luck, he’d be sunning on some Mexican beach before winter’s foreshadowing became a reality.

Backlit, the men on the dock were mere silhouettes, and any features that may have been visible were obscured by the vapor clouds expelled from their mouths and noses. One man wore a knitted ski cap. The other had some sort of patterned scarf wrapped around his neck. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the driver wasn’t concerned about his clients’ looks or manner of dress. He was here to deliver the merchandise, collect his fee, and be somewhere else in 48 hours—maybe on a beach in Mexico.

The man in the ski cap was about to light a cigarette.

I wouldn’t do that if I were you, the driver said, walking towards the dock. It tends to make ‘em upset. He nodded to the crate in the back of the truck.

The man in the ski cap let the cigarette drop. In the glow of the yellow light, the driver perceived that his remark visibly unnerved the man.

Scarf-man lowered the tailgate of the truck. Are you going to help us unload this thing?

The driver leaned against the dock. Nope, I’ll just let you two yahoos have all the fun.

* * *

Subject 102208 lay in bed. Plastic tubes ran from his nostrils, mouth, and anus. A catheter drained his bladder. His eyelids were taped closed and a feeding tube supplied enough nutrition to keep the boy alive. Monitors and machines, all pinging in unison like a strange electronic orchestra, covered the wall behind him. A soft bluish light shone above him, enveloping him in a luminescent cocoon.

The automatic door hissed open and Doctor Fosaaen stepped into the room. He shivered, all too aware of the room’s almost freezing temperature. Fosaaen snatched the clipboard from the wall, poked his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, and frowned while he read the boy’s chart. The boy’s vitals were falling, which Fosaaen expected, but they were falling too rapidly. If the shipment didn’t arrive soon, the boy would die and the experiment would be a failure. He couldn’t afford another failure.

The doctor replaced the clipboard on the hook. He glanced at the boy, who was really nothing more than a living skeleton, and left the room.

* * *

It took the men twenty minutes to unload the truck and carry the crate inside. Twice the contents inside shifted, and Ski-cap almost lost his grip.

Easy, Scarf-man said. If we drop this mother and bust the crate, we might as well kiss our sweet asses bye-bye.

They pushed the crate into the predetermined space under the stairs, closed and locked the specially-designed enclosure, then walked back outside to meet the driver.

The driver stood as the men approached.

Thing’s a lot heavier than I thought it would be. Scarf-man wiped the sweat from his face with the end of his cravat. Steam rose from his shoulders.

Uh-huh.

I believe this belongs to you. Scarf-man handed the envelope he retrieved from his jacket pocket to the driver. The envelope was on the verge of splitting open.

The driver took the envelope, opened the flap, and ran his thumb over the edges of its contents.

It’s all there, Scarf-man said. A million and a half dollars all in hundred dollar bills, just like you wanted.

This isn’t going to be missed? the driver asked, looking up from the loot and into the pale gray eyes of Scarf-man.

No, not at all. It’s from the corporation’s discretionary fund.

Discretionary fund. That’s funny. The driver tucked the envelope in his pocket. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you boys.

The driver walked back to the truck, loaded himself into it, and started the engine. With the window rolled down, he tipped his cap in the direction of the two men as he drove away, consumed by the shadows of the night’s full moon.

* * *

Scarf-man left fifteen minutes later and Ski-cap took a bottle of bourbon and a plastic cup from the desk drawer. He poured himself a drink and finished it in a long, single swallow. Then he picked up the phone and dialed the number he’d committed to memory.

After three rings, an abrupt voice came over the line.

Yes.

It’s me. Building 14. The shipment has arrived and has been secured according to your instructions.

Excellent. You can have your boy stop over and collect your fee.

The line went dead.

Chapter 1

Harlow had a population of 384, made up mostly of middle-class, blue collar residents. Most were Catholics, followed by Lutherans, with the Methodists and Baptists trailing behind. All denominations held two services every Sunday at the same time, so between the hours of 8:30 am and 11:00 am, Harlow was a virtual ghost town while the town folks attended worship.

The Baptists thought they were just a little bit better than those of the other denominations. While the others attended services in more casual dress, the Baptists dressed to the nines, held their noses a little higher in the air, and their greetings were laced ever so slightly with a hint of arrogance. Pastor Peabody did nothing to discourage the belief. He managed to tell his flock each and every Sunday their faith was the only true faith. Pastor Peabody was such a good man. So just and truthful. Of course no one knew the pastor was a major player when it came to human trafficking. Two years ago he sold his son, Peter. Those who purchased the boy tattooed a serial number on the inside of his left butt cheek. They said Peter would make a good sex slave—tight ass and all that. Peabody made a tidy amount with the sale. Some of the money was given to the church, but the majority of the money was deposited in an off-shore account.

Katherine, the pastor’s wife, knew of the negotiation, begged him to reconsider, but in the end she realized it was her duty to obey her husband’s wishes. Two years later, she still cried herself to sleep.

As far as the townspeople knew, their boy had succumbed to meningitis and was with the angels.

Katherine attended services every Sunday, sat in the first pew, and smiled when her husband gave the sermon. She participated in the annual church bake sale, helped out in the kitchen. She graciously accepted the condolences on the loss of her son. What no one knew, not even her husband, was that she’d never have another child. She won’t put herself through the pain again.

Her husband on a retreat, Katherine visited one of those city doctors and had a procedure assuring her she’d never get pregnant again.

Highway 10 cut through the heart of Harlow and served as Main Street. As the highway neared town, the speed limit gradually reduced from 70 mph to a mind-numbing 15, and when it entered Harlow the road widened to allow parking. Traffic was controlled with three stop lights and two stop signs positioned at the five busiest intersections. If you traveled through town and turned left at the last stop light and followed the residential street east, eventually you’d find yourself driving down an unmarked county road the locals dubbed the Old Harlow Extension. Continuing down the Extension for about 30 miles, the road widened as it wound its way through the town of Prairie Rest. Along the way, any traveler might be unlucky enough to spot a small, wooden sign that reads: Blood River. But those are stories for another time.

Numbered streets ran east and west while named streets ran north and south, dividing the town into neat squares. There were six to eight homes on each residential block. The homes were similar in size and style—turn-of-the-century craftsman—painted in non-offensive earth-tone colors. Manicured lawns and white picket fences completed the Rockwell scene. But even the most picturesque of towns had secrets. For instance, Donna Johns divorced her husband of 26 years after she found out he was having an affair. She came home from work unexpected one day and caught Ron in the bedroom with a local teenager. Ron broke down and wept at the feet of his soon-to-be ex. He confessed that he’d been cheating on her since the day they married. He tried to stop, but the urges were too overwhelming.

Kevin, Ron’s most recent lover, stood dumbfounded at the foot of the bed, covering his pale, naked body with the sheet. He begged Mrs. Johns not to tell his parents. If they found out he was gay, they’d disown him.

Donna Johns never told Kevin’s parents. She didn’t have to. They found out about their son’s sexual preference about a year later when a young man he’d met on Facebook paid Kevin a visit. Kevin’s mother was crushed at the revelation; his father was appalled. True to Kevin’s suspicions, they kicked him out and he was forced to leave with his Facebook friend. As far as the folks of Harlow knew, Kevin Johns had died in a horrific car accident while visiting a girl in Prairie Rest.

Just down the street from Donna Johns lived Esther Crane, a good Catholic woman and president of the Ladies Garden Club who grew more than just Dahlias and Lilies. In the basement of her well-kept home, she cultivated the best marijuana in the county. When the members of the garden club met at Esther’s, they did more than admire Esther’s flowers. Eventually, news of Esther’s special plants circulated through surrounding towns and before she knew it, she had a nice little business. At 77 years old, Esther appreciated the extra income. Social Security just didn’t pay the bills.

Claudette Peters, owner of Quik and Kleen Dry Cleaners on the west end of town, wasn’t always Claudette Peters. Before she moved to Harlow she was Peter Claude. No one in Harlow knew of her reassignment surgery and Claudette had enough brains to keep such a thing secret, but despite her best effort to blend in, Claudette still heard the whispers behind her back.

She has such big hands for a woman.

Her voice is so deep.

She has an Adam’s apple.

And, of course, the one remark that stung the most: I bet she has a penis tucked between her legs.

Secrets.

The foundation of Harlow.

* * *

A square of mid-morning light entered the room when the door of the Stagger ‘n Fall opened.

Kaine Everson, bartender and owner, stopped polishing the glassware and smiled as Ben Canon approached the bar.

A man of average weight and height, Kaine sported a red Mohawk as bright as a rooster’s comb. His sleeveless flannel shirt was open at the throat and a pair of heavy silver chains hung around his large neck. Intense gray eyes and thick dark brows gave him an almost supernatural look. He wore a total of five rings—three on the right hand and two on the left—oversized turquoise stones adorning all of them. Inked on his left bicep was the image of a raven in flight, a mutilated rabbit clenched in its talons.

Kaine inherited the bar from his father. He taught Kaine everything he knew about the business before his passing, but the most important talent Kaine learned was how to listen and how to keep a secret. And Kaine Everson knew plenty of secrets…

Little slow today, Ben said, taking a seat at the far end of the bar near the tappers and looking around the room.

A small group of guys played pool in the back, beers balanced precariously on the table’s edge. A couple of men from the quarry shared a booth in the corner. They each had just finished their shots of Tequila. A man in a blue jumpsuit and trucker’s cap sat in the shadow of the jukebox. Ben didn’t recognize the face, but figured he owned the yellow truck parked out front. In a town where everyone knew everyone’s business, including what kind of vehicle they drove, the truck and the man were not part of the town’s population.

Kaine tucked the towel in the waist band of his faded jeans, hooked his thumbs in the belt loops. The place did look empty, but the nightly take told another story. I’m sure it’ll pick up later once church lets out and the football group drops in. What’ll you have?

My usual, I guess. A frosty mug of your finest import.

Kaine opened the cooler under the bar and pulled out a chilled glass. He moved to the tappers. In this joint the best I can do is Budweiser.

Then I guess that’ll be my usual.

Kaine, did you happen to see all the commotion on Asylum Hill last night? Ben asked.

Well….

***

One hundred and fifty years ago, a mental hospital stood on a small knoll just inside the north edge of the town’s limits. In the 1920's, the institution was closed down due to illegal practices and procedures. According to the rumors, doctors dismembered living patients and then tried to reassemble the corpses and bring them back to life. The hospital stood empty for almost eight decades and fell into ruin. It became a haven for horny teenagers, a hotspot for late night parties, and fodder for Halloween ghost stories. In 1975, a sixteen-year-old boy entered the ruins of the asylum, which had gained the reputation of being haunted, on a dare. He stepped through a rotted floorboard and plummeted three stories. He broke his neck and back when he slammed into the basement’s concrete floor. Death was instantaneous. After the incident, the town cordoned off the area with a 12-foot Cyclone fence, but every so often someone would cut the fencing and trespass onto the property. Although there had never been another tragedy, the dilapidating hospital remained a sore in Harlow’s side.

A few years ago, the state university system wanted to purchase the land and build upon it. A government-owned facility known as BioCorp Industries also wanted the land. A court battle ensued, and in the end the one with the most toys won. In this case the winner was BioCorp.

Kaine placed his hands on the bar and looked at Ben. Nope. Can’t say I did. What time was it?

Early this morning. Two, three o’clock.

I was just closing the bar at that time. What were you doing up? I know you’re an ‘in bed by 10:30' kind of guy.

"I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to do some work on Silent is the Night and happened to glance out the window. Ben nodded towards his empty mug. What’d you think they’re up to there?

I have no idea, Kaine grabbed Ben’s mug and refilled it from the spigot. Must be some pretty top-secret stuff, though….they keep the place locked up tighter than a virgin in a chastity belt.

Ben nearly choked on his beer. ‘Tighter than a virgin in a chastity belt.’ I like that. Mind if I use it in my next book?

Kaine looked towards the ceiling, a dreamlike quality in in his gaze. Imagine. The witticisms of Kaine Everson immortalized on paper. Who’da thunk it.

Kaine, do you think we did the right thing by letting the government build on Asylum Hill? Maybe we should’ve fought a little harder. Sold the land….the university.

I don’t think we had a choice. We could’ve never been able to afford the court costs. The town would’ve gone bankrupt.

"I