Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

Zack would bring the drill back when the job was done. But he and Davy really needed the tool for a day or two because it had the kind of bit that could easily bore its way down into a stump.

“Where have you been? You and me need to talk!”

Billy O’Claire sat in his tattered La-Z-Boy recliner. It was midnight and he had been trying to watch TV when Clint Eberhart materialized like some alien beamed up on Star Trek .

“What do you mean, where have I been?” asked Clint. “I’ve been inside your body ever since we went to visit the old lady.”

“That was Monday, man.”

“So?”

“This is Saturday! Buy a watch, dude. One with a calendar!”

Clint grinned. “You have a bad attitude, boy.”

“Yeah. Like father, like son.”

Clint moved closer. There was a hungry look in his hypnotic eyes. “I need you, Billy. Need your body.”

“So do I. Go get your own.”

“Sorry. I’d have to dig it up, and I don’t even know where I’m buried.”

“Maybe you weren’t. Maybe your car was burned to a crisp after it hit that bus and there was nothing left of you but a greasy stain!”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll use yours.”

“My car?”

“Your body!”

“Sorry. You can’t have it. Like I said: I’m already using it.”

Clint Eberhart grinned devilishly. “You’re flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, Billy. That’s why it’s so easy for me to slip inside your head and take control, make you do whatever I want you to do. We’re family!”

Now it was Billy’s turn to laugh. “Family? You scared my grandmother to death!”

“She should’ve died decades ago!”

“I take it you two had ‘issues’?”

“Mary O’Claire ruined my big score! Why couldn’t she just die like everybody else on that bus?”

“Don’t know. But, personally, I’m kind of glad she didn’t. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here right now, would I? And we wouldn’t be having this conversation, which I can’t believe we’re doing, anyhow! I mean, what are you? Some kind of Halloween ghost? A zombie? One of those soul suckers from the comic books? Are you even here now, or am I just going crazy?”

Eberhart narrowed his icy blue eyes. “Tell me about my son.”

“Who’s he?”

“Your father, lamebrain.”

“Oh. Right. What do you want to know?”

“How about his name?”

“Thomas. But most people called him Tommy.”

“And your mother?”

“Alice. She and my father both got themselves killed when I was a baby.”

“How? How did they die?”

“Cop shot ’em.”

“What?”

“On his twenty-fifth birthday, Mee Maw finally told my father who his father was. In other words, I guess she told him all about you and, for whatever reason, Tommy figured Mr. Spratling owed our family some money, so he set off to collect the cash.”

“Go on.”

“Tommy and Alice went over to Spratling Manor and demanded to see old man Spratling. The security guards told them to vacate the premises. My father threatened the guards. The guards called the cops.”

“And then?”

“The sheriff told Tommy and Alice to go home. Promised he wouldn’t press charges. They pretended to walk away.”

“And?”

“Well, when they figured the sheriff wasn’t looking, they twirled back around and whipped out their weapons!”

“Hot diggity dog! What were they packing?”

“Shotguns. Tommy fired first; then Alice pumped off a round.”

“And that sheriff got peppered full of lead, right?”

“No. They missed.”

“What?”

“They missed!”

“Both of them? With shotguns?”

“Yeah. I think my parents needed glasses. I know I do sometimes. Like when I watch TV or read the funny pages.”

“Billy?”

“What?”

“Tell me what happened!”

“Oh. The sheriff shot back. Tommy and Alice both died. End of story.”

“Okay. Okay. Tell me about the fuzz, this sheriff—what’s his name?”

“Um…”

“Where is he? How do we find him? Because it’s payback time, Billy!”

“I think his name began with a J.”

“So this is why my spirit never passed over to the other side. Too much unfinished family business to take care of!”

“Sheriff ‘Juh’-something.”

“We need a plan, Billy! This sheriff—is he still alive? Does he have any family? A son? Maybe a grandson? Billy? What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“Well, hurry up!”

“Okay. Yeah. I remember. His name was Jennings. Sheriff James Jennings.”

“You ready for another?” George Jennings stood over the griddle, flipping Sunday-morning pancakes.

“Okay, just one more,” Judy said after taking a big gulp of milk.

“Zack? How about you?”

“Sure!”

Zack’s dad flipped two fresh pancakes onto his plate.

“You know,” he said, “it’s a law that all American fathers must make pancakes for their families one morning every weekend.”

Judy giggled between bites. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s in the Constitution. The Founding Children put it there.”

Zack rolled his eyes. “The Founding Children?”

His dad moved back to the bowl to give the batter another good whisking. “Yep. They were sort of like the Founding Fathers, only, you know, younger. I believe it was twelve-year-old Benjamin Bartholomew Bisquick who penned the pancake proclamation.” He tapped the box of pancake powder. “Family business and all that.”

Judy was laughing too hard to chew. Zack shook his head and smiled.

And people thought he had an overactive imagination.

After breakfast, Zack, his dad, and Zipper went out into the yard to check out the progress on the tree house.

“Wow. Neat.”

Zack’s dad looked up at the crooked collection of lumber and plywood nailed helter-skelter to the limbs of a tree.

“Is that the door?” He pointed at a triangular space where three sheets of plywood didn’t quite meet.

“That’s a porthole.”

“Unh-hunh. I see. Neat.”

A blue plastic tarp was hanging over the top of the structure.

“That the roof?”

“Now it is.”

“Unh-hunh.”

“Sometimes it’s our sail.”

“Zipper go up there with you guys?”

“Yep. We built him an elevator.” Zack pointed to a plastic mop bucket tied to a yellow nylon rope.

“Well, you boys certainly have been…busy.”

“Yeah. Davy’s good with construction projects. He thinks up the plans. I do most of the work.”

“Unh-hunh…”

“We like the way it looks. Sort of like a ship. Judy went into town and got us the pirate flag.”

“Cool. So where’d you guys get all the wood and stuff? Judy drive you out to Home Depot?”

“Nope. Scrap piles.”

“Scrap piles?”

“From the construction sites. It was free because it’s scrap.”

“Zack? That’s a brand-new sheet of plywood.”

“We were told we could take anything we wanted.”

“And exactly who told you that?”

“The aluminum-siding man.”

“Who?”

“The tin man.”

“Are you making this up?”

“No. We met an aluminum-siding salesman in the forest across the highway and he said—”

“A tin man? In the forest? Is this The Wizard of Oz all of a sudden?”