Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“Yeah.”

“We used to have us a sheriff up this way named Jennings. Sheriff James Jennings?”

“I know. He was my dad.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Your daddy was Sheriff Jennings?”

“Yep. He sure was.”

Billy grinned. “Well, I’ll be. Ain’t that something? Ain’t that just like crazy, daddy-o?”

Clint Eberhart’s soul had zoomed back inside Billy’s body and he was now using it to shake hands with George Jennings—the son of the man who had killed his son!

“Are you okay?” asked Zack’s father.

“Fine and dandy, just like cotton candy.” Billy’s smile was suddenly very wide.

“Here you go.” Mr. Jennings handed Billy a check. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Never better.”

George waited for Billy to leave. Billy stood there rocking up and down on his heels.

“Shouldn’t you go cash that check? Rent the equipment?”

“Right. Good idea.”

The spirit of Clint Eberhart made Billy’s body go sit in the cab of his pickup truck and wait. Another minute. Maybe two.

When Eberhart was certain that Mr. Jennings had gone back to whatever he had been doing upstairs in the house, his angry soul forced Billy’s legs to walk down the driveway toward the woods, down to where he could hear the boys playing.

Slip down the side of the house, Billy. We’re gonna go kill the Jennings boy. Yes, indeedy. My grandson’s going to kill the sheriff’s grandson.

Billy’s feet resisted. Eberhart exerted more force.

Come on. Get a move on! Shake your bunny tail, boy!

Billy plodded into the backyard with his mouth drooping open in a dull circle. He reached the path leading into the patch of trees.

“Can I help you, mister?”

A boy with an aluminum baseball bat blocked Billy’s path.

“Who are you?” Billy asked. “Mickey Mantle?”

“Who’s Mickey Mantle?”

“Slugger for the Yankees? Led the major leagues in home runs, RBIs, and batting average back in ’56?”

The boy looked at Billy as if he was nuts.

“Tarp!” he yelled over his shoulder.

“Tarp!” several voices echoed from the woods.

“You’re not allowed back here.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. O’Claire?”

Eberhart swiveled Billy’s head back toward the house and saw Mr. Jennings.

“I thought you were leaving.”

“I’m trying to,” Clint had Billy say. “But I got turned around. Which way’s the driveway?”

Jennings pointed left.

“Thank you.” Clint made Billy whistle while he walked up to his truck. He knew he’d be coming back here soon.

Real soon.

He’d be back to take care of some unfinished family business.

He’d be back to kill the Jennings boy.

On Monday night, Zack’s father flew off to Malaysia.

Judy was secretly glad George would be out of town and out of reach for almost a week. It would give her more time to learn all she could about the other passengers on the Greyhound bus. Maybe one night she’d even go check out the graveyard, see if Bud was still there, see if any of the Rowdy Army Men were with him.

George might be on his way to an exotic foreign country, but Judy knew she was venturing someplace far more exciting!

Early Tuesday, Zack and his new friends were in the backyard playing. Judy brought the boys a snack.

“Where’s Davy?” she asked Zack.

“Farm chores.”

“Aren’t you glad we don’t live on a farm?”

“Yep.”

“I’m going to the library. I’m taking my cell phone if you need me.”

“Okay.”

“Stay in our yard while I’m gone, okay?”

“Okay.”

“My mom’s home,” one of the other boys said. “She’ll keep an eye on us, too.”

“Great. Okay. Am I forgetting anything?”

“Nope. I don’t think so.”

“Great. Have fun!”

Judy kissed Zack on his forehead. Zack stepped back, wiped the wet spot off his brow. The other guys sort of looked away, scuffed at the dirt with their shoes.

“Oops,” Judy whispered to Zack. “Not cool?”

“It’s okay.”

“I won’t let it happen again.”

“Have fun at the library, Judy.”

“I will.”

Judy made a mental note: Only kiss stepson when no other boys are present.

“Thank goodness you’re here!” the librarian said. “Come into my office.”

Judy followed Mrs. Emerson into a small room. “Look what I found!” She pointed to several cardboard boxes stacked on her desk. “Well, it’s really two things. Which do you want first?”

“How about the first thing?”

“Excellent choice. Thing number one: old police logs.” She pried open a box. “When the North Chester Police moved to their new building, they sent us scads of archival information. Boxes and boxes of it. Most of it is junk. Old gun magazines and equipment catalogs and…”

“And?”

Mrs. Emerson pulled a dusty ledger from the box.

“The call log for June 21, 1958. A minute-to-minute accounting of the day’s events. See? The North Chester Police received a report of a suspicious person harassing the Greyhound bus at 9:20 p.m.”

“Who made the report?” Judy asked.

“The call came from the driver, Mr. Bud Heckman. Apparently, he had a two-way radio. He also informed the police that a woman passenger was in danger, so he was…” Mrs. Emerson ran her finger under a line in the ledger. “‘Fleeing the scene at a high rate of speed.’”

“And so?”

“The North Chester Police contacted the state police, who dispatched an officer on motorcycle. Let me see…yes…Officer Mike Mulgrew. You’ll find his name cited in several newspaper reports about the accident. He died at the scene with all the others.”

“So,” Judy asked, “what was the second thing?”

“Ah, yes. While performing my research, I noticed something rather peculiar: We are not the first to investigate this incident.”

“Oh?”

“I kept noticing the same name on prior requests for the same information.”

“Who?”

“Your late father-in-law, Sheriff James Jennings. Twenty-five years ago, he was looking at everything you’re looking at today.”

Late Tuesday afternoon, Zack and the boys finished drilling.

There were so many one-inch tunnels sinking down into the stump, it looked like a giant wheel of Swiss cheese. Zack put the drill back into the toolbox at the construction site before Davy even touched it.

“Summer’s the busiest season on a farm,” Davy explained when he showed up after the other guys had gone home. “So many chores, it’s a wonder I’m still alive!”

“Whatever,” Zack said. He placed a big rock on the edge of the tarp covering the stump.

“Hey, pardner—you ain’t mad at me, are you?”

“Well, maybe. A little. You come up with all these big plans, but you’re never around to do any of the work!”

“I know. I know. Like I said, Pops has been—”

“And what about the kerosene? What if it explodes? What if there’s spontaneous combustion or something? We need someone who’s done this kind of thing before, someone who’s worked with kerosene and stumps and…”