On a peaceful August morning in 1985, FBI agents led a raid on a farm outside Rub, Nebraska. The FBI had been watching the farm for weeks. Through their surveillance and intelligence gathering, they learned that the farm was occupied by a small group of white supremacists and that two people had been murdered and buried on the farm. In Evil Harvest, Rod Colvin recreates a chilling story of torture, hate, and perversion and how otherwise common men and women had been pulled into a destructive religious cult a cult that committed unthinkable acts... all in the name of God. , A dramatic glimpse into the mad world of a divine-right cult leader and mass murderer. Colvin (Prescription Drug Abuse, not reviewed) was a broadcast journalist in Nebraska when the shocking story broke. He opens with the FBI's 1985 raid on a Nebraska farm. The ramshackle commune was raising nothing but white supremacy and a survivalist, charismatic Christian cult, and the officers unearthed two victims of apocalyptical holy man Mike Ryan. Colvin's intimate research and dramatic writing offer preDavid Koresh insights into the later dynamics of the Branch Davidian and Aryan Nation phenomena. He brings us to neo-Nazi meetings of the Midwest farmers who blame foreclosures on the Satanic Jews running Washington and the world's economy. Truth and logic are no match for the fearful anger of the white Christian. Twisted gospels prove non-whites are ``an impure race . . . Jesus came for the true Israelites, the white Anglo-Saxons.'' The chosen delusion is fostered by Ryan's mentor, Rev. James Wickstrom, through paramilitary groups like the Posse Comitatus. Fortified by his Vietnam experiences, Ryan commits sadistic depravities on God's direct orders. Reading about his elaborate tortures requires a strong stomach. Enraged by paranoia, Ryan shoots one follower's fingertips off, skins him alive, then sends him to eternal hellfire: ``Ryan jumped on James' chest, stomping the life out of him.'' For good measure, the disciple is also raped with a shovel handle. Another victim is forced to fornicate with a goat. Finally, Ryan rapes a married woman to get God's grandson. Eight pages of photos display several of Ryans victims, some of the supplies the cult amassed for the Battle of Armageddon, and the bearded messiah before and after his sentencing to the electric chair. A frightening picture of what wacko, Waco-style cults have done and what Jim Jones wannabes could do in the coming millennial year. -- Copyright ©1999, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. Rod Colvin is also the author of numerous magazine articles and of First Heroes: The POWS Left Behind in Vietnam and Prescription Drug Addiction: The Hidden Epidemic . He lives in the Midwest. Evil Harvest The True Story of Cult Murder in the American Heartland By Rod Colvin Addicus Books, Inc. Copyright © 2000 Rod Colvin All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-886039-42-1 CHAPTER 1 The face of the town clock was weathered and faded. But from its position atop the spired tower on the corner of the town square, it still lent an air of respectability to the main street of Hiawatha, Kansas. It was 6:45 precisely; the clock kept perfect time. An evening breeze stirred the tall pines on the lawn of the Brown County Courthouse across the street. Two traffic lights flashed routinely, though the downtown area was empty except for the parked cars of a few diners stopping in for the buffet at Danny's Restaurant, on the east end of the block. It was a typical, quiet, small-town Sunday night. But on this May evening in 1982, at a community hall a couple of blocks off the main drag, the scene was different. "Look at that!" Mike Ryan exclaimed as he climbed out of the pickup truck and pointed to the cars parked on both sides of the brick-paved street. "They're backed up to the courthouse." His voice carried just a hint of drawl. Ryan crunched his 7UP can and tossed it on the floorboard. Ryan, his brother-in-law Steve Patterson, and Steve's dad, Maynard, were fifteen minutes early — the lecture was set for seven o'clock. It appeared the Reverend James Wickstrom, national head of the Posse Comitatus, would be drawing a full house tonight. Impressed, the three men entered the hall and walked down the aisle between rows of tan metal folding chairs. They took seats on the right, halfway back from the podium. As the minutes ticked away, more and more people filed into the auditorium, filling the seats. By seven o'clock, a number of people were standing up along the back wall. Once settled, Ryan glanced around at the people who had gathered there. Nearly all were farmers with weathered faces and thick, callused hands. Tonight, most had traded their bib overalls and blue jeans for pastel Western shirts with mother-of-pearl buttons, string ties, double knit dress slacks with black belts and large buckles. Their worn, scuffed work shoes had been replaced by polished Western boots. Ryan, a big, burly ma