"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."