Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

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