Kisscut (15 page)

"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.

Chapter Nine

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 in-stitutional 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 encourage. 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.

"Only geeks use the combinations."

Brad blushed, but covered for it by taking things out of Jenny Weaver's locker. "Three textbooks," he said, handing them to Lena so she could thumb through the pages. "A notebook," he continued. "Two pencils and a pack of gum."

Lena peered into the narrow cabinet, thinking that Jenny Weaver was a lot neater than she had been. There weren't even pictures taped on to the inside. "That's all?" she asked, even though she could see for herself.

"That's all," Brad answered, going through the books Lena had already checked.

Lena opened the notebook, which had a puppy on the cover. There were six colored tabs, one for each period, dividing the paper into sections. Almost every page was filled, but as far as she could tell there were only class notes. Jenny Weaver had not even doodled on the edges.

"She must've been a good student," Lena said.

"She was thirteen and in the ninth grade."

"Is that unusual?"

"Just means she skipped a grade," Brad told her, stacking the books back in the locker the way they had found them. He checked the packet of gum to make sure it was just gum. "She sure was neat."

"Yeah," Lena agreed, handing Brad the notebook. She waited while he thumbed through it, looking for something she might have missed.

"She wrote real neat," Brad said in a sad voice.

"What'd you think of her on the retreat?"

Brad pushed his hair out of his eyes. "She was quiet. I hate to say that I barely noticed her, but the girls pretty much kept to themselves. Mrs. Gray was supposed to be there to help out with them, but she got sick at the last minute. I didn't want to disappoint everybody, and the deposits were nonrefundable…" He shook his head. "The boys were a handful. I had to spend most of my time looking after them."

"What about Jenny and Lacey?"

"Well…" Brad's forehead wrinkled as he thought. "They didn't do much, is the thing. The other kids skied and had fun. Jenny and Lacey kind of kept to themselves. They had their own room and I only really saw them around supper time."

"How'd they act?"

"Kind of like they had their own language. They'd look at me and giggle, you know, like girls do." He shifted uncomfortably, and Lena could see exactly why the girls had giggled. Brad probably knew as much about teenage girls as a goat did.

"They didn't act strange?"

"Stranger than giggling for no reason?"

"Brad…" Lena said. She stopped herself before she told him why the girls were laughing at him. Telling him they probably thought he was a dork would only make him pout, and Lena did not want to deal with that for the rest of the day.

He stared at her openly, waiting for her to finish.

"Just…" Lena began, then stopped again. "Did it seem like Jenny was sick?"

"That's what the chief asked," Brad said, and it seemed like he felt this was a compliment to Lena. "He asked a lot of questions about Jenny and how she looked, who she was hanging around with."

Lena closed the locker and indicated that they should continue walking. "So?"

"She didn't look sick to me," he said. "I mean, like I told you, they kept to themselves. They didn't seem to like the other kids. Honestly, I don't know why they went. They're not exactly part of that group."

"Meaning what?"

He shrugged. "Popular, I guess. I mean, Lacey could've been. She's real cute, like a cheerleader." He shook his head, as if he was still trying to figure it out. "Jenny definitely wasn't popular. I didn't catch anyone being mean to her-I would'a done something about that-but they didn't go out of their way to be nice to her, either."

"Weren't you supposed to be chaperoning them?"

He took this as it was meant, and immediately became defensive. "I watched them as best I could, but it was just me there, and the boys were getting into a lot more trouble than the girls."

Lena bit her tongue, wondering how someone as dense as Brad had gotten on the force.

"Here we go," Brad said, stopping in front of the library. He held the door open for Lena, something Brad's mama had taught him to do from an early age. Working with Frank, then Jeffrey, Lena was so used to men opening doors for her that she barely noticed it anymore.

The library was cool, yet friendly. Student projects were tacked up on the walls, and row after row of bookshelves were packed almost to overflowing. About twenty computer stations-another education initiative funded by Georgia 's lottery-sat empty, their monitors dark because the school's electrical system was not equipped to handle the extra load. There was a second-level balcony with an open railing lining the back wall, and for just a moment Lena imagined that some kid had probably sat up in that second level, thinking about how easy it would be to open fire on his classmates.

Brad was staring at her, an expectant look on his face. "That's them," he said, indicating three girls and three boys sitting by the librarian's desk. Lena knew instantly what Brad had been talking about. These were the popular kids. There was something about the way they sat there, talking and laughing with each other. They were an attractive bunch, dressed in the latest fashions and with that casual air of entitlement that kids have who are worshipped by their peers.

"Let's get this over with," Lena told him, walking purposefully toward the table. She stood there for several seconds, but none of the kids acknowledged she was there. Lena gave Brad a wary look, then cleared her throat. When that didn't work, she rapped her knuckles on the table. The group started to quiet down, but two of the girls finished their conversation before looking up.

Lena said, "I'm detective Adams, this is Officer Stephens."

Two of the girls giggled as if they knew the best secret in the world. Lena was reminded of one of the many reasons she did not like kids, especially girls this age. There was nothing more vicious than a teenage girl. Maybe it was because boys were more capable of settling an argument with their fists, but girls at this age were much more conniving and torturous than anyone wanted to believe.

One of the giggling girls smacked her gum while the other said, "We know
Brad
."

Lena tried not to be hostile as Brad introduced the kids. "Heather, Brittany, and Shanna," he said, pointing them out. Then, indicating the boys, who were slouching so far into their chairs their butts were nearly touching the ground, " Carson, Rory, and Cooper." Lena wondered when parents had stopped giving their kids normal names. Probably around the time they stopped teaching them manners.

"Okay," Lena began, sitting opposite them. "Let's wrap this up quickly so y'all can go back to class."

"Why are we here?" Brittany demanded, her tone as hostile as her posture.

"You were on the ski retreat with Officer Stephens," Lena told them. "Jenny Weaver was there. You know what happened to her Saturday?"

"Yeah," Shanna said, smacking her gum." Y' all shot her."

Lena took a deep breath and let it go. As shitty as she had been at this age, Lena would never have talked to a cop like this. She said, "We're just asking some routine questions about her, trying to figure out why she did what she did."

One of the boys spoke. Lena couldn't remember his name, but it was hardly relevant as they all looked alike. "Does my father know you're talking to me?"

"What's your name?" Lena asked.

" Carson."

" Carson," she repeated, returning the belligerent stare he gave her. His eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated.

"What?" he said, finally breaking the stare. He crossed his arms, looking around the room as if he was bored.

"One of your classmates is dead," Lena reminded him. "Are you not interested in helping us find out why?"

"The 'why' is because you shot her," Carson answered, picking up his backpack. "Can I go now?"

"Sure," Lena told him. "Why don't we get Dr. Clay to take a look in your bookbag?"

Carson smirked. "You don't have probable cause."

"No," Lena agreed. " But Dr. Clay doesn't need it."

Carson knew she was right. He dropped the bag onto the floor. "What do you want to know?"

Lena exhaled slowly. "Tell me about Jenny Weaver."

He waved his hand. "I didn't know her, okay? She was on the retreat and all, but she and Lacey didn't really socialize."

The other boys nodded. One of them said, "They didn't like to party."

Lena assumed that by "party" he meant get high. From what little she knew about Jenny Weaver, this was not surprising.

"She was younger than us," Carson added. "We don't hang around with babies."

Lena turned to the girls. "What about y'all?"

Brittany started first. Her posture was as poor as the others', and her backbone seemed pliable, molding her into the back of the chair like Silly Putty. She sounded just how Lena had imagined she would: whiny and put-upon. There was something wrong with a society that let children talk to adults this way.

Brittany said, "Jenny was weird."

Lena tried to stir them up, asking, "I thought y'all were friends."

"We most certainly weren't," Shanna toned in. "I for one couldn't stand her."

She said this as if she was proud of the fact.

"That so?" Lena asked.

Shanna's bravura dropped down a notch when she saw Lena was taking her seriously. She was considerably less confident when she said, "We weren't friends."

"None of us was really," Heather said, and she seemed to be the logical one. She had uncrossed her arms, and Lena thought that, of the six, she was the only one who seemed to show any regret. Actually, Heather reminded Lena a little of herself at that age, on the periphery of things, more interested in sports than school gossip.

Heather said, "Jenny was quiet most of the time. Even back in middle school."

"You all went to the same school?"

They all nodded.

Heather indicated the other girls. "All of us live near her. We rode the bus together for a while."

Lena asked, "But you weren't friends?"

"She didn't really have a lot of friends." Heather was quiet for a few beats, then said, "When she first moved into the neighborhood, I tried to talk to her and all, but she liked to stay home and read a lot. I invited her to hang out a couple of times, but she didn't want to, then I just stopped trying."

"No one liked her," Brittany provided. "She was a real-what do you call it?-introvert."

Shanna laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Yeah, right," she said.

Lena pointed out, "She was friends with Lacey Patterson."

The girls exchanged a look.

"What?" Lena asked.

They shrugged in unison. The boys were either comatose or not interested.