2 Chapter 2

Jack Deerson was a sensitive, caring man, at least that's what his wife called him. His family had roots in this town for over five generations, each patriarch was a law man, hence why Jack also decided to suit up and join the Sheriff's office as soon as he turned twenty-one. Things never got too out of hand, even with Sandstone valley being wedged between two large thriving cities. Eighteen years later, Jack was the Sheriff and running the Sandstone as he saw fit.

It not only takes a very analytical mind to keep the balance between safe citizens and Stockholm syndrome occupants but a strict sensible brain has to be equipped as well. Policing with an iron fist is a tactic that the previous Sheriff installed in an attempt to instill fear into the citizens which would result in compliance. The response to this law enforcing style was Sheriff Doyle being murdered in his home as he was restfully relieving his bowls for the third time in forty-five minutes. The bullet that killed him was dug from his spine, between the T2 and T3 vertebrate, and never seen again.

The neighboring city to the north, Newport, sent in two of their most decorated homicide detectives to lead the investigation and even they struggled with the precision and personal style to the Sheriff's murder. One of them even got sick in the Sandstone morgue, splattering his turkey on white brunch all over the porcelain protected floor.

The detective that was able to keep his lunch inside of his fat hairy body, I remember, can be quoted as saying, "Sweet good God damn, fuckers went through the front of his chest to get a bullet lodged in his back?" The savagery of it all was poetic, in a tragic Shakespearian way if you really roll it around between your ears for a bit. Detective barf didn't think so but he didn't seem too educated in the finer things of life.

The Sandstone was being regulated under Jack's watch. The squeaky wheel gets the grease and the one's that are too quiet might get a little lubed up as well. Balance was the goal and Jack was devoted to that institution. This is how a group of twenty-one (now twenty) men were able to come together, maintain the balance by any means necessary, and keep it as quiet as an elderly woman during prayer in church.

Before the incident and repercussions of last night, the group had never been larger. In that room, the conference room they shared with the rest of the Sandstone (including the Girl Scouts), they called themselves 'The Serial Team'.

Anyone, regardless of age, sex, creed, astrology sign, was subject to make it on the list of the team. If you choose to fight against the balance of the Sandstone, you have a made an unfortunate and irrevocable mistake. The end of your bloodline will know what it is to suffer for it's beliefs. Your Mother will weep at your funeral filling the air with deep bellowing groans. Even in her old age, she will rise up with a renewed insatiable desire to live, and she will leap onto your deep oak stained casket begging the lord for a few more days of agonizing life so that she may see the murderer brought to justice.

Nothing will give her the sweet relief she dreamt about but the capture of her child's killer. Sadly, that will not happen. No one will be pegged or suspected, charged or prosecuted, they were part of the Serial Team. Nothing in the Sandstone happens without the hands of balance grasping tight, the filthy blood riddled forty hands of the Serial Team.

The team is spread through the town. You know that chill you feel, the rushing of tingles that dance up your back? That's the team. The monster your child shrieks at in the middle of the night, the one that lived in the closet and only came out when it was dark? That's the team. They haunted the living and dead alike. The Sandstone must maintain it's balance, that was imperative.

Joining the team is the easy part, leaving the team on the other hand was impossible. That part was made very clear upon proposition. You may say that no one has ever turned down an invitation to join the Serial Team, no one still living that is.

The propositions were always voted on by the team. A majority rule was in effect with the final veto power resting at Jack's hands. When it was time to send the invite, three members of the team would accept the task at random, they drew names from an old sweat stained cowboy hat left by the former Sheriff. The trio would then split, two to the front, then one lurking in the darkness, just in case it went sideways.

Jack had been part of the invitation team for Pastor Smalls. Jonathan Ericson and Henry Bolden were the approaching duo. Jonathan was a long time member of the local congregation. The Pastor knew him well. Hell, he baptized the kid with the Lord's holy water when he was four weeks old. Henry was more of a pray before you go to bed but don't incumber yourself with hours long Sunday sessions in the stuffy mold harboring Sandstone Church. Why risk missing the kickoff for the big game?

Our hero Jack was the clean up man, just in case. There wouldn't have been a second thought, not a moment of hesitation, if the Pastor had refused he would have been removed from the Sandstone immediately and sent to meet the Lord whom he cherished deeply.

Once Pastor Smalls accepted the invitation, Jack emerged and welcome him, "Pastor, you know how much we care about this town. This is the Lord's work, his directive is to keep this town prosperous and fruitful."

With a nod of the head and a clasping of his hands, "Jack, I am prepared to do whatever is needed to protect the land the Lord has provided for us. Worry not my son, nothing takes precedence over worshipping the Sandstone which the Lord has blessed us with."

The trio welcomed the Pastor with open arms and ensured him that entering this brotherhood ensured the fact that the town would remain holy and sacred. Jack looked down into Pastor Smalls eyes, "Did you have anyone in mind Pastor?"

A slow growing smile painted across the face of Pastor Smalls, "As a matter of fact, I do."