Nell looped her hand through his arm, saying, “I like Sara.”
“I do, too,” he told her.
“I mean, I really like her, Jeffrey.”
He stopped, because she seldom called him “Jeffrey.”
She said, “If she’s giving you another chance, don’t fuck it up.”
“I don’t plan to.”
“I mean it, Slick,” she said, tugging him toward the store. “She’s too good for you, and God knows she’s too smart.” She waited at the door so he could open it. “Just don’t fuck it up.”
“Your faith in me is inspiring.”
“I just don’t want Little Jeffrey messing things up for you again.”
“‘Little?’” he repeated, opening the door. “Your memory giving out on you?”
Jeffrey could tell she was going to answer him, but Possum’s booming voice drowned out everything.
“That Slick?” Possum yelled as if Jeffrey had just gone out for a walk instead of been away for years. Jeffrey watched as the other man edged over the counter. His belly got in the way, but he landed on his feet despite the laws of physics.
“Damn,” Jeffrey told him, rubbing the other man’s large gut. “Nell, why didn’t you tell me you got another one on the way?”
Possum laughed good naturedly, rubbing his belly. “We’re gonna call it Bud if it’s a boy, Dewars if it’s a girl.” He put his arm around Jeffrey, leading him into the store. “How you been, boy?”
Without thinking, Jeffrey delivered his standard response. “I ain’t been a boy since I was your size.”
Possum laughed, throwing back his head. “Wish we had Spot around. How long you gonna be in town?”
“Not long,” Jeffrey told him. “I’m actually on my way out.” He turned around to see that Nell had left them alone.
“Good woman,” Possum said.
“I can’t believe she’s still with you.”
“I take away her keys at night before I go to sleep,” he told Jeffrey, giving him a wink. “Wanna beer?”
Jeffrey looked at the clock on the wall. “I usually don’t drink until at least noon.”
“Oh, right, right, right,” he answered. “How about a Co-Cola?” He scooped a couple out of an ice chest without waiting for a response.
“Hot out,” Jeffrey said.
“Yep,” Possum agreed, popping the bottles open on the side of the chest. “I guess you dropped by to ask me to keep an eye on your mama.”
“I’ve got a case back home,” he said, and it felt good that home meant Grant now. “If you don’t mind.”
“Shit,” he waved this off, handing Jeffrey a Coke. “Don’t worry about that. She’s still just right down the street.”
“Thanks,” Jeffrey said. He watched as Possum took a bag of peanuts off the rack and ripped it open with his teeth. He offered some to Jeffrey, but Jeffrey shook his head no.
“Damn shame her falling,” Possum said, funneling some peanuts into the open neck of his Coke bottle. “Been real hot lately. Guess she just got dizzy in this heat.”
Jeffrey took a swig of Coke. Possum was doing what he had always done, and that was covering for May Tolliver. Jerry Long didn’t just get his nickname from playing dead that day in Jeffrey’s backyard. If there was one thing Possum was good at, it was ignoring what was right in front of his face.
The heavy baseline from a rap song shook the front windows, and Jeffrey turned around in time to see a large burgundy colored pickup truck pull into a space in front of the store. Rap music blared, a cacophony of missed beats, before the engine was cut and a surly-looking teenager got out of the cab and walked into the store.
He was dressed in a shirt that matched the color of his truck, with the words ROLL TIDE emblazoned in white over a rampaging elephant. His hair was what got Jeffrey’s immediate attention, though. It was corn rowed with little crimson colored barrettes at the end, and they snapped against each other as he walked. The boy was wearing black-and-gray camouflage pants that were cut off at the knee, but his socks and sneakers were colored the Crimson Tide. Jeffrey realized with a start that the kid was dressed head to toe in the colors of Alabama University.
“Hey, Dad,” the boy said, meaning Possum.
Jeffrey exchanged a look with his friend, then turned back to the boy. “Jared?” he asked, certain this could not be Possum and Nell’s sweet little kid. He looked like a motorcycle thug dressed for an Alabama gang.
“Hey, Uncle Slick,” Jared mumbled, shuffling his feet across the floor. He walked right past Jeffrey and his father and into the room behind the counter.
“Man,” Jeffrey said. “That has got to be embarrassing.”
Possum nodded. “We’re hoping he changes his mind.” Possum shrugged. “He likes animals. Everybody knows Auburn’s got a better vet school than Alabama.”
Jeffrey kept his teeth clamped so he would not laugh.
“I’ll be back,” Possum said, going after the boy. “Help yourself to anything you want.”
Jeffrey finished his Coke in one swallow, then walked to the back of the store to see what kind of bait Possum had stocked. There were wire-meshed cages with crickets chirping up a storm as well as a large plastic barrel filled with wet dirt that probably had a thousand or so worms in it. A small tank of minnows was over the cricket stands, with a net and some buckets in which to transport the bait. Sara liked to fish, and Jeffrey thought about getting her some worms before he considered what a hassle it would be, taking live bait back in his car. He would probably have to stop outside of Atlanta for something to eat, and it wasn’t like Jeffrey could leave the worms to fry in the heat of his car. Besides, there were plenty of bait stands in Grant.
He dropped the empty Coke bottle into a box that looked like it was used for recycling and glanced out the window at the day-care center beside the store. Obviously, it was time for recess, and kids were running around, screaming their heads off. Jeffrey wondered if Jenny Weaver had ever felt that free. He could not imagine the overweight girl running around for any reason. She seemed more like the type to sit in the shade reading a book, waiting for the bell to ring so she could go back to class, where she felt more comfortable.
“You work here?” someone asked.
Jeffrey turned around, startled. A thirtyish-looking man was standing behind him at the bait display. He was what Jeffrey always thought of as a typical redneck: skinny and soft-looking with razor burns from shaving too close. His arms seemed to be well-developed, probably from working construction. A cigarette dangled from his lips.
“No,” Jeffrey said, feeling a little embarrassed to be caught staring so aimlessly out the window. “I was looking at the kids.”
“Yeah,” the man said, taking a step toward Jeffrey. “They’re usually out this time of day.”
“You got one over there?” Jeffrey asked.
The man gave him a strange look, as if to assess him. His hand went to his mouth, and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. With a start, Jeffrey noticed a tattoo on the webbing between the man’s thumb and index finger. It was the same tattoo Mark Patterson had on his hand.
Jeffrey turned away, trying to think this through. He stared out the window, and he could make out the man’s partial reflection in the glass.
“Nice tattoo,” Jeffrey said.
The man’s voice was a low, conspiratorial whisper. “You got one?”
Jeffrey kept his lips pressed together, shaking his head no.
“Why not?” the man asked.
Jeffrey said, “Work,” trying to keep his tone even. He had a bad feeling about this, like part of his mind was working something out, but not sharing it with him.
“Not many people know what it means,” the man said, fisting his hand. He looked at the tattoo on the webbing, a slight smile at his lips.
“I’ve seen it on a kid,” Jeffrey told him. “Not like them,” he nodded toward the day care. “Older.”
The man’s smile broke out wider. “You like ’em older?
”
Jeffrey looked back over the man’s shoulder to see where Possum was.
“He won’t come back for a while,” the man assured him. “That boy of his gets hisself into trouble most every day.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” the man said.
Jeffrey turned back to the window, looking at the children running around the yard in a different light. They no longer seemed young and carefree. They seemed vulnerable and in jeopardy.
The man took a step toward Jeffrey and used the hand with the tattoo to point out the window. “See that one there?” he asked. “Little one with the book?”
Jeffrey followed the man’s direction and found a little girl sitting under the tree in the middle of the yard. She was reading a book, much the way Jeffrey had imagined Jenny Weaver would.
The man said, “That one’s mine.”
Jeffrey felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The way the man said the words made it clear he was not referring to the girl as his daughter. There was something proprietary to his tone, and under that, something unmistakably sexual.
The man said, “You can’t tell from this far, but up close, she’s got herself the prettiest little mouth.”
Jeffrey turned around slowly, trying to hide his disgust. He said, “Why don’t we go somewhere else where we can talk about this?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with here?”
“Here makes me nervous,” Jeffrey said, making himself smile.
The man stared at him for a long while, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Yeah, okay,” he said, and he started walking toward the door, tossing a look over his shoulder about every five feet to make sure Jeffrey was still there.
Behind the building, the man started to turn, but Jeffrey kicked him in the back of his knees so that he fell to the ground.
“Oh, Jesus,” the man said, pulling himself into a ball.
“Shut up,” Jeffrey ordered, raising his foot. He kicked the man in the thigh hard enough to let him know there was no use trying to stand.
The man just stayed there, curled into a ball, waiting for Jeffrey to beat him. There was something at once pathetic and disgusting about his behavior, as if he understood why someone might want to do this, and was accepting his punishment.
Jeffrey looked around, making sure no one could see him. He wanted to do this man some serious harm for threatening the child, but part of his resolve was lost when faced with the pathetic, whimpering lump lying on the ground in front of him. It was one thing to kick the shit out of somebody who fought back, quite another to harm what was basically a defenseless man.
“Stand up,” Jeffrey said.
The man looked out between his crossed arms, trying to gauge if this was a trick. When Jeffrey took a step back, the man slowly uncurled himself and stood. Dust kicked up around them, and Jeffrey coughed to clear his throat.
“What do you want?” the man asked, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. They were crushed, and the one he put in his mouth bent at an angle. His hands shook as he tried to light the tip.
Jeffrey fought the urge to slap the cigarette out of his mouth. “What’s that tattoo for?”
The man shrugged, some surliness slipping into his posture.
Jeffrey asked, “Is that for some kind of club you’re in?”
“Yeah, the freak club,” the man said. “The club that likes little girls. That what you’re going after?”
“So, other people have this?”
“I dunno,” he said. “I don’t got no names, if that’s what you want. It’s from the Internet. We’re all anonymous.”
Jeffrey hissed a sigh. Among other things, the Internet fed child molesters and pedophiles, linking them together to share stories, fantasies, and sometimes children. Jeffrey had taken a law enforcement class on this very thing. There had been some spectacular busts in recent history, but even the FBI could not work fast enough to track down these people.
“What does it stand for?” Jeffrey asked.
The man gave him a hard look. “What the fuck you think it stands for?”
“Tell me,” Jeffrey said through clenched teeth, “unless you want to be back on that ground trying to figure out why your intestines are coming out of your asshole.”
The man nodded, taking a drag on the cigarette. He blew smoke out through his mouth and nose in a slow stream.
“The heart,” the man began, pointing to his hand. “The big heart is black.”
Jeffrey nodded.
“But, inside, there’s this little heart, right?” The man looked at the tattoo with something like love in his eyes. “The little heart is white. It’s pure.”
“Pure?” Jeffrey asked, remembering that word from somewhere. “What do you mean, pure?”
“Like a child is pure, man.” He allowed a smile. “The white heart makes just a little part of the black heart pure, you know? It’s love, man. It’s nothing but love.”
Jeffrey tried to do something with his hands other than beat the man into the ground. He held out his palm, saying, “Give me your wallet.”
The man did not hesitate to do as he was told, nor did he protest when Jeffrey took a small spiral notebook out of his pocket and recorded the information.
“Here,” Jeffrey said, throwing the wallet so hard at the man that it popped off his chest before he could catch it. “I’ve got your name now, and your address. You ever come back in this store again, or even think about hanging around that day care, my friend in there will beat the shit out of you.” Jeffrey waited a beat. “You understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, his eyes on the ground.
“What’s this Web site?” he asked.
The man kept staring at the ground. Jeffrey started to take a step toward him, but the man backed up, holding up his hands.
“It’s a girl-lovers newsgroup,” he said. “It moves around sometimes. You gotta search for it.”
Jeffrey wrote down the phrase, though he was familiar with it from the class.
The man took another drag on his cigarette, holding the smoke in for a second. He finally let it go, asking, “That all?”
“That kid,” Jeffrey began, trying to keep his composure. “You ever hurt that kid…”
The man said, “I’ve never even been with one, okay? I just like looking.” He kicked at a rock with his shoe. “They’re just so sweet, you know? I mean, how could you hurt something that was so sweet?”
Without thinking, Jeffrey slammed his fist into the man’s mouth. A tooth went flying, followed by a stream of blood. The man dropped to the ground again, prepared to take a beating.
Jeffrey walked back to the store, a sickening feeling washing over him.
9
ROBERT E. LEE High School was what locals called a “super school.” This meant that the building was designed to house about fifteen hundred students from the three cities comprising Grant County. As it was, the school was still not large enough, and temporary classrooms—what other people called trailers—were in the back of the building, taking over the baseball field. Grades nine through twelve were offered here, while two middle schools served as feeders for Lee. There were four assistant principals and one principal, George Clay, a man who from all accounts spent most of his time behind his desk pushing paperwork for the governor’s innovative new education program—a plan that made sure teachers spent more time filling out forms and attending certification classes than actually teaching kids.
Brad fiddled with his hat as they walked down the hallway, his police-issue sneakers thumping against the floor. Without thinking, Lena had started to count his steps as they walked up the locker-lined corridor. The place was institutional in its ambiguity, with its bright-white tile floor and muted cement-block walls. To match the school’s colors, the lockers were painted a dark red, the walls a darker gray. There were posters cheering the Rebels to victory on every available blank space, but this served more to clutter than to enc
ourage. Bulletin boards urged students to say no to drugs, cigarettes, and sex.
“It seems so small,” Brad said, his voice a hushed whisper.
Lena did not roll her eyes at this, though it was hard. Since they had talked to George Clay, Brad had been acting like a high school freshman instead of a cop. Brad even looked the part, with his round face and wispy blond hair that seemed to fall into his eyes every three seconds.
“This is Miss Mac’s room,” he said, indicating a closed door. He glanced through the window as they passed by. “She taught me English,” he said, pushing back his hair.
“Hmm,” Lena answered, not looking.
All the doors on the hall were closed between classes, and all of them were locked. Like most rural schools, Lee had taken precautions against intruders. Teachers walked the hallways, and there were two officers, what Jeffrey called “deputy dogs,” in the front office in case anything bad went down. As a patrolman, Lena had been called to the school more than her share of times to arrest drug dealers and brawlers. In her experience, perps picked up from school were a hell of a lot harder to deal with than their adult counterparts. Habitual juvenile offenders knew the laws governing their arrests better than most cops, and there was no fear in them anymore.
“Things have changed so much,” Brad said, echoing her thoughts. “I don’t know how the teachers do it.”
“The same way we do,” Lena snapped, wanting to cut off the conversation. She had never liked school and was not comfortable being here. Actually, since her interrogation of Mark Patterson, Lena had felt off. She was experiencing an odd mixture of self-assurance from being able to connect with the kid and an unsettling feeling that she had connected too closely. Worst of all, Jeffrey seemed to have picked up on this, too.
“Here we go,” Brad said, stopping in front of Jenny Weaver’s locker. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and started to unfold it, saying, “The combination is—” as Lena hooked her thumb under the latch and popped the locker open.
“How’d you do that?” Brad asked.
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