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.
There are only four towns in the entire county, the largest being Whitfield. Fork County is huge, and sparsely populated. If one wanted to hide, or be alone, or perpetrate an evil, Fork County would be ideal. Not because of the people, but because of its aloneness, its isolation.
Whitfield sits almost in the direct center of Fork County, and while its chief law enforcement agent is called Sheriff, he is really a sub-sheriff, the elected sheriff having his offices in Atwood, some sixty miles away.
Whitfield is not an easy place to reach; it has few visitors. One road in, one road out. State roads. There are several winding county roads, but most of them lead nowhere, or in a circle, and at times are impassable.
A native of Fork once told a weary salesman who was attempting to get to Whitfield, "You can't get there from here, partner. You got to go somewhere else to start."
He was only half joking.
Fork County.
Standard number of churches in Whitfield, standard mix of religion as found in any small town. The young people leave as soon as they can, unless they plan to ranch with their fathers. Whitfield has no industry. The ranches have passed from great-grandfather to grandfather to father to son. Old brands. Foreign investment in Fork County is nil.
Only one Jewish family in Whitfield, Miles Lansky and his wife Doris. The Lansky's walk a fine line. They live in a community full of cowboys and out-doorsmen. A community full of the Plains State's version of the Southern Good Ole Boy. A less refined term is Redneck.
"Them Jews is funny, you know that, boy? They ain't like us."
A statement that surely brings great joy to the Jews.
Miles owns a very profitable department store. His best friend is Sam Balon.
In Fork, cowboys still ride horses on round-up, still carry guns. The six-guns, though, are usually carried in the saddlebags, not belted around the waist. Quick drawing is something that can now be seen at the County Fair. Amuses the kiddies.
Sport. Occasionally, someone emulating Wes Hardin will shoot off his toe. Amuses the adults.
The one newspaper in this part of Fork, the Fork County Crusader, is conservative Republican, owned by its editor, Wade Thomas. The newspaper was passed on to him by his father, and to him by his father, who came to what is now Whitfield in the 1860s. The newspaper is published weekly, serving the eastern half of Fork County. Due to a range war in the late 1890s, the western half of Fork does not get along with the eastern half. Memories die hard in Fork County.
The Crusader is a good, solid, small-town newspaper.
Whitfield had, until recently, a radio station. The airwaves would alternate painfully between the nasal honkings of country music and the primal gruntings of the newly discovered rock and roll.
Sam, a lover of the classics, did not listen to the local station. It was not that Sam did not like some country and some rock and roll; for some reason, listening to the local station made him very nervous. He assumed it was only his imagination and thought no more of it.