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As he left Tanya’s house one word pounded through Saverin’s brain. Mine.

He shot past the high school where he’d led the Florin Buffaloes to State Finals, beating their Goldsville rivals for the first time in half a century. Past the Millpond, Red Oak Holler, and all the other places he knew like the back of his hand.

I still have her panties…

A doe froze in his headlights. Saverin braked, letting her cross. Instinct made him pause. Sure enough a white-dappled fawn came out of the thicket and bolted after its mother into the trees. He drove slower after that.

He wasn’t supposed to want her. Somebody like her.

But what did that mean? Somebody like her…

Those words belonged to the old Saverin; the new man understood that nothing in his life was now certain. Maybe the ideas he’d held for so long were just delusions. Lies.

He’d stolen something from Tanya, actually. It was a book he’d seen once at his high school library before it was removed. The english teacher Mrs. Hartleby made a big fuss about that, and there was drama, and then Mrs. Hartleby resigned. Somebody taped a piece of paper that said GO HOME YANKEE on her blackboard and Saverin agreed she should go home, though it did feel bad to see Mrs. Hartleby taking down her maps and putting away her picture books of places like Africa and India and China. She had tried to hide a box of books in the library but the vice principal found out and was making her remove it.

“They’ll never change,” Saverin heard her muttering as she was stuffing the books somewhat violently into the box. Her fluffy hair was in a mess and her glasses were tilted on her face which was then streaked with tears. Walking past, he picked up one of the books that had fallen from the box. Roots by Alex Hayley. The cover was strange and ripped in the corner.

It was kind of nuts, the idea that a book could be so dangerous it had to be removed for everybody’s safety. And Saverin knew the book in his hands would change his life if he read it. But his friends were waiting so he handed it to Mrs. Hartleby.

“Thank you, Saverin,” was all she said.

And he hadn’t thought about Mrs. Hartleby or the book since, until he saw it sitting on Tanya’s shelf.

The same damned book.

With the rip in the corner.

She could never go back to the Turnkey. Nobody was going to touch her again.

Breaking in, putting a knife on her tits and ordering her to spread her legs had nearly lost her. His rage had been senseless. He was going to do anything to get her. There was nothing he was not capable of, when it came to Tanya.

But there was that thing…

Her race.

Back home Saverin found himself restless and awake. If he laid down he thought of Tanya. His cock went hard, his pleasure dammed up from earlier and nearly painful. He kneaded at himself through his jeans. I should have had her tonight…But better to wait.

Up and down he paced the room where he slept, touching himself, thinking of Tanya…Who, as it turned out, lived three miles down the trails in Bailey forest.

He could be back there tonight. Break the lock. Hold her in the darkness. Promise her anything just to have her arms around him again, stroking his hair.

To be inside her.

These thoughts of Tanya only grew more dangerous the longer he indulged them. So he did the best thing to stop thinking of Tanya, which to start thinking about Sam.

It was the third time he’d been in Sam’s room since the funeral. Things that crawled and scurried were establishing themselves here now but he could remember a time when Sam’s corner of the house had been full of life. He and Sam would thunder down these halls playing Cowboys and Indians, chased by Fang. Or when they had played darts with Roman and Rebel and Rain—Rebel won— waking up their Ma, who had a headache, and chased them all with the switch.

The room still appeared as if his brother had gone hunting and would be back any minute. But it had no air, like a tomb. Saverin loaded an apple box with books from his brother’s shelf and then carried the whole lot to his study.

The books had names like Our Noble South and Diary of a Confederate . Some were very old.

Saverin settled into the easy chair built to accommodate men of his large-boned lineage, and picked the shortest read in the pile of Sam’s books. He turned it over and then set it down.

He picked up Tanya’s book and opened it, reading all through the night until a rosy dawn lit up the sky.

He didn’t sleep. He showered, shaved, and dressed. For breakfast he had coffee and a reheated biscuit. The urge to call Tanya was overwhelming. He repressed it. She would think him crazy, calling her up at the crack of dawn to rave about a book.

He had a mission that morning anyway. Saverin drove an hour down the mountain. He parked outside the Rowanville police station. Here his Uncle Hans had served as Chief for thirty years. While he waited to speak to the Lead Detective the pretty secretary brought him coffee.

She was the type he might have gone for before his accident. Blonde, curvy, sweet. Oversweet, maybe. He caught her looking sideways at his scars, trying to see if he was still attractive.

He didn’t have to wait long for the Detective.

“Mister Bailey?”

Saverins stood up and looked down at a short, plump man with combed-back hair and a shirt buttoned tightly over his rotund middle.

“Detective Skipper is the name,” the man introduced himself. “I’m told your Uncle was our former Chief?”

“Yes, Detective. He was. Thank you for meeting with me; I assure you I won’t be long,” said Saverin politely. The man had a lazy, wandering look that didn’t bode well.

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to know how you’re progressing on Amari Weaver’s case,” Saverin asked the detective bluntly.

The Detective blinked. “Who?”

Saverin held out a newspaper clipping. He hadn’t expected much to begin with. But it jogged the detective’s memory, anyhow.

“I’m very sorry, Mister Bailey. We don’t speak with civilians on ongoing cases,” was the canned reply.

“But is there progress?”

“Of course not.” The detective chuckled.

“Why not?”

“If I had a dime for every little nigger boy that went missing — ”

“Every what?” Saverin said in a tone that made the fat little man jump.

“The –- you know. Them. I don’t lose sleep over those cases, Mister Bailey. The woman can always make more. Those people breed like rabbits.”

“Would you show me the case files?”

“Ah, we don’t let civilians…”

“Ah, but I have a personal interest in seeing this case resolved.”

The detective saw the glint in Saverin’s eye and turned the color of a plum. “I don’t want trouble with the McCalls,” he wavered.

“I would hate that for both of us,” agreed Saverin.

“You…you know something about this case?” The detective asked, stepping out of Saverin’s reach.

“The mother is a friend of mine.”

“I hope you don’t mean…Well. I suppose one look wouldn’t hurt. I suppose your Uncle was the Chief…Hmph…”

Ignoring the man’s strange look, Saverin followed him into his office. The precinct had been renovated since the last time he was here. The new trucks in the parking lot, the desks, the fixtures, the furniture, the windows and the new gymnasium downstairs had not come cheap.

“So you just don’t investigate for the Black kids?” He asked point blank as he inspected the office, which was the strangest room he had ever stepped into. It was damn near a shrine to Robert E. Lee.

“Not really,” said the detective. “Like I told you, I’ve got better things to do.”

“What about an Amber Alert?” Saverin probed, powering through a very ugly truth and the sudden urge to take the man by the throat.

“What for? Look, I know it sounds harsh,” said the detective, rifling through his cabinet. “But be honest. Do these people add any value to our society? I say the sooner they wipe themselves out the better.”

“You talk like they’re animals.”

“Aren’t they?” The detective laughed. “You’ve seen how they live. I hear you have a colony of them up in those hills. I remember in your Uncle’s time, he — oh, here it is.”

“Thank you,” said Saverin, knowing he had to get out of the man’s presence before he did something regrettable. His hand shook as he took the file he was handed. The detective frowned. “Alright, Bailey?”

Ignoring him, Saverin opened the very thin folder that determined whether Tanya would ever see her baby son alive again. He read it all in thirty seconds.

“Are there missing pages?” He asked, setting it down on the desk.

“No, that’s all,” said the detective.

“Thank you,” said Saverin. “What is that book over there?”

“That?” The detective perked up. “You have a good eye. That Bible belonged to Jefferson Davis himself.” He paused, letting the fact impress on Saverin. The first and only president of the Confederacy was a hero among many southern whites. The detective brought Saverin the Bible proudly. “You won’t believe what I had to do to get it. Scoured every inch of Kentucky— Lord have mercy, it was the search of a lifetime.”

“Can I see it?”

“Certainly. Be careful with the cover, mind. Let’s just say I went to great lengths to pay very little for it.” Chuckling, the man handed it to Saverin.

Saverin’s hands closed around the ancient book, its crusty leather cover as rough as the skin on his face. He’d encountered enough confederate memorabilia in his life to know the value of things. Sure enough the Bible bore Jefferson Davis’s signature and that of his first wife, Sarah Taylor. Saverin’s eyebrows lifted. That alone made it worth a fortune. He tucked the relic carefully under his arm.

It was almost amusing to see the look of stricken horror cross the detective’s face as he realized his mistake. “Give that back here, Bailey,” he said quickly.

“I need leads. Information.” Saverin’s voice held no quarter. “Until then I’ll hang onto it for you.”

“You can’t do that— it’s theft!”

“Call it insurance,” suggested Saverin.

“It was the grandmother that done it,” the detective seethed. “You want your kidnapper? Start there! She’s the one who took the kid— look to her.”

I knew it , Saverin thought. Out loud he offered his thanks, and he even tipped his hat. “Thanks for your assistance, detective. Rest easy, I’ll take good care of old Jefferson’s Bible.”

“You damn well had better,” the detective swore, shaking in a red rage. “I’m tired of you McCalls pushing us all around— your day is coming, just like Roman’s! Mark my words!”

But Saverin doubted it.