Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

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.
    Chapter 2
    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