Mystery Writers of America Presents Vengeance

by Lee Child

  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.”

  Chapter 4

  “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.

  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 palm.