Page 33 of Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Book
“No, you don’t,” Jeb said. “Every firefighter carries Narcan these days. More often than not, we’re the first ones to respond to medical emergencies, so I see a lot of junkies. Last one was twenty-four years old. Good kid. Injured his knee playing football first year of college. Coach got thedoctor to give him Oxy. Told him it was totally safe. When the season ended, he couldn’t stop taking it. And when the prescription ran out, he turned to heroin. He died, in case you were wondering. We got there too late to save him.”
“That’s too bad. Maybe his people should have done more to help him.”
“His people? The kid was white, not that it matters, you ignorant ass. Opioids are equal-opportunity killers. I’ve seen people of every description taken down. By the way, if you’re really interested in helping the state of Georgia, you should know that forty percent of us ain’t white.”
“I only need fifty-one percent to win.”
“Welp,” Jeb said. Once again, he’d tried to get his brother to act decent and he’d failed miserably. “If that’s how you see it, I’m afraid I won’t be one of them.”
Mitch laughed hard. “I didn’t come here for your vote, you woke-ass motherfucker. I came here to tell you to stop tormenting Lula Dean.”
“BytormentingLula Dean, you mean protesting her book bans? Aside from the fact that people should be free to read whatever they like, can’t you see how fuckingstupidthis shit makes us look? Weren’t you the one who used to bitch and moan about Southerners being typecast? She’s just proving those assholes right. The rest of the world thinks we’re all Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel.”
Mitch sighed. “I see I haven’t made myself clear,” he said, adjusting his waistband. “What I meant to say is stop making your cute little signs or I’ll sell the farm.”
Mitch had him pinned. There was nothing left to do now but say uncle. That was how it had always worked for the two of them. Older by five years, Mitch had used his size advantage to whup his little brother on a regular basis for fourteen years. For another two years after that, he’d relied on his willingness to cheat.
Now he’d done it again. When their mother passed, she’d left the family farm to the both of them. Mitch had already been in LA for years. Jeb was newly married and just out of vet school. He wanted to live on the farm,but he couldn’t afford the upkeep. Mitch bought Jeb out and let him stay on as caretaker. Since then, Jeb had offered a thousand times to buy it, but Mitch had told him it wasn’t necessary. The farm would always stay in the family. After all, Mitch’s only heirs were his niece and nephew. It was a lie, of course. Mitch didn’t give a fuck about the farm. It had never been anything to him but leverage.
“So you’re joining forces with Lula Dean?” There was no point in arguing. Mitch had Jeb’s balls in a vise and he wasn’t afraid to squeeze.
“Yep. I’m all about protecting kids from communist pedo predators.”
“You know Lula doesn’t care about any of that. She only wants the attention. She’d let this whole town burn to the ground if it got her on the goddamned news.”
“Long as I get what I’m after, I’ll strike the damn match.”
Jeb nodded. “At least you’re honest. You planning to stay here on the farm while you’re in town?”
Mitch seemed amused by the suggestion. “No offense, but the farm’s a bit rustic for my taste. A fan saw I was coming and offered to set me up in his swanky guesthouse.” Mitch checked his watch. “Matter of fact, I need to get moving. I told him I’d be there by five.”
“I’ll walk you back to your truck,” Jeb said, half-heartedly wondering if the local cops were capable of solving a homicide—and if the feral hogs out back were up for eating a body.
“So who’s this fan of yours?” he asked. “You sure this isn’t going to end up one of thoseMiserysituations?”
“Name’s Walsh.”
Jeb stopped. “Logan Walsh? Lives out on Holcombe Road?”
“That’s the one.” Mitch kept going.
“You don’t want to get involved with him and his friends.” Jeb hustled to catch up. “I know you talk tough, but those assholes are bad news.”
A month earlier, he’d been called out to Logan Walsh’s house to treat a sick horse. It wasn’t an unusual request. He made house calls all the time, and he’d known Logan years earlier when he was coach of the kid’s Little League team. Jeb remembered him as a shy boy with a great arm and a father with a penchant for punching umpires. The dad was a rich muckety-muck in the county—a state supreme court judge who sat in the same seat his father and grandfather had held. Jeb never got to know the man. He’d yanked Logan out of Little League after the umpire incident. About six years later, Jeb saw on the news that Judge Walsh had been killed in a tragic hunting accident. The bullet, which sailed straight through his neck and into a neighboring tree, had come from a gun fired by his only son. Jeb heard all the gossip about what had happened between the two Walshes that day, but he reserved judgment. And he didn’t lose a minute’s sleep over the older man’s passing.
Now Logan Walsh was in his mid-twenties, with a compound way out in the boonies. First things Jeb had seen as he made his way toward the barn were a fleet of ATVs, a fishing boat that inspired some serious envy, and a shooting range where the targets had celebrities’ faces pinned to them. Most of the faces belonged to liberal politicians. More than half were Black.
The sick horse would have died without medical intervention, so Jeb went ahead and treated it. Wasn’t the animal’s fault that a racist asshole owned it. When he’d finished working, Walsh had invited him inside to write him a check—and to show off the arsenal he kept behind glass in his den. That was nothing new. Pretty much everyone around Troy owned guns. Back then, Jeb didn’t know of anyone else who also collected Gestapo and SS flags.
“You live here by yourself?” Jeb remembered asking.
“For the moment,” Logan told him as he filled out a check for Jeb’s veterinary services. “I’m working on fixing that.”
“Not sure how many women would appreciate your style of decorating.”
Logan found that funny. “Any woman I invite here will know her place.”
Jeb pitied the woman naive enough to mistake a rich psychopath’s posturing for real strength.
