“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 law-men toward the door.
Chapter 5
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.
Chapter 6
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
