* * *
Waycross, Georgia
“You signed us up for what?” Rodney Walker asked his brother.
Dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants, his long hair still damp from the shower, it felt great to be home, eating breakfast off his kitchen table, for a while. He inhaled the aroma of black coffee, hoping to erase too little sleep and the hangover from last night’s post-performance party.
Jack dug into his ham and eggs. “It’s just a little rally about a statue.”
“Just a little rally about a statue?” Rodney repeated as he stared at the picturesque yard of their Georgia estate. “We’re musicians, not protesters. We do concerts—where we get paid for our hard work.”
“Our biggest fans are Southerners,” Jack pointed out. “Doing these kinds of events will increase our fan base.”
“We’re popular all over the country and overseas,” Rodney argued. “Showing up at a rally will be like taking sides. We’d probably lose as many fans as we’d gain.”
A doe ambled across the lawn.
“No, we won’t.” Jack’s eyes narrowed as if lining it up in his sights. “We’re Southern, aren’t we? We have to stand up for what’s right so our fans know we’re serious. Otherwise, people will think we just swish that red flag around for show.”
Rodney set down his coffee mug. “We are not displaying the Confederate flag at a rally. It would be like waving a red cape before a bull.”
“It’s a good thing Daddy isn’t here to hear you say that.”
“We show the flag because we’re proud to be from the South.” Rodney pushed away his breakfast plate. “Because we’re rebels and don’t like to be told what to do. Because we like the country, huntin’, fishin’, and kicking back at a family barbecue.”
“Yeah, so?”
Rodney inhaled the tangy aroma of the nearby swamp and a trace of hickory smoke—the smells of home—wishing everything could be so simple.
“At a racial rally, people will interpret ol’ Dixie as a symbol of hate,” he pointed out. “With all the conflict going on lately, the country is practically on the verge of another Civil War.”
Jack shrugged, calmly buttering his biscuit while the deer scampered away.
“Don’t make me sorry I gave you authority to sign us up for gigs,” Rodney said, folding his arms. “Because I can take it away again just as fast.”
The arrangement gave him more time to focus on what he loved most—the music. Besides, his younger brother had a better head for business. He could even be cutthroat when needed. Like the time when that booking agent had tried to cheat them. Crazy Jack had threatened to burn down the whole stadium.
“You won’t be sorry, bro’. You know how the music industry is these days. We have to keep our brand strong.”
Rodney couldn’t argue. Competition in the arts had gotten ridiculously fierce. With all the music downloading and sharing, a band was hard put to eke out a living, much less make it big.
“If violence breaks out, it’ll blemish our precious brand. Have you thought of that?”
That was the problem with Jack. He didn’t stop to think about anything. Just rushed in like a damn fool. They’d always looked similar to each other, but the resemblance ended there. Growing up, his brother was always the first one to get into trouble. In school, at least, his cunning usually allowed him to weasel out of it.
He’d even go so far as to say Jack had a dark side.
“So, when is this little shindig?” Rodney asked with a weary sigh.
“Tomorrow.”
Rodney stood so fast, his plate clattered. “What? I thought we were going to rest up before the tour. Do some fishing.”
“We can fish today.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he grumbled. “I’ll get the boat ready.”
As Rodney left the table, wheels turned in his mind. Maybe they could use the rally as a platform for peace. Until, someday, there’d be no more need for rallies. Truth was, the rock-star life was wearing a little thin around the edges. For him, at least. The rest of the band never seemed to tire of the fame, money, and constant excitement of touring. Jack’s harebrained idea had forced him to think about something he rarely paid much mind to—society.
He’d assumed the intense thrill of hitting it big would last forever, but he was getting tired of it. Hell, he was tired, period. Not bouncing back from the heavy drinking as quickly as he used to. Take this morning’s headache, for instance. The two aspirin he’d popped hadn’t killed it yet, and he’d probably feel sluggish all day.
And they’d woken up so damn late, the fish would be hanging out somewhere else.
But, to do something meaningful with their music. The thought of it put a little kick in his step, which the caffeine from his coffee failed to do.
Oh, Jack. If you only knew what you’ve started…
Chapter Two
Culpeper, VA
“I can’t believe I’m at a protest, with my parents, no less,” Dee said as she picked up her picket sign.
“Just because they’re here doesn’t mean we need to hang out with them.” Rhonda eyed her up and down. “Why in the hell did you wear a skirt? This is a protest, not a courtroom.”
Dee laughed as she glanced down at her violet-colored skirt. “Well, excuse me for not knowing the dress code. It’s my first rally.”
And, depending on how it turned out, it might be her last. Her stomach already felt tied up in knots. Why, again, had she been so restless lately? Now, she just felt scared.
As long as she didn’t have to wear pantyhose and high heels, like she did at work, she didn’t feel dressed up. Rhonda wore a hot-pink T-shirt, camouflage cargo pants, and Converse sneakers. With her hair skinned back and dark glasses, she looked plenty tough enough to be here.
“If things get bad, I’ll hide behind you, okay?” Dee joked.
“Go ahead, but you’re taller than me, remember?”
The site was a shopping center with a vast parking lot. They stood on one side of the library. Its creepy statue looked even worse in
