The majority of tarantulas were gentle giants. The T. blondi, on the other hand, was famous for its bad attitude, with a bite capable of costing the unwary collector a finger, or even a hand.

He could feel the spider watching him late at night. Had watched it in turn as it roamed its new home, delicately tapping on the glass as if testing for possible weaknesses. He had the impression of a wild, churning intelligence. The spider was studying, waiting, plotting.

If the man presented the opportunity, the tarantula would strike.

The man bent over now, studying the dark mottled spider, crouched in the far corner of its cage.

“Hey,” the man said. “Want a mouse?”

He dangled the dead white mouse, waited to see what the spider would do. A few legs arched out, tested the air.

“Here’s the deal,” the man said. “Behave, get breakfast. Attack, and starve. Got it?”

He waited a heartbeat more. When the tarantula did not rush the glass, or rear up in a hostile display, the man straightened, put his hand on the top of the weighted mesh-screen lid and readied himself.

One, two, three. He popped up the corner, dropped the mouse, and watched as ten inches of tarantula sprang from the corner and caught the corpse midair. Both dead mouse and spider landed with a thud, the mottled dark body already wrapped fiercely around its new treasure. Then the tarantula’s head came up, fangs exposed…

The man dropped the top more hastily than he intended, falling back.

He caught himself at the last minute, steadying his pulse, eyeing the T. blondi with fresh respect.

He rapped a knuckle against the glass.

“Welcome to the collection,” he said, then, feeling that he’d had the last word on the subject, sauntered downstairs.

Boy was in the living room, playing video games. Boy was always holding a remote, eyes glazed over, sullen look on his face. Teenagers.

The man watched him from the doorway, contemplating.

Time was winding down now. A week, maybe more. It surprised him to feel a rush of nostalgia, a teacher for a student, a father for a son.

He walked in the room, shut off the TV. Boy opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. The boy hunkered down, waiting.

“Can’t you say good morning?” the man demanded, standing next to the sofa.

“Good morning.”

“Hell, think a few manners wouldn’t hurt. Haven’t I taught you anything?”

Boy looked up now, eyes hot, sulky. “I said good morning!”

“Yeah, but we both know you didn’t mean it.” The man backed off, making some calculations of his own. “You heard from her?” he asked abruptly.

Boy looked away. “Not yet.”

“Think she’ll do it?”

Boy shrugged.

“That’s about right,” the man agreed. “Nothin’ good ever came from trusting a woman. So, you gettin’ excited, boy? Come on, we’re talking graduation! That doesn’t happen every day.”

Boy shrugged again. The man wasn’t fooled.

He grinned, but it wasn’t a pleasant look on his face. “Tell me the truth, son. You think she loves you, don’t you? You and Ginny, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Gonna get married? Raise the baby? Live in a house with a white picket fence?” Man waved his hand. “Pretend none of this ever happened?”

Boy said nothing.

“I’ll tell you, son, I’ll tell you exactly what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna graduate, I’m gonna offer you a big hunk-o-cash, and you’re gonna want to throw it in my face. But you’ll swallow your pride. You’ll take my money. You’ll tell yourself you’re gonna pay it back later. When you’re what? Gainfully employed as a male hooker, a pimp, a drug runner? ’Cause, you know, elementary-school dropouts don’t exactly go to college, or qualify as electricians, or auto mechanics.

“But you haven’t figured that out yet. You think freedom is only days away and anything’s gotta be better than this.

“Yeah, I give you two months, tops. Then you’ll be living on the street, giving blow jobs for five dollars a pop to dirty old men, or shooting anything you can find into your veins. And you’ll start to wonder. Was it really so bad here? Big ol’ house. Free food. Video games. Cable TV.

“I treated you right, boy. You’ll find out soon enough. I treated you good.”

The man headed toward the kitchen. Time for breakfast, then he needed to sit his sorry ass down in front of the computer. Cash reserves were getting low. Had to do some work.

At the last moment, however, the boy spoke up.

“How much?” the boy asked from the sofa, clearing his throat. “How much cash?”

“Why? Why do you care? You gotta graduate first.”

“I want to know,” the boy said. He had that look about him again, eyes flat, watchful. Like the T. blondi upstairs. The boy was growing up. He was also now one inch taller than the man and they both knew it. “I want to know,” the boy said, “exactly how much my life is worth.”

The man considered the matter. He turned on his heel, returning to the sofa, and was rewarded by watching the boy brace himself, as if preparing for a blow. But the man didn’t strike out. Instead, he leaned down. He said the words almost tenderly, whispering them next to the boy’s ear. “Dipshit, you ain’t worth the broken condom your parents used the night you were conceived. But I’ll take pity on you. I’ll give you a hundred bucks. Ten dollars for each year of service. Be grateful.”

Boy looked at him. “I want ten thousand.”

“Honey, you weren’t that good a fuck.”

“I want ten thousand,” the boy insisted again, and the very emptiness of his eyes spooked the man a little, tingled the fine hairs on the back of his neck, though he was careful not to show it.

He regarded the boy thoughtfully. “Ten grand? You’re serious?”

“I deserve it.”

The man laughed abruptly, ruffling the boy’s hair. “You want some extra money, son? Then you’d better earn it. Let me tell you about this new spider I got upstairs…”

“THERE ARE THIRTY-FIVE THOUSAND KNOWN SPECIES of spiders in the world,” Sal was saying. “According to what I read, experts believe that’s only one-fifth of the total. Better yet, they are the most popular ‘nontraditional’ pet in the United States. Jeez, and I thought all the freaks collected pythons.”

“Pythons grow too big,” Kimberly informed him. “Wind up released in the Florida Everglades, where they’re devouring everything that moves. I don’t think the alligators are very happy about it.”

Sal and Kimberly were sitting inside the cargo area of a white van, vaguely disguised to appear like a utility vehicle, while actually belonging to GBI’s tech department. It was night four of operation Fly Trap. Ginny was somewhere inside the Foxy Lady, wired up and waiting to see if Dinchara would show. Sal and Kimberly were holding down the fort in the tech van, floor littered with empty coffee cups (Sal) and water bottles (Kimberly). Assisting them was an audio technician, Greg Moffatt, and an undercover female special agent, Jackie Sparks. Moffatt sat way in the back, watching a glowing panel of audio bars while mumbling a litany of technical jargon only he could understand. Sparks, playing the role of a girl who just wanted to have fun, was somewhere in the club, keeping tabs on Ginny.

Ginny knew about Moffatt, but not about Sparks. Just because Ginny was risking her life by wearing a wire, after all, was no reason to tell her everything. They’d gone over the audio setup. They’d devised a cover story. They’d turned her loose.