In McGreedy's some of the patrons had already begun the celebration. If the laughter was a bit wild or forced, if tempers were edgy, McGreedy was content in the knowledge that his Louisville Slugger was handy behind the bar.

He kept an eye on Dwayne, who was drinking quietly and steadily at the end of the bar. Since he was sticking to beer tonight, McGreedy didn't worry overmuch. It was whiskey that set Dwayne off, and at this point Dwayne looked more unhappy than drunk.

He knew he'd probably have to swing his bat and kick a few butts before the weekend was over. Tonight seemed friendly enough, though there were a few hardcases huddled in the corner, tossing them back and talking quiet. Whatever they were planning, he'd see that they took it elsewhere.

Billy T. Bonny took a slug of house whiskey. It pissed him off that McGreedy watered it down, but tonight he had other things on his mind. Every damn body in town knew he'd been seeing Darleen on the sly.

It was a matter of pride that he do something about her murder.

The more he drank, the more it seemed to him that he and Darleen had been in love.

He was among friends, half a dozen like-thinking men, including his brother, who were tanking up on liquor and hate. They spoke in undertones, wanting to keep their circle closed.

"It ain't right," Billy T. muttered again. "We're supposed to sit around with our fingers up our asses while some jerkoff from the FBI takes care of things. Well, he sure as fuck didn't take care of Darleen."

There was a general murmur of agreement. Cigarettes were lit. Deep thoughts were considered.

"What the hell good did some Yankee lawman do her?" Billy T. demanded. "Him and Burke and the rest of them're running around in circles while somebody hacks up our women. Oh, we're good enough to go out and look for bodies, but we're not supposed to do anything to protect what's ours."

"Probably raped 'em, too," Will said to his beer. "Probably raped the shit out of 'em before he sliced 'em. You gotta figure it."

Wood Palmer, cousin to the undertaking Palmers, nodded sagely. "Them psychos always do. It's 'cause they hate their mothers and want to screw them all at the same time, so they use other women."

"That's bull." Billy T. finished off his whiskey and signaled the waitress for another. His blood was already so pumped with alcohol, he could have opened a vein and fueled his gas tank. "It's 'cause they hate women. White women."

"There ain't been no black woman killed, has there?" his brother piped up. John Thomas had been drinking shooters for the best part of two hours, and was raring for hell. "Four women dead and not one of them colored."

"That's a fact," Billy T. said, and snatched up his whiskey the minute it was served. "And I guess that tells the tale."

Wood scratched the stubble of his beard while the others grunted in agreement. What Billy T. was saying made good sense to him, especially filtered through a haze of tequila. "I heard tell their heads was nearly cut clean off and their sex organs was carved up. That's psycho stuff."

"The cops want us to think like that." Billy T. struck a match, watched it burn. There was fire in his blood tonight, and it needed someplace to spread. "Like they wanted us to think it was Austin Hatinger killed his own daughter. Well, we know it wasn't." As the match fizzed out between his thumb and forefinger, he shifted his gaze from face to face, and what he saw pleased him. "We know it was a nigger. But we got us a Yankee fed, a nigger deputy, and a sheriff who'd sooner lock up a white man than a colored."

Will cracked a peanut. He was drinking beer and drinking slow. Justine was already giving him grief about spending so much of his pay on drink and pool. "Come on, Billy T., Sheriff Truesdale's okay."

"If he's so okay, how come we got four women dead and nobody paying for it?"

As all eyes turned on him, Will, sober enough to be prudent, decided to keep his own counsel.

"I'll tell you why," Billy T. continued. " 'Cause they know who did it, sure as Christ. They know but they don't want any trouble from the N.A.A.C.P. or any of those other egg-sucking groups. It's the niggers and the ever-fucking liberals responsible."

"They ain't hardly talked to no coloreds either," Wood muttered. "Don't seem right."

"That's 'cause it ain't," Billy T. said viciously. "But there's been one they've talked to right enough." He struck another match for the pleasure of watching it burn. "They've been over to talk to Toby March. That special fucking agent asked plenty of questions about him."

"Talking's all they do," Wood mumbled. "And we got another woman dead."

"Talk's all they're gonna do." Billy T. nodded as the others began to shift restlessly in their chairs. He could feel it, the hate, the fear, the frustration all melding together in a pot simmering with the summer heat and flavored by whiskey. "They'll keep talking and asking questions, and he'll do it again. Maybe one of our women next time."

"We got a right to protect our own."

"It's time somebody put a stop to it. One way or the other."

"That's right." Billy T. wet his lips and leaned in. "And I think we know what needs to be done. It's that March bastard doing it. They homed right in on him, then backed off. They even know he has a taste for white meat."

"He was sniffing around Edda Lou, that's for sure," John Thomas put in. "Somebody shoulda fixed him then. Fixed him good."

"And you know what he's doing?" They all turned to listen to Billy T. "He's laughing at them. Laughing at us. He knows they don't want no race trouble down here in Mississippi that those Yankee papers can turn all inside out. He knows they're going to look the other way 'lest they catch him with a knife in some white woman's throat."

"It's him all right," his brother agreed. "Didn't I see him standing at Edda Lou's window?"

"He was working at the rooming house," Will began.

"That's right." Billy T. sneered. "Working on how he was going to get Edda Lou out to the swamp so he could rape and kill her. He done work for Darleen, too. She told me how he came to patch her roof."

"He done work out to the trailer court where Arnette and Francie lived, too," Wood put in. "I seen him having a soda pop with Francie and laughing."

"That's how they tie all together." Billy T. took a last drag on his cigarette. "He got around them that way, and starting thinking how he'd like to do it to them. How he hated them for being women. White women. The cops don't want to see it, but I do. I see it plain, and I'm not giving that black bastard the chance to kill another of our women." He leaned forward, sensing the moment was right. "I got me some nice strong rope in the back of my car. Every one of us here's got a rifle he knows how to use. I say we kick off our Independence Day by ridding Innocence of a killer."

He pushed back from the table and stood. "Anybody's with me, get your gun and meet at my place. We got us a murderer to hang."

Chairs scraped against the scarred wooden floor. Men started out with an air of purpose tinged with vengeance, their pulses pounding with a sense of right sweetened by the anticipation of violence.

As they trooped out into the hot, sweaty night, McGreedy noted that they looked as though they were hunting for trouble. But as they were hunting it elsewhere, he went back to drawing drafts.

At the door, Wood glanced back to Will, who was standing by the empty table. "You coming, boy?"

"You bet." Will lifted his beer and sloshed it down his dry throat. "I'll be right along."

With a nod that was as much warning as assent, Wood went off to fetch his Remington.

"Oh, Jesus." Will gulped down more beer. He didn't want the other men to think he was pussy. That was the worst thing a man had to live down. But he was thinking, now, maybe there was something worse yet.