Goat McKnight’s hands ached for a gun.
Walking up the mountain path, he yearned for one. The moonlight, where it penetrated the canopy of trees, bleached the open spaces in pools of white and created twisted shadows in the lee of crooked branches. Goat never feared the dark of night. Darkness held no sway over him. Not even while he trudged through the blackest jungles did fear of the dark edge into his heart.
Goat had never feared the law either, not even after he was caught with a load of moonshine. The judge had given him a choice. Prison or the army. Sometimes late at night, freezing on a jungle trail or facedown in a rice paddy under a hot sun as Charlie zinged rounds at him, Goat had thought he’d made the wrong choice. When he got back home, Goat had two options—go down in the mines or go back to hauling whiskey. The thought of the law catching him running untaxed whiskey didn’t scare him, nor did it make him yearn for a gun.
A simple smell made Goat’s hands ache for a gun. The thick and earthy scent rose up from the loamy creek Goat and Ralphie had waded across at the base of the hill. The primal smell brought back a rush of memories from the not-so-distant past spent hunting Vietcong. As the aroma filled his lungs, Goat found himself scanning the ground, his eyes searching for trip wires leading to bouncing Betties or scuffed earth that signaled an ambush. Oblivious, pulling the wagon, Ralphie babbled on the whole time.
When they were halfway up the path, a movement on the opposite hillside drew Goat’s attention. As a figure slipped through a clear spot of moonlight, Goat saw the glint of a belt buckle and a shoulder and arm covered in a tan uniform just before the NVA soldier slipped back into the shadows.
Goat stopped.
He knew it was his imagination projecting the picture like a Friday-night drive-in movie. There were no NVA soldiers stalking the hills of eastern Kentucky. Still, he held his breath as he scanned the woods. He waited a whole minute, not taking a breath until his chest was tight, but the soldier never reappeared.
“Goat?” Ralphie called from up ahead in a low whisper. “Goat.” This time louder.
Pushing the phantom soldier from his mind, Goat jogged up the trail. He nodded to his young cousin to keep moving. With the wagon wheels once again creaking, Ralphie continued his one-sided conversation. Goat wasn’t sure what made more noise, the banging of the empty wagon or Ralphie.
“Groovy, I’m telling you,” Ralphie was saying. Even though Goat had zoned out for a bit, he was sure Ralphie was still talking about what all teenage boys talked about. Girls. Ralphie had a crush on his new English teacher. Ralphie thought she was a hippie, even though Ralphie wouldn’t know a hippie if one bit him in the ass. “She drives one of those little German buses painted up like a rainbow with a peace sign. I’m telling you, Miss Love’s a hippie.”
Goat glanced over his shoulder, searching the trail for the NVA soldier.
“And you know what they say about those hippies,” Ralphie intoned. Goat wasn’t sure what they said about hippies, but he was sure Ralphie was going to tell him.
“What do they say about them hippies?” a voice called down.
Goat grinned. From up ahead, a yellow glow leaked out around the edges of a tarp hung across the trail. Leave it to Luther to pull Ralphie’s chain.
“Come on, Ralphie,” Luther called, pushing aside the tarp so the glow from the lanterns and fire pit lit up the trail all the way to Goat and his cousin. “Tell me about them hippie gals like Carrie Love.” From farther back in the stand of trees came low laughter.
Ralphie and the Radio Flyer were quiet.
Sliding past his cousin, Goat glanced at the younger man’s face. Even in the dim glow of the lantern light, he saw that the kid was the same shade of red as the wagon.
Goat called, “Luther, at least the boy’s got the good sense to have a crush on a young teacher. He’s not prattling on about Old Mrs. Napier.”
“No-Neck Napier.” Ralphie gasped. “She has a mustache.” There was more cackling from underneath the lean-to, and Luther told someone to shut up.
Luther held the tarp open so Ralphie could pull the Radio Flyer underneath and park it next to the other two. These weren’t your kid’s Radio Flyer wagons. No, sir. The original wheels had been replaced with thicker, bigger tires to handle more weight, and the wagon sides had been cut out and several-foot-high metal slats welded in so that boxes of full mason jars and plastic jugs could be stacked up. It made it a little easier getting the bootleg whiskey down the hill.
Once the wagon was in, Luther dropped the tarp. The tarp was meant to hide the lanterns’ and fire’s light. Not that anyone would venture up the mountain, but Luther’s daddy was careful.
“No-Neck Napier,” Luther said, punching Goat in the arm. “Like I’d ever.” Luther was solidly built although shorter than Goat, which Goat thought served the man well down in the mines. Even in the lanterns’ flickering light, the black coal flecks ingrained in his skin were visible. Just as the men stripping coal out of the dark holes they’d dug left an imprint in the mountain, the coal left its mark on the men. The coal dust permeated the clothes and soaked into the skin. And if it soaked in deep, it took a man’s life.
Farther back in the grove sat the liquor still—all copper tubing and barrels holding the mash being heated by a fire tended by Luther’s dad. Nearby, a pair of men sat on wooden milking stools. They were seventy if they were a day, and over time they’d become almost mirror images of each other, both white-headed, grizzled, and skinny in overalls and white dress shirts. One filled the mason jars from the still. The second screwed on the lids, wiped off the jars, and slid them into waiting cases. The sour smell of fermenting mash hung heavy in the air.
“Luther, what’re you doing up here with us outlaws?” Goat asked.
“Just helping out.” Nearby stacked knee-high were full cases of mason jars ready to go. Ralphie started hoisting the liquor up onto the red Radio Flyer, the glass jars rattling.
“You don’t need to be up here. You have an honest job,” Goat replied.
“Foolishness,” Luther’s dad said, stalking toward them, waving a piece of firewood. “Plumb foolishness.”
“I took a stand,” Luther replied.
“Ah.” Luther’s dad waved a hand. “Striking from a good job. Unions and such. Causing trouble, and a man won’t be able to go back to that job.”
“Me? I’m not stepping on Cassidy’s toes.”
Cassidy Lane was the closest thing Bell County had to organized crime. Though he owned gas stations all the way to Knoxville, everyone knew Cassidy’s real money came from the bootlegging, gambling, and whoring he provided up on Kayjay Mountain. When preachers railed about a Sodom and Gomorrah in their midst, they were talking about Kayjay and Cassidy Lane.
“Ah, Cassidy just likes talking big,” Luther’s dad said, turning away from his son. In the glint of the light, Goat saw the smooth brown grip of a pistol poking out of the old man’s back pocket.
Luther opened his mouth and closed it. Shaking his head, he turned away to help load the wagon. Goat figured the two had gone round and round as much about the father’s making white lightning as they did about Luther’s striking.
Deciding to stay out of the fight, Goat told Luther’s daddy, “I’ll have your money in two days, as soon as I run this load down to Jellico.”
“Mama’s wanting you to come to supper,” Luther’s daddy said.
Goat smiled. “I’ll pay you then.”
“You’re ready,” Luther said. Moving to the front of the wagon, Goat took over. Just like in the Pontiac parked below, when there was whiskey onboard, Goat drove.
“See you boys,” Goat said. Putting his back into it, he swung the wagon in a tight circle with Ralphie pushing. As they headed down the trail, Goat glanced back in time to see Luther’s silhouette raise a hand just before the tarp dropped, blacking out the lanterns’ glow. With the wagon loaded, going downhill was a lot quieter. The wheels squeaked less, and the heavy load made Ralphie concentrate more on steadying the wagon and less on talking.
Halfway down the mountain, Ralphie finally spoke in a whisper. “I don’t want to cross Cassidy Lane.”
“We aren’t,” Goat answered. “And there won’t be any trouble.”
The words were still in the air when a distant gunshot cracked the night. Goat’s first thought was that a pocket of sap in a log had popped in the flames at the still, but even as he thought this, the whole mountaintop erupted in a flurry of gunfire. The first gun was joined by the deep booming of shotguns and the long burps of a tommy gun on rock and roll, something straight from Nam. A mad minute. Dumping all of your ammo into a kill zone. Pure insanity firing until the wood stocks smoked and the barrels sizzled.
Goat turned the wagon and ran it off the path. Ralphie stood unmoving on the trail. Goat grabbed the teenager’s shirt and yanked Ralphie over and down to the ground with him.
“A raid?” Ralphie gasped. Their faces were so close that Goat smelled the sweat beading on the young man’s upper lip.
Goat shook his head. Neither the police nor the Revenuers did a raid like this. Sure they’d shoot you, but they wouldn’t gun you down. The gunfire rose to a crescendo; then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped, leaving only the echoes bouncing back and forth in the hills.
Ralphie said, “We have to go back. We gotta help.”
Goat shook his head. He knew the reality of killing. Up on the hill, armed men were doing the business of murder.
“We got…” The words died. Ralphie’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“They’re dead,” Goat said harshly. “They’re all dead and we can’t help a bit. What we gotta do is get off this mountain.” Pulling Ralphie in his wake, Goat slipped back onto the trail.
In the heavy summer air, gun smoke drifted down the hill like a mist, the smell bringing an adrenaline dump and a rush of memories. Thumping helicopter blades beating the air as they dropped into an LZ. Orange muzzle flashes and the steady climb of an M16 on full auto during a firefight.
With Ralphie in tow, Goat moved quickly down the path, his eyes scanning for the irregular shape of a human. His ears strained to hear the snap of twigs or the racking of a gun. At the bottom of the hill, they paused to catch their breath.
The night was silent. Even the running water in the creek was holding its breath. No animals hooted or scurried.
Without speaking a word, Goat and Ralphie shared the same knowledge.
The four men they had just left were dead.
Goat drove alone, the moonlight ticking through the trees, blackness and a milky slash alternating across the GTO’s hood. White. Black. White. Black.
Goat and Ralphie had slipped down the hill to where the GTO was hidden. With the headlights off, they made their getaway by creeping down the winding road until they hit the main road, where Goat snapped on the lights and sped away. After making Ralphie promise not to tell a soul what had happened, Goat dropped his cousin off at the mouth of his holler.
Leaning down into the car, Ralphie asked, “Was it like that… over there?”
Goat knew what he meant. Vietnam. “Some. And sometimes worse.”
Without a word, Ralphie closed the GTO’s door and trudged into the darkness.
And Goat drove the night away. The slash of the moon’s bone light and the ink of dark night played out across his windshield.
Black.
White.
The windshield awash in light.
Awash in darkness.
As the GTO’s tires rolled along eating up the miles, the wheels in Goat’s head ate up time. He thought of Luther, not as the man he’d seen just a few hours ago, but as the boy he’d met in a schoolyard wearing hand-me-down clothes and a serious look in his eyes. Goat thought of how Luther’s daddy had helped him out, schooling him on making shine and teaching him how to handle a car with a full load. Goat’s own father had died in the mine when a slate of coal broke free and crushed him, so Luther’s dad helped fill a gap that Goat needed filled as a boy. Then there were the memories of the recent past in Southeast Asia; Goat knew the country had taken part of his soul. Driving, Goat let his mind ramble and bounce about as night gave way to morning.
At daybreak, he pulled into a filling station on a mountain road. As he pumped gas, the road rumbled like a freight train, and he shielded his eyes as a line of big coal trucks thundered down the road in convoy. The trucks were placarded for the Blue Diamond Mine. Luther’s employer. Each truck had a driver and a passenger, and the passengers all had rifles poking out the truck windows. Bell County was one incident away from a full-blown coal war. Goat watched the trucks roll past, but his mind was elsewhere, had latched onto a memory. During the Tet offensive, Goat had found himself fighting alongside a unit of MPs. During one of the lulls, he had talked to the lieutenant, a Yankee from Boston named Cuddy, who said he was going to be an investigator. Goat didn’t understand much about investigating, and John Cuddy had simplified it for him—you ask questions to find answers, but mainly you kick stuff around, hoping to stir things up.
Goat planned on stirring things up.
Goat didn’t want to go back. He had enough visions of dead men in his head, and he didn’t want any more. Steeling himself, he went up the hill. The Radio Flyer was still half on the trail, half off in the weeds, just as he’d left it. Pausing, Goat put a hand on the cases of whiskey and used the tail of his shirt to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Looking up the hill, he saw the green tarp hanging from a tree and flapping in the breeze. His mouth was dry, his throat constricted. Taking a deep breath, he left the Radio Flyer and slowly walked up the trail, keeping his eye on the edge of the swaying tarp.
Up close, he saw the tarp had been shredded by bullets. It was splashed with brown stains drying sticky, and flies congregated over the blood. The two old men with their well-worn white shirts lay next to their stools. One had fallen right and one had fallen left. One was facedown, and the other on his back with his arm thrown over his head. The still was riddled with bullet holes, and the stack of finished moonshine was toppled over, glass and cardboard scattered on the ground. The raw scent of fermenting mash, the smell of moonshine from smashed mason jars, was overpowered by the copper tang of spilled blood.
Luther and his daddy were farther away from the still. Luther was on his back, arms splayed, a single gunshot in his forehead.
Tears burned Goat’s cheeks.
Luther’s daddy was a few yards back down the hill, facedown, one arm stretched out toward his son.
Goat knelt in the open space between Luther’s body and the old man’s. Flies buzzed incessantly, but it was no match for the buzzing in his mind. A sob came from his chest, popping out of his mouth like an air bubble. He drove his fingers into the dirt and rocks and leaves, pushing his anger into the ground. Grinding his teeth. Following the sob came a long moan that turned into a primal scream. He shouted until his lungs hurt and he could no longer make a sound. His outburst scattered a flock of crows in the trees, their black ragged wings flapping as they dove and cawed through the valley.
Silence returned.
Goat pushed the rage back into the dark box in his chest. Calmly, he stood and surveyed the killing ground. Instead of seeing the sunlight streaming through the trees, Goat imagined the scene as it had been the night before. Darkness. Lanterns lighting the still operation.
Luther and his daddy were at the far edge of the light, almost into the trees. Luther heard the killers come. He went to check it out. His father followed. Goat remembered hearing the shot that at the time he’d mistaken for a popping in the fire. Now he saw it differently. That had been the first shot.
Maybe Luther’s daddy had pulled his gun and that started the shooting. No, wait, Goat thought, looking at the bodies. The brown grip of the revolver stuck out of the old man’s back pocket. Untouched. Turning his attention to Luther, Goat again saw his friend had been shot dead center in his forehead. An aimed shot. Aimed shots worked only at the start of an ambush, because once the firing got going, people bobbed and weaved, scrambled away. Luther was killed first. The leader of the killers shot Luther and that had been the signal to open fire. Then the mad minute of pure murder.
Goat moved forward to the crest of the wooded hill, his eyes scanning the ground. His gaze found a cluster of golden brass glistening. Squatting, he checked the pile of brass. There were six empty .357 Magnum casings. A revolver. Probably the leader’s whose shot started the ambush. Goat stood and moved farther and found scattered, empty shotgun shells—12-gauge double-aught buck. Man killers. More gold-glinting brass in the grass caught his attention, and he scooped one up, a .45 ACP. This brass was scattered everywhere. Goat knew he was right: One killer had used a Thompson submachine gun. Goat knew the sound of a tommy gun because he had carried one during the Tet street fighting.
He moved back down the hill and knelt beside Luther. Lightly, he rested a hand on his friend’s cold chest. He continued on, stopping at Luther’s daddy. This time, he pulled the revolver from the dead man’s pocket. It was long-barreled Colt .38, the finish dulled and dinged.
“I’m going to kill ’em,” Goat said out loud. Tucking the revolver into his belt, he repeated, “I’m going to kill every last one of them.”
“Goat, that’s a pretty car,” Clarence said. Goat was tilted back in the barber chair, hot lather on his face, Clarence’s straight razor glinting three inches above. Poised.
“Thanks.” His GTO sat at the curb right next to the striped barber pole of Clarence’s shop. The three wooden chairs lining the wall were held down by a trio of old men who spent their days spreading gossip. Goat needed information and he knew these old men knew more about what was going on than anyone else.
“That’s not the one the revenuers took?” Clarence asked.
Goat waited until Clarence slid the razor across his chin, scraping as he went.
“Naw, that was a ’61 New Yorker,” Goat answered. He had loved that car. The New Yorker had lots of room in the trunk, and with double springs and shocks and a tuned-up engine, the car was fast enough for Goat to outrun any lawman in Kentucky and Tennessee, even hauling a full load of shine. Until the night he ran out of gas trying to outrun the law.
Clarence nodded, looking down at Goat over his half-glasses. “Yup, I remember now.” Clarence damn well knew Goat had bought the car from Luther’s daddy and hauled the man’s shine. After all, Goat had delivered Clarence’s stash of shine even before he could drive, pedaling his bike to the barbershop twice a week.
The newspaper in Goat’s lap was folded open to the moonshine-murder story. It was two days since an anonymous call had led the state police to the massacre at the moonshine still. Goat thought the story was pretty much right, except for the police’s claim that the killer had called in the murders. Goat figured the police were doing the same thing he’d been doing when he called in the murder: stirring things up. Just like he knew coming to the barbershop would cause a stir.
Goat stared out the window across the Pineville town square to the courthouse, where a dozen cop cars sat. The paper reported that the state police were bringing more troopers to Bell County to keep the peace. With striking miners and rumors of northern organizers trying to start up unions in Bell County, there were fears. After all, unions were just a step away from communism. With blown-up coal trucks and miners beaten on the strike lines, tensions were high, and now with the four men killed in the moonshine murders, the state police were trying to make sure things stayed cool in the summer heat. At least that’s how the newspaperman had put it.
“A shame about them boys,” Clarence said, trying for nonchalant. Goat waited as Clarence did his thing with two more swipes of the razor. He kept his eyes glued to the cop cars across the way, pretending not to be paying much attention to Clarence. “Weren’t you and that one boy, Luther, friends?”
“Yup,” he answered, feeling the barber’s eyes on him. Goat watched as the side door to the courthouse opened and three men in uniforms came out. All three paused to shake out smokes.
“I knew his daddy was making moonshine, but I didn’t know the boy was helping—did you?” Clarence asked. The trio of cops fired up their smokes and headed across the square.
Before Goat could answer Clarence, one of the men in the chairs behind him said, “Hell, everyone knew Luther was making deliveries for his daddy.”
“I didn’t,” Clarence said.
“Oh, yeah,” said the man Goat couldn’t see. “Just a few jars. Like the milkman going door to door. I think everyone in my rooming house, including the teacher, was buying his liquor.”
“I thought the boy was one of those agitators,” another man said. Goat hated that he couldn’t see who was talking behind him, but he didn’t dare move with Clarence’s straight razor working.
“Luther was no communist agitator,” Clarence said. “He just wanted a good job.”
“What are you talking about?” Goat asked, perplexed.
“Northerner socialists down here trying to get the miners unionized,” the second old man explained. “Agitators.”
“The mine owners want the unions stopped?” Goat asked.
There was a snort. “They want it nipped in the bud.”
The three cops were on a direct course for the barbershop.
“Shame about them boys,” Clarence repeated, taking the last of the shaving cream off Goat’s face with a flourish of his razor.
“It is a shame,” Goat said, pointedly nodding toward the approaching cops. “Think they’ll find out who did it?”
There was another snort from one of the old men.
Clarence took a warm towel and patted Goat’s face. “Everyone knows who had them boys killed.” He looked to the approaching cops. “Even they know.”
One of the men said, “Everyone knew that old man was making shine and not paying his due. If we knew, Cassidy knew.”
Cassidy Lane.
The three cops stopped at the square as a farm truck rolled by. Two of them were state troopers in their gray uniforms and Smokey Bear hats. The last man, in a tan uniform, was Aaron Grubbs, chief deputy under the Bell County sheriff.
“You think Cassidy had them killed?” Goat asked.
“There any doubt?” Clarence asked just before the bell above the door jingled.
What Clarence didn’t say but every man in the room knew was that Aaron Grubbs ran protection for Cassidy Lane. If Grubbs was involved in the investigation, there would never be any arrests in the murders on the mountain.
Raising his voice, the barber said, “Afternoon, Officers.” He pulled the warm towel from Goat’s face, threw it over his shoulder.
“How long a wait for a haircut?” the tall blond trooper said.
“We’re all done here,” Clarence said, spinning Goat’s chair so he could see the haircut and shave in the mirror. Goat nodded before he stood.
“I told you Clarence would take care of you,” Chief Deputy Grubbs said. Shifting his attention to Goat, he asked, “Is that your hot rod out front there?”
“Yes, sir,” Goat answered, standing.
“One of those ’65 Pontiacs?” Grubbs asked. His voice was thin and reedy. He rested his left hand on the butt of the big old Smith & Wesson holstered at his hip.
“It’s a ’66,” Goat replied. The blond trooper removed his hat and took a seat in the barber’s chair.
“Don’t look like she’s got much wear,” Grubbs said. “But then I’ve not seen you around. Heard the judge sent you to Vietnam.”
“He did,” Goat replied as he paid the barber. “Now I’m back.”
“Weren’t you running shine for that old man that got himself killed?”
“No, sir,” Goat lied, forcing a smile. “I’m making up for lost time, chasing girls and driving my hot rod.”
“That a fact?” Grubbs said, like he didn’t believe Goat.
“That’s a fact,” Goat replied, staring the older man dead in the eye.
Clarence produced a fresh sheet and wrapped it around the blond trooper with a flourish. The second trooper hooked his thumbs in his gun belt, watching the exchange.
“We found a load of whiskey abandoned halfway down that hill,” Grubbs said. “Word going around is that you were driving for the old man.”
“Is that a fact?” Goat asked, still smiling.
“That’s a fact,” Grubbs said. “Why would someone leave whiskey?”
“Don’t know,” Goat responded, letting an edge creep into his voice. “You should ask Cassidy Lane.”
Chief Deputy Grubbs’s eyes narrowed, and his lips set into a hard thin line.
“Is that a fact?” the standing trooper said with an amused look.
“That’s a goddamn fact,” Goat said as he strode past the lawmen toward the door.
Goat was scared. He had definitely stirred things up at Clarence’s barbershop, and now he was going to shove a stick in the hornet’s nest. He knew it was insane, and he could think of only one person crazy enough to go along with his idea.
Goat idled the GTO to a stop. A road sign hung by a single nail from a pole. Copperhead Road. The road wasn’t more than twin ruts leading up a lonesome holler. Along the way were a few abandoned houses, falling down, left to the weeds and animals. Goat powered the Pontiac all the way to the flat top of a ridge where a simple house with a rusty tin roof sat. All the windows in the house were open, and the Doors’ “L.A. Woman” rattled the window frames.
Goat killed the engine and laid on the horn. Jim Morrison and the boys dropped away. The screen door banged open.
The first thing Goat saw was the .45 dangling loose in the man’s hand.
“Goat McKnight, is that you, boy?” the man said.
“It’s me, Johnny Lee,” Goat said, stepping out of the car.
“Come on in the house.” The man waved with the pistol. John Lee Pettimore was shirtless and deeply tanned. He had on tie-dyed jeans; his hair was down over his shoulders.
“Were you expecting company?” Goat asked as he walked into the house, which smelled like fried bologna, incense, and pot.
“Naw,” Johnny Lee said, tucking the pistol into his waistband, moving in front of Goat, and leading the way. “But you never know when Charlie will get through the wire.”
No one had ever accused John Lee Pettimore of being stable. In fact, people who knew him said he was crazier than a shit-house rat, and that was before he went to Vietnam.
The entryway in the hall was hung with beaded curtains. And there were hand-painted canvases on the wall. One had a dove and a scroll that said PEACE AND LOVE. Another had a psychedelic-colored peace sign.
“What you been up to since you got back, Goat?” Johnny Lee asked as he went through the beaded curtain and headed toward the back of the house.
“Same as before,” Goat answered as he followed. “Running shine.”
“Gotta do what you’re meant to do,” Johnny Lee said, opening the door at the end of the hallway. Goat followed John Lee into the room.
“You’re here about what happened up on the hill.” It was a statement, not a question.
Goat didn’t answer. He was taking in the room. There wasn’t any furniture. All of the windows were boarded up, and the only light was from a lone bulb hanging from the ceiling. Crowded around were brown wooden boxes with stenciling, green crates, and even a stainless steel coffin. Some of the boxes had U.S. Department of Defense markings, and some had Chinese letters. The open coffin was packed tight with black M16s.
“We going to hunt?” Johnny Lee Pettimore asked with a cracked smile.
“I aim to make things right,” Goat replied, picking up a green plastic case that said FRONT TOWARD ENEMY. A claymore mine. Looking up, he said, “Holy shit, Johnny Lee.”
“Gotta be ready for when Charlie comes through the wire.”
Then Goat started explaining what he wanted to do. The more Goat talked, the wider Johnny Lee’s grin grew, until it was a skull’s leer, which confirmed what Goat had already known. This was an insane idea.
Talk about being in the lion’s den. The car parked at the bottom of the hill wasn’t the one Goat expected. It wasn’t the well-washed sheriff’s cruiser of Chief Deputy Aaron Grubbs, but rather a battered Oldsmobile with two rough-looking men inside watching the road. All Goat had to say was that he wanted to drink and play poker, and they waved him on up Kayjay Mountain to Cassidy Lane’s three-story place, lit up like a roadhouse with bright neon lights. The parking lot was half full, Goat noted as he got out of his car, glancing back once to see Johnny Lee’s shadow slither out of the trunk and then disappear into the darkness. The inside of the bar was like any place allowed to sell liquor—and Bell County wasn’t one of them—filled with men spending their money on the booze or the gambling in the back or both. And for more money, the women serving the drinks would take the men to rooms upstairs.
Goat scanned the bar and found another rough-looking man sitting on a stool in the corner, not drinking, his eyes sizing up the patrons. Stopping directly in front of the man, Goat said, “Tell Cassidy that Goat McKnight’s here about those four dead men up at that still.”
The man looked at Goat, studied his face, and, without saying a word, got up and left. A few moments later the guy returned. “Come with me,” he said, and led him to the back of the bar, where they took two flights of stairs to a landing and a closed door. The man knocked.
“Come in,” a deep voice said. The man opened the door for Goat.
Goat went into Cassidy Lane’s den. Cassidy was a big man, both tall and wide, with a visage that reminded Goat of Ben Franklin’s. His hair wasn’t as long as Franklin’s, but it did grow thick on only the sides and back of his head, and with a pair of half-glasses perched halfway down his nose, Cassidy did resemble old Ben. Cassidy was sitting on a couch looking at some papers, his legs crossed and bouncing lightly to Frank Sinatra playing on the record player behind him. He stared at Goat over his glasses.
“You come to kill me?” Cassidy finally asked in his baritone voice, almost a bearlike rumble.
Before Goat could answer, he heard the click of a hammer and felt a gun barrel pushing into the back of his head. “Careful how you answer,” the man behind him said. The man’s hand ran over Goat’s body until he found the Colt, which he pulled free.
Cassidy kept his eyes trained on Goat. “You here to kill me?”
Hoping his voice wasn’t cracking, Goat said, “If you murdered my friends, then I am going to kill you dead.”
“That’s a powerful statement for a man in your predicament,” Cassidy said. Casually, he reached behind him and turned off the stereo; the record slid to a stop. Turning his attention to the man behind Goat, Cassidy said, “Give me the iron.”
The man handed the Colt to Cassidy. Nodding toward the pistol in his hand, Cassidy said, “You don’t have any play left. Now, you listen—I had nothing to do with those four men’s deaths.”
“Why should I believe you?” Goat asked.
“I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not,” Cassidy said. “I’m telling you the facts. And you best worry if you’re going to walk out of here or get carried out.”
“One more buried up here won’t make a difference,” the man behind Goat said, emphasizing his words with a push of the muzzle into Goat’s neck.
Goat nodded once. “I don’t know if I believe you. But let me tell you one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You kill me, and I promise you hell’s coming.” Goat opened his hand to show a small whistle in his palm.
“What the hell’s that?” Goat’s captor piped up from behind him.
“In Vietnam, the Cong used whistles since their radios were so poor. It got to be when you heard one of these, you knew Charlie was coming.”
“What’s that mean?” Cassidy asked cautiously.
“That means John Lee Pettimore is somewhere close.” Goat heard the man behind him take a breath. Most people knew of crazy Johnny Lee. “If I don’t blow this whistle, he’ll be coming to kill every son of a bitch in here.”
Cassidy looked at Goat for a moment.
The man behind Goat said, “He’s bluffing.”
Cassidy looked past Goat and the man behind him and said, “I don’t think so.” Slowly, he set the revolver on the coffee table. “He’s not bluffing.”
“No, he’s not, son,” Johnny Lee said. Goat glanced over his shoulder. Standing in the open doorway was John Lee Pettimore decked out in camos and black face paint, a large Bren machine gun weighing heavy in his hands.
“The plan was the whistle,” Goat said.
“I don’t like waiting,” Johnny Lee said, grinning.
Goat picked up the Colt from the table, tucked it back into his waistband, and asked Cassidy Lane, “You kill my friends?”
“I had no reason to kill them men. Bad for business to draw attention.”
“What about the old man not paying you to run liquor?”
“Him running shine didn’t hurt me none,” Cassidy replied. “I liked the old man, and he brought me a case of his shine once a month. We respected each other. We had no fight.”
“People said he wasn’t paying your tithe and you were mad.”
Cassidy snorted.
“What?”
“Aaron,” the man said with a sneer. “He tells folks that.”
“Grubbs?” Goat asked. “Why would your man say that?”
“He doesn’t work for me anymore,” Cassidy said. “He’s going legit, running security for a mine.”
“Which mine?” Goat asked, things already clicking into place.
“The Blue Diamond,” Cassidy said. Goat saw his own epiphany reflected in Cassidy Lane’s face. “He’s trying to lay these murders on me. I’m going to kill him.”
“No, you’re not,” Goat said. “I am.”
The whole apartment on the third floor of the rooming house was lit up. Goat sat at the small kitchen table keeping company with a jelly glass of moonshine from a jar he’d found under the sink. The apartment was silent, but Goat thought echoes of the woman’s crying lingered in the air. Goat and Johnny Lee had left Kayjay Mountain driving like hell for town. Once the pieces came together, Goat saw the whole thing plainly. Just like if you stir up sand and water and then wait long enough, the particles settle and you can see right through. The picture was clear.
The tan of the NVA soldier’s uniform that night.
Luther calling Ralphie’s teacher by her name—Carrie Love.
Luther telling his father he was taking a stand.
The old men at the barbershop talking about Luther delivering moonshine door to door.
Luther being shot in the middle of his forehead.
The six .357 Magnum rounds found on the hill. A cop’s gun.
Bell County miners striking and the worry about northern agitators organizing unions. The mine owners wanting to nip things in the bud.
The North Vietnamese soldier Goat glimpsed on the mountain was actually the tan sheriff’s uniform of Aaron Grubbs.
And the fact that Chief Deputy Aaron Grubbs was working for the Blue Diamond mine—Luther’s mine.
Goat and Johnny Lee found Carrie Love in her apartment, and between sobs, she confirmed his suspicions. In other parts of the country, every time people had come to help the miners, the mine owners had busted them up, shipped them out, or killed them. Carrie was a teacher but she was an activist first. She’d been asked to come down and help organize the miners, but she was told she had to be careful. Only a few knew of Carrie Love’s role. Luther was tasked with carrying messages between Carrie Love and the striking miners. Luther took and delivered messages with the jars of moonshine. Someone had leaked word that Luther was doing more than striking, and Carrie figured the mine owners thought Luther was pulling the strings, that he was the one calling the shots. No one suspected the hippie teacher was the mastermind.
Nip the union organizing in the bud.
Everyone knew Luther was helping his dad make moonshine, so it wouldn’t take much for Aaron Grubbs to find the moonshine still. Then he and some hired thugs slipped up that mountain. Goat had spotted Grubbs’s tan sheriff’s uniform as they were making their way up to kill Luther and anyone else at the still.
The steps outside creaked. Carrie Love’s apartment was on the third floor of the building, and it was the only apartment that was serviced by a rickety staircase running on the outside of the house.
The killers were here.
Goat took a swallow of the moonshine, the whiskey cool on the way down his throat but burning once it hit his stomach.
Damn, Luther’s daddy did make good liquor, he thought.
Before sending Carrie Love away with John Lee Pettimore in the GTO, Goat had had her make a call to Chief Deputy Grubbs. She told him she knew he had killed Luther. She told him she was scared, and she would give him all the paperwork she had on the miners and the organizers. She offered to trade the information for safe passage out of Bell County. Grubbs promised he’d let her leave once he had the papers.
The doorknob turned slightly as a hand tested the lock.
Then the hand knocked.
“Carrie,” Aaron Grubbs said.
Goat glanced at the green square propped against the door. Wires led back to the plastic square in his hand. He pushed back from the table and stood, making sure to be loud. The killers outside would think Carrie Love was coming to answer the door.
Goat stepped behind the refrigerator and pulled the revolver from his waistband. With his other hand, he readied the mine’s trigger.
Goat called out, “Grubbs, I’m going to kill you.” Outside there were confused voices. Goat pushed the mine’s trigger. Clack-clack.
The claymore had a warning on it: FRONT TOWARD THE ENEMY. The warning was there for a reason.
The claymore was a shaped charge of C-4 packed with hundreds of steel ball bearings, and they blew out in a scythe-like arc of destruction.
The explosion shook the whole house.
The apartment’s front door was blown out and clouds swirled inside. His ears ringing, Goat moved forward, kicking through the remnants of the front door. Outside, part of the landing was shredded. Below, in the alley, two bodies still clutching shotguns were splayed out on the roof of Aaron Grubbs’s cruiser. Partway down the stairs was a body, the man’s chest pulped by the claymore’s ball bearings. A broken Thompson submachine gun was on the step below the dead man.
The blast had knocked Chief Deputy Aaron Grubbs down the stairs, where he knelt as if praying. His face bloody, his body listing to and fro like a bobbing ship.
Goat cocked the Colt.
Grubbs looked up and saw Goat. Tried to stagger to his feet, but stumbled and fell.
With the comforting weight of the Colt in his hand, Goat McKnight started down the stairs.