his mind, sorting them into neat little piles of truth.
Most men do not know their limits, their capabilities, their own minds. Sam Balon did. The devil despises the Sam Balon's of the world, and would prefer to stay away from them.
Sam was no lace-pants preacher. He'd been tested many times, and was as tough as wang-leather, understanding the temptations of this world. He had tasted the bittersweetness of evil, and knew that all humankind was susceptible to enticement.
The devil is wary of these kinds of ministers. For these types of men are tough. The Sam Balon types, upon seeing that prayer will not work, will ball their fists and come in swinging. This type of minister does not set himself up as a paragon of virtue, for all to follow their example. They know they are human.
The Sam Balon's of Christian ministry are rare breeds. They enjoy a cold beer after mowing the lawn. They might smoke a pipe or a few cigarettes a day. They enjoy wine with the evening meal. They understand changing times, moving with the flow, not against it. They are not pulpit-pounders or screamers. The young people usually like them.
The devil hates them. For as attractive as Satan makes sin, the Sam Balon's are almost always impervious to it. They cannot be possessed, so they must be destroyed. And the devil sits and scratches his head, wondering— How?
Satan cannot destroy the Sam Balon's at the outset: that would anger God, and the devil knows onlv too well the wrath of God. Satan has felt God's boot on his butt too many times, and that has made him wary. So the devil must work quietly; he must work
In Whitfield, the devil almost succeeded.
'I guess the kids just took off,' Walter Addison told the mothers of the missing teenagers. 'They will do that, you know. We've had an APB—that's an All Points Bulletin—out for more than a month.'
'I know you're doing all you can, Walter,' the mother of the missing girl said.
'Well,' the sheriff said, standing with his cowboy hat in his hand, 'I hate to say this, but kids do funny things nowadays. I personally think it's all that rock and roll music they've taken to listening to. It's got
Sam had stood listening. Walter had ignored him, refusing to speak to him.
Crap! the minister thought, watching the sheriff walk away. Pure undiluted cow chips.
5am said goodbye to the ladies and then stood for a moment on the corner of the street.
You're a liar, sheriff! Sam mused. You said you called the FBI, and the FBI came in and looked around, investigating a possible kidnapping. But the FBI never came in here, never questioned anyone, because you never called them. And I'd like to know why.
I know they didn't come in here, sheriff, because Joan was a member of my church, and they didn't question me. Larry worked part-time for Chester, and they didn't question him. Larry belonged to the Episcopal Church, and they didn't question Glen Haskell. The principal of the high school, Bill Mathis, said they talked with him, in his office at school. But Jane Ann said the day they were supposed to have talked with him, he was out of town, at a meeting in Lincoln. So add that all up, partner, and that makes you a liar, and it makes Bill Mathis a liar.
But why?
And why all the recent grave robbing? Where are the bodies? And there is something very strange going on at Glower's Funeral Home. I've heard whispers. Even Doctor King is suspicious,although he won't talk with me about it. Not yet.
And the people in this town. They've become . . . different, somehow. What's going on, Sheriff?
'You're deep in thought, Sam,? the voice jarred him out of his musings. He looked into the violet eyes of Jane Anne Burke, and a warm feeling spread over him.
'Yes, I am,' he smiled at her. 'Or was.'
She looked up at her minister. He was almost a foot taller than her five four. A big man, Sam Balon, who did not in any way fit the minister stereotype.
Sam looked more like a mercenary; a soldier of fortune; a pirate. Dark brown hair, almost always unruly. Massive shoulders and barrel chest. Heavily muscled arms. Huge wrists. There were scars on his knuckles and two faint scars on his face, one just above his right eye, the other on his chin. She'd heard he got one scar in a barroom brawl in Kansas City, the other scar in a free-for-all in a bar in Korea. Sam had emerged from that war a much- decorated hero, but he never talked about it.
She'd heard that Sam had been part of of an experimental combat unit in Korea. Something called Special Forces—guerrilla fighters.
Jane Ann was in love with her minister, and she knew he knew. But she was very careful never to be alone with him. If they were seen together, it was always in public places.
'How is Michelle?' she asked.
'Just fine.'
That was a lie and they both knew it. Michelle, Jane Ann thought, is a bitch! The whole town knew Sam and his wife were having problems. They didn't even sleep together. Lately, it seemed lots of people in Whitfield were having problems, mostly with their faith. Church attendance was way down.
'Ministers aren't supposed to tell fibs, Sam,' she gently scolded him.
'Ministers aren't human,' he returned the smile, thinking, Oh, boy, are we human. Jane Ann, if I weren't a minister . . .
An old lady hobbled by on arthritic legs, greeting them. 'Jane Ann. Reverend Balon.'
He smiled and nodded.
Sam did not like being called Reverend. He maintained there was only one Reverend person to ever walk the earth, and He had been crucified. Call him Sam, call him preacher, call him brother, but please don't call him Reverend.
Walter Addison drove by, and Jane Ann watched her minister's eyes narrow as they followed the sheriff's car down the street. Addison had not waved at them. It was almost as if he was deliberately avoiding them.
'He was a member of our church for as long as I can remember,' Jane Ann said. 'Then suddenly he stopped attending. Strange.'
'Yes. it is—among other strange things happening in Whitfield.' Sam swung his gaze to Jane Ann 'I'd better be going. Got to get back home.'
Back to your slut wife! Oh, Sam, everybody in town knows she's running around on you. 'I'll see you Sunday, Sam.'
'Yes. Fine.' He started to walk away, hesitated, and then said, 'Jane Ann?'
'Yes, Sam?' she almost called him darling.
'Be careful.'
'That's an odd thing to say. Why did you say that?'
He shook his head. 'I don't know. Forget it, Janey.'
She watched him walk away, arms swinging by his side. A huge, powerful man. A very handsome man. Not the pretty-boy type; the rugged type. Not at all a follower of fashion, Sam Balon. he wore what pleased him, not some men's fashion designer. This was crew-cut or flat-top country. But Sam wore his hair longer than most. Chester Stokes had told her that Sam was once asked about the length of his hair—that it was out of style. The man doing the asking had said it with a smirk. Sam's reply was, 'If you don't like it, jump in and try to change it, partner. Watch ihis ex-doggie bite.'
Not your average preacher type, Sam Balon.
Sam had turned more than one woman's head, causing them to think very unchurchly thoughts of the minister.
And I'm one of them, Jane Ann smiled.
Fork County is one of the largest counties in America—larger than some states. Thousands of square miles of sand hills, ridges, Bad Lands, valleys, hollows, and hundreds of small lakes. Some of the finest timber in the state can be found in Fork County. The land is dotted with cottonwoods and box elders. Very little farming in Fork County, mostly cattle ranching in the rolling hills and plains.
