He hauled the guy up by his collar. It was a local kid, barely twenty, with terrified eyes.
“Mr. Mike, please! They made me do it!”
“Who?”
“Butch’s right-hand man, ‘Lefty.’ He said if I didn’t light it, they’d break my legs.”
Mike shoved him away with disgust.
“Run home. Tell Lefty I’m coming for him next.”
The fire was out, but the line had been crossed. They’d tried to burn the house while his mother slept. This was no longer a dispute; it was a war.
The morning after the attempted arson was overcast. A heavy grey sky hung over Clear Creek like a lead weight. The smell of charred wood still lingered in the yard, a bitter reminder that the threat was real.
Mike hadn’t slept. He sat at the kitchen table, listening to the house, his eyes fixed on the tree line. He knew that simply chasing off a few punks wasn’t enough. Butch’s operation was like a weed; you had to pull it out by the root, or it would just grow back meaner.
Around noon, a dusty Sheriff’s cruiser pulled up. A heavy-set man in a faded uniform climbed out. It was Deputy Nick. His face was weathered and his eyes looked exhausted, like a man who had stopped believing in his badge a long time ago.
Mike remembered him from years back. Nick had been a decent guy once. Now, he looked broken.
“Morning, Mike,” the deputy muttered, avoiding eye contact. He fidgeted with his hat.
“Morning, Nick. What brings you out here?” Mike’s voice was steady, but hard.
“Heard there was some trouble,” Nick said, looking at the scorched side of the shed. “People are saying you had a run-in with Butch Miller’s associates.”
“Butch Miller?” Mike repeated with a cold smile. “You mean the guy extorting the elderly? His boys tried to burn my mother’s house down last night. You here to take a report, Nick? Attempted arson and extortion?”
Nick looked at his boots. He sighed, the sound of a man who had given up.
“Mike, don’t make this harder. You’ve been away. Things have changed. I can take a report, but it won’t go anywhere. No witnesses, no evidence. But I do have a complaint on my desk against you. Assault and battery. Two guys are in the clinic with broken ribs and a messed-up wrist. That’s a felony, Mike.”
“They were trespassing and threatening my mother. That’s self-defense.”
“Tell it to a judge,” Nick said tiredly. “Look, Mike, I liked your dad. I don’t want to see you go back to the pen. Butch has friends in the county seat. He’s got the lawyers and the leverage. My advice? Pack up. Take your mom and head to the city. If you stay, you’re either going back to jail or ending up in a ditch. Butch has thirty guys on his payroll. They’re all armed, and they don’t have a conscience.”
Mike leaned against the porch railing and looked the deputy in the eye.
“So that’s the deal? The law protects the criminals now?”
