A Taste of: From Sackcloth and Ashes

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For years, I’ve worked on the manuscript that I’ve currently titled From Sackcloth and Ashes and have tried at two different stages to pitch it to literary agents. At this point, I haven’t had success and am considering the option of self-publishing. That will be quite the process since all the work on producing a printed book, including marketing, will be on my shoulders. I’ve wondered if my manuscript is any good. I’ve questioned my skills as a writer. I’ve also wondered if the rejections are simply due to the highly competitive nature of the traditional publishing market.

At this point, both to promote my novel and get feedback, I’m sharing the first chapter of From Sackcloth and Ashes on my blog as it currently stands. I’m asking you to read it and give me your constructive critique. I ask for a constructive critique because I need feedback to improve whatever needs improving, but I don’t need to be torn apart or insulted personally.

I would also like to ask anyone interested in becoming a critique partner or beta reader to contact me at pauline@paulinejgrabia.com. I’m looking for volunteers.

I hope you enjoy this first chapter. Please leave a comment in the appropriate space below.

From Sackcloth and Ashes

Chapter One

April 6, 2024, Rural Alberta, Canada

It was a sucker punch that knocked Wil off his feet, and he shook his head to clear it, spraying blood from his nose. He was nearly forty, and he still couldn’t take a punch. Davy, Richard’s latest henchman, jumped on him, and they grappled on the side of the rural gravel road. Davy was a stronger fighter; Wil couldn’t play fair. He looked for any opportunity to take advantage.

Wil had been on his way home to Leduc from working on a ’74 Dodge Dart in Wetaskiwin when he’d noticed a feces-brown Oldsmobile following him. He’d played cat and mouse with him on side roads after turning off Highway 2A. Richard’s goon followed Wil until he brought his ’63 Dodge Charger to a sudden stop at the side of a gravel road and stood in the path of Davy’s car, forcing him to stop rather than drive away.

They brawled, and Wil was losing. But he had a knee and an opportunity to ram it hard into Davy’s groin. The goon doubled over, his face turning purple. It was Wil’s chance to get out from under him and jump on top, punching him as hard as he could several times in the face.

He grabbed Davy by the scruff. “Tell Richard to leave me alone!”

Davy panted hard, spitting blood and teeth. “Not till you give in.”

Wil would die first. “Why has he turned up the heat?”

“He wants you to give up and turn yourself in.”

“Not in this lifetime.”

Wil pounded Davy’s head hard against the rocky soil, turning out his lights.

He stumbled to his feet and used his sleeve to wipe the blood off his face before hurrying back to his Charger and getting out before Davy woke up. After two minutes, the brute still didn’t follow. Wil was free of him—for now. Tomorrow, the fifteen-year-old cat-and-mouse game would continue.

Wil drove home in the rain. The weather was a perfect complement to his mood. All day, all he’d been able to think of as he worked on the car was that it would have been Maggie’s thirty-fourth birthday. He would have showered her with gifts, as always, and made her feel like queen of the world on her special day. Despite someone robbing him of that privilege fifteen years before, he blamed himself, and his heart still ached.

#

Rain continued pouring from the charcoal clouds on his drive toward Millet. Wil turned on the radio, looking for music but catching the news at the top of the hour. The female reporter read a copy stating the Highway 2A Killer had struck twice recently; a local farmer had come across a body while seeding his canola field a month before, and the body still hadn’t been identified. Then, last week, another young woman from Maskwacis on the nearby Indigenous reserve, Poppy Crowfeather, disappeared. The media speculated she was the twenty-fifth victim. In north-central rural Alberta, “Ol’ 2A,” as he was colloquially called, had taken on mythic proportions among the people who lived and worked in his killing grounds.

“Police spokesperson Sgt. Malloy reports that a search party found the remains of a female body earlier today in a creek bed adjacent to Highway 2A just south of Millet,” the newscaster said. “Police refuse to confirm whether the body belonged to the missing Poppy Crowfeather of Maskwacis, but locals are speculating that it is her corpse, yet another victim of Ol 2A.”

Wil turned the radio off in disgust. He didn’t need the reminder of another dead, innocent woman. He needed food and drink to help take his mind off his rotten day. He stopped at his favorite watering hole, Joanne’s Bar and Grill, before heading home to Leduc, where he lived and operated his business chain from the headquarters. Parking on the street, he exited his car and watched the card in his jacket pocket fall into a puddle in the gutter. He snatched it up and wiped the excess water and mud off. He’d picked it up from his mailbox that morning, not expecting a delivery, when he found a white envelope in his box. It was printed, not handwritten, with no return address. The Postmark was Regina. He didn’t know anyone from Saskatchewan.

Inside the envelope was a birthday card. He frowned, the hair on the back of his neck rising. The card read, “On what would have been her thirty-fourth, she was silenced by the one who benefitted most from her loss. Look into it.”

He shoved the damp card into the inner breast pocket of his jacket to protect it from further damage. Who would be so cruel as to send it? What did it mean? Maggie’s killer was never identified, and the case had long gone cold. The only suspect in Wil’s mind had been exonerated by law enforcement. He’d convinced himself that conclusion was good enough for the past decade and a half. There had always been suspicion, but he hadn’t allowed himself to focus on it. Though unsuccessful, he’d tried not to think about Maggie at all.

Inside Joanne’s, Sophie, the regular bartender, greeted Wil by name; he’d been there at least once a week for a couple of years. Taking his usual stool at the bar, he ordered a double vodka tonic and cheeseburger before looking around the room. The establishment had a warehouse look—bare ceiling showing the beams and ductwork—combined with an attempt at mimicking an English pub. Wil had frequented many real English pubs in his youth, and this establishment missed the mark, but he didn’t frequent Joanne’s for the ambiance. They had cheap booze and great eats.

Though typically busy with the dinner crowd, the bar was quiet that evening. Nine bedraggled, wet, worn-looking men and women occupied one long table, three four-tops pulled together in the middle of the lounge. They wore bright orange pinnies over their everyday clothes. A nondescript man in his sixties with a John Deere cap, red-rimmed eyes glossy from drink, and several days’ worth of graying stubble on his weather-worn face sat central to the rest and earned the most attention as he dominated the conversation.

He took a swallow off what could have been a rum and Coke. “And we all know that Ol’ 2A is Damon Barber.”

One of the men at the table sat back in his chair and wiped a hand over his face; he’d heard this before and didn’t look excited about hearing it again. The others either nodded in acknowledgment or did nothing, focusing on the TVs or the contents of their glasses.

Wil nearly fell off his stool; he caught himself at the last second. Barber? That was a name he had hoped never to hear again. Yet, here it was, and that ghost would haunt him until he learned more.

Wil turned back around to face away from the strange man and his entourage, drinking his vodka, his mind spinning. He whispered to the attractive Sophie, “The guy’s a kook. Nobody knows who 2A is. It’s not Barber. I know that guy. He’s a rapist scum, but he’s no serial killer.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said, leaning toward him. “You’re not from Millet, are you?”

He shook his head. “I’ve lived everywhere, but Leduc’s home now.”

Her eyes sparked with interest. “Really? A world traveler, huh? Well, if you knew Barber like we do around here, you’d know he’s a creep. And George might know something about him that we don’t.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“George’s farm neighbored Barber’s. They knew each other well. George’s daughter was murdered by the Highway 2A Killer fifteen years ago. This afternoon, his group returned from helping the police search along the highway for the latest missing girl. They found her body today in Pipestone Creek just up the road. Every time a body has been found along 2A since Sharon’s death, George has been on the search party that found it. He knows about Ol’ 2A and Damon Barber.”

Wil didn’t grasp the supposed connection with Barber but said nothing.

The bell from the cook rang, and Sophie retrieved an order.

Wil turned around again, ostensibly to view the Jays game but in truth to listen to more of George’s conversation. He talked about how Damon Barber was the type to be the 2A Killer.

“They’re both creatures of habit,” George said. “They both like pretty young women. Both are perverts. Damon has that slaughterhouse of his, perfect for butchering girls. And he can’t come up with a solid alibi for Sharon’s murder. His family said he was at home all day. They’re lyin’.”

Wil didn’t know why George’s rambling interested him as much as it did. He didn’t involve himself in other’s conversations, but he couldn’t hold himself back this time.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sophie returned with his burger, but Wil paid no attention to it.

He’d always been fascinated by the 2A Killer. This caught in his craw, despite more immediate things on his mind, compelling him to drown his sorrows. He reached into his pocket and touched the sharp edge of the crumpled-up birthday card, receiving a paper cut. He didn’t acknowledge the sting.

All eyes at the long table riveted to look at Wil. Some regarded him with smoldering glares, others with simple curiosity.

George’s eyes held a glint of amusement. “I know.”

Tipsy and soaked to the bone, much of what he said probably had no basis, but he had grabbed Wil’s curiosity. If what George proclaimed was true, it could turn fifteen long years of his life on its head. If Barber indeed was the 2A Killer as well as Maggie’s rapist, then….

“How do you know?” The right corner of Wil’s mouth rose. “The cops have chased Ol’ 2A for a quarter of a century. If they haven’t got a clue, you don’t.”

Though exhausted, one of his buddies at the table stood up to protest, hiking up his pants. “Listen, fella, your attitude—”

But George grabbed his friend’s arm and shook his head, pulling him back to his seat. “It’s okay, Neil. I’ll answer him.”

Neil gave George a respectful nod, but his eyes bore through Wil like hot pokers.

George’s voice was soft. Confident. “I know ’cause it’s the same perv that murdered my daughter. That’s how.”

Wil’s plans had changed. He still intended to get blind drunk—but not before hearing George out. Ignorant of who he was or his story, Wil needed to find out.

Thank you so much for reading this post and visiting my blog. Please sign up for my newsletter for a monthly update about the website and blog and exclusive access to the material on my Subscriber Content page at www.paulinejgrabia.com. I am honored that you have taken time out of your day to read what I have to offer, and I will endeavor to continue to post blogs that are worthy of your continued attention. May God bless you richly.

Pauline J. Grabia

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