Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“Did your dad know about any of this?”

“No. She told him I was a big baby who made up silly stories. She said I told fibs because ‘all liars are cowards,’ afraid of the truth. She’d tell him she was trying her best to be a good mother, but I just made it impossible.”

“What about your grandpa?”

“He never visited us in the city much. We mostly came up here, and Mom usually wasn’t feeling good whenever we did, so me and Dad came up without her.”

“Nobody knew?”

“You’re the second person I ever told.”

“Who was the first?”

“Davy.”

Judy smiled. “He’s a good friend, isn’t he?”

“Best I ever had.”

“Well, Zack, your mother is gone. She can’t hurt you anymore. I promise.”

“But she probably sees us right now even though she’s dead. She probably hears me saying mean things about her. And when I laugh and stuff? I know it makes her mad. When I hang out with Davy and Zipper and we go to our secret swimming hole and the sun feels so good, my mom gets even madder. She hates me having all the fun I stole from her. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the one who sent that plumber after us, like maybe she invaded his body and used him like a robot to come get us because she can’t do it herself anymore.”

The telephone rang.

Judy rubbed her moistening eyes with the back of her hand and picked up the phone.

“Hello? Hey! How’s Malaysia?”

Zack stared at Judy. He looked terrified.

“Us? We’re fine. Zack and Davy camped out in the tree house last night. Oh, they had a blast. Tonight he might spend the night over at Davy’s house. Say, have I ever thanked you for giving me such a great son? Well, thanks again. You want to say hi? Hang on, honey.”

Judy passed the phone to Zack. She nodded to let him know everything was going to be okay.

“Hey, Dad. Nothin’ much. Hanging out with Davy and Zipper and Judy….”

He didn’t mention the kerosene-soaked stump.

Or the box of Ohio Blue Tip matches he had hidden in his gym bag.

Two police officers delivered a moldy cardboard box to the Jennings residence that night around eight p.m.

Judy was sitting on the front porch, sipping a glass of wine. Zack was upstairs in his room, playing video games. Zipper was with him.

“What’s this?” Judy asked.

“The chief found this box buried in the back of a closet in the old building. Didn’t send it to the library with the other stuff because it appears to be personal items from when Mr. Jennings was sheriff. Sheriff Hargrove figured you folks might like to have it.”

Judy smiled. “Probably Grandpa’s old socks.”

“Probably.”

“So have you guys apprehended Mr. O’Claire yet?”

“No, ma’am. We would’ve brought this box over earlier, but we’ve been dealing with that situation.”

“I understand.”

“Well, we better roll.”

“Be safe.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The two cops trooped down the steps and into their cruiser. Judy examined the box. The top was sealed with gummy duct tape. Water stains spread up from the cardboard bottom. She opened the flaps and was hit with the unmistakable scent of mildewing newsprint.

More clippings.

The box was crammed full of newspaper stories about the 1983 incident at Spratling Manor.

Judy did some quick math in her head. She figured the plumber was probably in his mid-twenties, so he must’ve been born right before Grandpa shot his parents. The boy had basically been orphaned when he was an infant and had probably been plotting his revenge all his life.

She read a yellowed headline: Bungled Blackmail Scheme at Spratling Manor. She skimmed the article. Apparently, Mary O’Claire’s son, Tommy, tried to extort money from Julius Spratling. Security guards called the police and Sheriff Jennings responded to the scene.

The perpetrators discharged their weapons, the article reported. The sheriff returned fire and killed both intruders.

Judy had that feeling again.

She called 911.

The operator patched her through to Sheriff Hargrove’s cell phone.

“I have a hunch about where O’Claire’s headed next.”

“Where?”

“Well, first he came after Zack, the only descendant of James Jennings currently in town.”

“Who do you think is next on his list?”

“The only living descendant of the man who called the police.”

“Gerda Spratling?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll look into it. Thanks!”

Hargrove clicked off. Judy went back to the papers in the box.

More of the same.

Details about the extortion scheme but no indication of what the O’Claires had used to blackmail Mr. Spratling. Judy pulled the papers out of the box and stacked them on a side table. She looked back into the cardboard carton to make certain she had everything.

Sitting on the bottom, wedged in the seam between flaps, was a small key, the kind that usually opens a bank safe-deposit box.

She pried it out and made another phone call.

“Mrs. Emerson? Judy Jennings. I hope this isn’t a bad time.” Judy rotated the small key so she could read the inscription on its crown. “Do you know anyone at North Chester First Federal?”

She did.

Mr. Emerson, her husband, was the bank’s head of security.

Billy O’Claire hid in the woods all day and into the night.

After chasing the boys into the graveyard, he fought hard against the evil spirit that had invaded his body, just like the nun had said Mee Maw wanted him to. Eberhart eventually left and Billy crept deeper into the forest and followed a creek downhill until it met up with the Pattakonck River. He shadowed the river for a mile or two and ended up behind Spratling Manor at the family’s ramshackle boathouse. Billy opened its creaky doors, slipped inside, and, exhausted, fell asleep.

The sun set around eight-thirty.

That was when the soul of Clint Eberhart returned.

“Hello, Billy boy. It’s time for me to meet your son.”

Clint made Billy stumble up a crumbling garden path and rip a fistful of wildflowers from a tangle of weeds. They headed for the single illuminated window in Spratling Manor.

“This window is absolutely filthy,” Miss Spratling said to Sharon. “Remind me to fire your mother!” She paused. “My, my, my. Hello. Isn’t that your boyfriend?”

Sharon whirled around.

Billy was leering through the window over the kitchen sink.

“Well, well, well. Invite him in, dearie. Invite him in.”

“No!”

“Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket!”

Billy held up the clump of wildflowers.

“My, my, my. It appears that young Prince Charming has brought you flowers!” Miss Spratling gestured grandly to her right. Billy slipped away from the window.

“Miss Spratling, I don’t think we should let him—”

“Don’t be such a big baby, Sharon. Honestly.”

A tense moment later, Billy sauntered into the kitchen. “Hey, Gerdy. What’s shakin’?”

Miss Spratling’s heart fluttered. Only one man had ever called her Gerdy: Clint Eberhart!

“Hey there, Shari baby.”

No one had ever called Sharon Jones Shari. Not Billy. Not anyone.

“Who are you?” Sharon stepped back.