Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“Shut your mouth!” Clint snarled through Billy’s lips.

But Billy fought back.

“Sister, tell Mee Maw I—”

“Hate her guts for turning me into such a pansy!” Clint’s spirit was stronger.

“Go home, Billy,” Sister Elizabeth said gently. “Resist the demon. Can you do that for your Mee Maw?”

“I’ll try, Sister.”

“One last thing, Mr. O’Claire.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Watch over your son.”

Eberhart yanked Billy’s head sideways, wrenched his neck out of joint, sent spasms wriggling through his limbs.

“You have a son, Billy boy?”

Sister Elizabeth gasped. Understanding dawned. “I’m sorry, Billy,” she said. “I didn’t realize—”

“Why is this the first I’m hearing about my great-grandson?”

“Keep him away from Aidan!” the nun implored.

“Why, Sister, what a horrible thing to say! Keep me away from my great-grandson? This Aidan and I are family.”

Early Wednesday, Judy sat in the breakfast nook with a cup of coffee and not much else.

She needed to hit the grocery store. Soon. She saw the checkbook sitting next to the empty fruit bowl. It was too early to go outside and wake the boys. Besides, she had nothing to serve them for breakfast. Maybe she could run out to the store and grab some doughnuts, cereal, and fruit. They’d be okay for fifteen minutes.

She opened the checkbook to rip out what she assumed would be check 001.

It was 003. George must’ve written two checks. She looked at the stub flaps. Check 001 went to Mandica and Son for the tree work. Check 002 was made out to Billy O’Claire. The plumber.

So that’s his name. O’Claire. Just like—

Judy put down the checkbook, went to the small kitchen office, and found the clasp envelope where she kept all the notes and clippings she’d been collecting. She pulled out the Miracle Mary newspaper story and raced down to the last paragraph:

Miracle Mary is survived by one grandson, William O’Claire, a plumber who still works in the North Chester area.

He still works here, all right—right here in this house. Judy remembered something else from that story. Some kind of connection between O’Claire and her husband’s family. She skimmed up a few paragraphs to the part about Mary’s son.

In 1983, at the age of 25, Thomas (Tommy) O’Claire and his wife, Alice, were gunned down by Sheriff James Jennings in what was described as the “tragic and fatal conclusion to a bungled blackmail scheme.” The shootings took place outside Spratling Manor.

Zack’s grandpa had killed the plumber’s father and mother. Did the plumber know that George was the sheriff’s son? He certainly now knew that George was a Jennings. He had to. It was written in the upper left-hand corner of the check.

Was the plumber’s working at their house merely coincidence or part of some clever scheme for revenge?

Judy felt a sudden pang.

Maternal instinct? Do stepmothers get that, too?

She didn’t know where it came from. All she knew was she had to go check on Zack and Davy in the backyard and she had to do it now!

Zack wasn’t in the tree house. Neither was Davy or Zipper.

Judy saw a paint-splattered aluminum ladder lying in a small clearing. On its side was stenciled O’Claire’s Plumbing.

She was right! She might also be too late.

Sheriff Hargrove was at the house three minutes after Judy dialed 911.

“They were sleeping in the tree house,” Judy told him. “They’re in trouble. The plumber, Billy O’Claire. He’s Miracle Mary’s grandson.” She pointed at the ladder.

“But why would—”

“George’s father killed Tommy and Alice O’Claire.”

“The plumber’s parents?”

“Exactly.”

“What’s that smell?” Hargrove sniffed the peppery air.

“Kerosene.” Judy saw Zack’s lantern shattered on the ground. “They must have dropped it.” Judy scanned the backyard, saw some bent branches. Footprints. “They ran that way. The dog went after them.” She pointed at paw prints in the mud and then a grooved indentation left by a big boot. “So did the plumber.” Judy saw more dog tracks. “This way,” she said.

“Wait a second. It might be best if—”

“This way!”

The sheriff followed Judy down a trail the boys had ripped through the underbrush. When they reached the highway, they saw the plumber’s pickup parked on the shoulder.

“Stay back. Behind that tree there. Now. Go.”

He approached the vehicle. “Mr. O’Claire? Mr. O’Claire?”

There was no response.

“He’s not here!”

Judy squinted, looked up and down Route 13.

“See that tall grass near the graveyard?” she said. “It’s been trampled down!”

“Yeah.” Hargrove started jogging. Judy ran after him. She was faster.

“Zack?” Judy yelled between breaths. “Zack!”

A dog barked.

“Zipper?” she called out.

The dog barked louder. Judy and the sheriff crested cemetery hill. She saw Zack standing behind the railings.

“Zack!”

Hargrove ran around the fence, found the gate. Judy worked her arms through the bars so she could hug Zack.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Where’s Davy? Is Davy okay?”

“Davy went home,” Zack said. “The farm bell rang. He had chores to do.”

Sheriff Hargrove worked his way through the graveyard and stood next to Zack and Zipper. “Are you okay, son?”

“Yeah. It was the plumber. He wanted to kill us, so we ran away.”

The sheriff scanned the horizon. “Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know. We hid behind a tombstone all night long.”

“Good for you!” said Judy.

She silently vowed that she’d never let Zack out of her sight again, not until he was eighteen—no, twenty-one!

Judy and Zack sat in the breakfast nook, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Zack had a tall glass of cold milk, Judy iced tea. Zipper lay patiently on the floor, dreaming about peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Your dad should be calling soon,” Judy said.

“I’m sorry I ran away.”

“You did the right thing.”

“Dad will just think I’m a scaredy-cat.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Do we have to tell him?”

“Well, I think he’ll want to know.”

“He thought I wouldn’t go into her room because I was scared to see her dying and all.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah. She hated me.”

“No, she didn’t, honey. She had cancer and they were giving her all sorts of medicines and that can make people say and do—”

“Judy?”

“Yes?”

“My mother hated me before she ever got sick.” Zack fiddled with the crust on his sandwich.

“You want to tell me about it?” Judy asked.

“You won’t think I’m just making it up?”

“No.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Okay. I never told anybody any of this. Not even my dad.”

“You can tell me.”

Zack realized maybe he could. “Okay. My mom said I made her life miserable and stole my dad away from her. And the cigarettes that killed her? She only smoked them on account of me. Cigarettes were the only pleasure she had left in her whole life, and the more miserable I made her, the more cigarettes she had to smoke. So I tried to stay away from her, honest, I did, especially when she got the cancer, so she wouldn’t have to smoke so much but she said even when I wasn’t there she could still see me because she had minions—these evil servants who spied on me. Like the Wicked Witch has those flying monkeys, my mom had her minions so she could always see what I was up to.”