Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“Ah, yes. Miss Gerda Spratling’s descanso .”

“Gerda…”

“Spratling. The family is of German descent. Gerda, I believe, means ‘protector.’ Her family, the Spratlings, ran the clock factory here for ages. Ran the town, too.”

“What’s a descanso ?”

“Spanish word for roadside memorial. In the early days of the American Southwest, funeral processions would carry the coffin out to the graveyard for burial. From time to time, the pallbearers might set the casket down by the side of the road and rest. When the procession resumed, the priest would bless the spot where the deceased’s soul had tarried on its final journey. The women would then scatter juniper flowers and stake a cross into the ground to further commemorate the site.”

“So someone died behind our house? What was it? A car wreck?”

Mrs. Emerson hesitated.

“Ms. Magruder, might I be frank?”

“Please.”

“That cross has been hanging on that old oak tree so long, I doubt if even Miss Spratling remembers why she hung it there.”

“Well, that’ll be my second investigation,” Judy said.

“And your first?”

“Discovering why the town clock stopped.”

“Ah, yes. There are several interesting stories about that. I’d tell you now, but I have to read Mother Goose to the children. Are you free for dinner this evening?”

The storm started about eight p.m.

Thunder boomed and the windows of the restaurant rattled. Judy didn’t mind: Mrs. Emerson was an excellent storyteller. She regaled Judy with tales of a girl so ugly “her face could stop a clock.” Apparently, she arrived by train in North Chester one day at exactly 9:52 p.m.

“Then there’s the story of Osgood Vanderwinkle,” Mrs. Emerson said.

“Who’s he?”

“Clock keeper, dear.”

“Did he have any monkeys or squirrels on his staff?”

“No. None that I’m aware of. However, he might have seen several—as well as assorted pink elephants. Mr. Vanderwinkle loved to tipple his rum. He was soused so often, we suspect he forgot to close the trapdoor at the top of the tower. The rains came…”

“The gears rusted?”

“Exactly. I suppose that story is the most mundane and, therefore, probably closest to the truth.”

“Too bad.”

“Indeed.”

Around nine-thirty p.m., Judy said goodbye to Mrs. Emerson and ran across the muddy restaurant parking lot to her car.

She shivered and waited for the front and rear window defrosters to do their job. A twist of the wiper-control knob sent the windshield blades slapping back and forth to chase away the unrelenting rain. Judy cranked up the radio so she wouldn’t have to listen to any more clouds explode.

She had called George earlier, told him about her dinner plans with Mrs. Emerson. He said, “Have fun. Drive carefully.”

She had had fun.

Now she would try to drive carefully.

The radio was calling it a gully washer.

Flood warnings were in effect. Water rolled across the freeway in rippling waves. Wind gusted and made the treetops dance a wild, frenzied tango. The weatherman predicted that the storm would last until midnight with “the usual creeks overrunning their banks.”

For an instant, Judy wished she still lived in New York City. In a high-rise apartment building. Someplace without creeks.

Then she heard a tire blow out.

The car skidded slightly and Judy carefully eased it off the road. She came to a stop right in front of an old graveyard about a quarter mile west of the crossroads. She could see the flashing red light blurring in the distance.

That meant George and home weren’t far away. He could drive out in their other car and rescue her. She reached for her cell phone.

The battery was dead and she had forgotten the car adapter.

She looked up and down the highway. There was no traffic. No tow trucks cruising the highways she could flag down like a taxi in Times Square. There was nobody on the road at all.

Except, all of a sudden, Judy sensed somebody staring at her.

Somebody outside the car.

She turned slowly to the left. To the window.

She practically jumped out of her skin.

The storm moved closer.

Zack sat on his bed with Zipper, stared out the window, and counted the seconds between seeing lightning and hearing thunder.

“I used to be afraid of thunderstorms,” he comforted his dog. “Now I just pretend it’s somebody bowling in the clouds. A giant probably. And he uses the moon for his bowling ball.”

Zack heard the familiar gurgling from behind his bathroom door. The rainwater was probably flooding the cracked sewer lines—sending more gunk upstairs to burble out of his toilet.

It was a good thing their new house had so many bathrooms. Zack’s was currently off-limits and would be, his dad said, until the plumber showed up.

So Zack had rolled up a spare towel and jammed it into the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door.

He didn’t want the odor oozing out to make his bedroom smell farty, too.

But what if the lightning moved too close and an electrical spark made all that trapped gas explode?

Zack tried not to look worried. He didn’t want to scare his new dog. Besides, he’d already unpacked his G.I. Joe firefighter action figure—the one Judy said knew how to handle “hazmats,” hazardous materials like sewer gas.

But Judy wasn’t home.

If the bathroom blew, Zack would have to do all of Joe’s voices himself.

There was a big burly man standing six inches from Judy’s door.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said, oblivious to the slashing sheets of rain. “Car trouble?” His voice sounded muffled because Judy had kept all the windows rolled up tight. She feigned a smile and waved to signal she was fine, just fine.

“Front left tire,” the man said. “She’s blown.”

The man wore some sort of navy blue uniform—so wet it looked black. Raindrops guttered off the bill of his cap—the kind milkmen and airplane pilots used to wear. There was an embroidered patch on its crown: Greyhound Scenicruiser. A name tag was pinned to his chest: Bud.

“Didn’t mean to spook you,” Bud said. “Do you require roadside assistance?”

Judy lowered her window. A crack.

“My name is Bud.” He pointed to his name tag to prove it.

“I’m Judy. I’ve never had a flat before.”

“Wish I could fix her for you. But I can’t.”

“Oh. Bad back?”

Bud didn’t answer.

“I live just up the road,” Judy said. “I was going to call my husband, but my phone died. Can I borrow yours?”

“My telephone?”

“Right. Can I borrow it?”

“Sorry, ma’am. I don’t have a phone out here. They have one down at the filling station, if I remember correctly.”

The rain pattered on his hat and shoulders.

“I could talk you through the tire change. Do you have a spare?”

“Yes. I think so. In the back.”

Bud waited.

Judy had always considered herself a good judge of character. She hoped she was right because she judged Bud to be kind of spooky but not dangerous. Grabbing her tiny umbrella, she stepped out into the rain.

Bud stayed where he was.