Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“Oh, my,” she gasped when she saw all the statues.

“Handsome, isn’t he?”

Miss Spratling was standing behind her in that yellowing bridal gown, a lacy cape draped across her withered shoulders.

“Where’s Zack?” Judy demanded. “What have you done with my son?”

Miss Spratling ignored her, moved to another statue.

“Where did you take Zack, you old witch?”

“Such language? In a chapel?” Miss Spratling clucked her tongue. “Shame on you, Mrs. Jennings! Shame, shame, shame.”

“Where is he?”

“Well, dearie, I imagine he is burning in hell!”

“Sheriff?” Judy yelled up the hallway. “She’s in here!”

“Yes, I imagine he’s down there paying for the sins of his hideous grandfather.”

“You know what, Miss Spratling? Your father was right. You are ugly. Not your face—even though it does sort of look like a withered old apple. No. I’m talking about your soul. It’s beyond ugly. It’s hideous.”

“How dare you speak that way to me!”

“I know how your father bought you a boyfriend.”

“He did no such thing!”

“Yes, he did. He paid Clint Eberhart to be nice to you.”

“Go! Leave here now!”

“Or what?”

“Judy?” Sheriff Hargrove came into the chapel.

“Officer! Arrest this woman! She is being verbally abusive!”

Judy smiled. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Arrest her this instant!”

“Judy?” Hargrove put his hand on Judy’s shoulder. “Back off. She’s not worth it.”

“She has Zack.”

“We found her; we’ll find him. You’ve done enough.”

Much to Miss Spratling’s delight, Sheriff Hargrove took Judy’s elbow and led her out of the chapel.

A young cop escorted Judy out of Spratling Manor.

“My vehicle’s parked over this way, ma’am.”

“Where are we going?”

“Sheriff Hargrove says you need to calm down. I’m taking you over to headquarters so you can, you know, calm down.”

Calm down? Judy absolutely hated it when people said that to her. And this guy said it twice.

They headed toward the driveway. A dog started barking in the forest.

“That sounds like Zipper!” Judy said. “Maybe he found Zack!”

The officer reached for his walkie-talkie.

“Officer? Officer!” A boy they couldn’t see called out from the trees.

“Yeah?” The young cop moved toward the dark thicket, unsnapped his holster.

“Down here! In the woods! Jiminy Christmas, this galdern dog smells something!”

Zipper barked louder. Judy knew who was hidden in the trees with him. Davy.

“Hurry, Officer!”

The cop turned to Judy. “Mrs. Jennings? Wait right here.”

“Yes, sir.”

The young cop stepped into the underbrush.

Judy gave him a ten-second head start. Waited for his flashlight to disappear behind the dense foliage. Then she took off. She ran across the lawn, found a pebbled path, and followed it downhill to the river and an old, sagging boathouse. She pushed the door open and heard water lapping against the pilings underneath the floorboards.

About two minutes later, she heard Zipper panting.

“Howdy, Mrs. J.,” said Davy from the shadows. “I hope that galdern police officer don’t find himself in too big a pickle. He sure did take off a runnin’ when he heard old Zip, though, didn’t he?”

“What do you mean she ‘slipped away’?” Sheriff Hargrove yelled at his bumbling young deputy.

“Well, sir, I proceeded down through the sticker bushes to pursue and apprehend—”

“She’s trying to escape!” Sharon came running out of the mansion. “Miss Spratling stole my car!”

“When?” asked Sheriff Hargrove.

“I don’t know!”

“Then how do you know she’s the one who stole it?”

“She dropped this!” Sharon held up an antique blue garter—the kind a bride might’ve worn fifty years ago. “It was right where I parked my car!”

Hargrove nodded. “What type of vehicle are we looking for, ma’am?”

“A silver Hyundai.”

“Okay, everybody,” Sheriff Hargrove barked to his troops. “Let’s roll!”

“What about Mrs. Jennings?” asked the young deputy.

“We’ll worry about Judy later. She couldn’t have gone too far because she doesn’t have a car!”

“You sure, Chief?”

“Yes, I’m sure! I drove her over here, didn’t I?”

All the police officers climbed into their vehicles to chase after the one woman they knew was currently driving a car: Miss Gerda Spratling.

“Davy?” Judy asked. “Where’s Zack?”

“In a whole heap of trouble. We figure he might be up against ol’ Clint Eberhart himself.”

“The man who ran the bus off the road?”

“You done your homework, I see.”

“Yeah. I usually do.”

“Well, Eberhart is the sorriest soul you could ever meet. A black-haired devil…”

“With blue, blue eyes? Slicked-back hair?”

“That’s the feller! You seen him?”

“No, no. So far I’ve only seen his statues.”

“Statues?”

“Yeah. Tons of them.”

“Dang. Where they at?”

“Inside the chapel.”

“Chapel? Don’t tell me Gerda Spratling built that dirty dog another dag-blasted memorial!”

“So it would seem, Davy.”

“Well, Mrs. J., I reckon we need to burn that one down, too.”

The old man shoved rusty gears to one side of the long table. Heavy cogwheels and hardware clanged and banged on the floor.

“A little quieter, if you please, Mr. Willoughby,” Miss Spratling said as her loyal chauffeur cleared off the greasy workbench.

She moved to Zack. The boy was sitting on the cracked concrete floor, his wrists bound behind his back, his arms chained to the steel pole.

“I’ll wager your stepmother has already forgotten you,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “And your father? Why, he could care less. I’m told he’s out of town on business, couldn’t be bothered.”

Zack didn’t say anything. He was biding his time because he had a hunch about how to beat Clint Eberhart when he got there. It was an idea based on what Davy Wilcox had taught him—actually, what Davy had shown him.

“Hey, Gerdy. What’s shaking, doll?”

The ghost of Clint Eberhart limped into the room. He tried to smile, tried to swagger, but Zack could see he was wounded. Weak.

Miss Spratling’s hand fluttered over her heart. “Are you all right, my love?”

“Yeah. But we need to hurry, doll.”

“Yes, dear. Mr. Willoughby?”

Willoughby had the knives and saws spread out on the workbench.

“Put the kid up on the table, Gerdy.”

“Mr. Willoughby? I will require your assistance.”

“Hurry.” Eberhart winced. He was getting weaker every second.

The old chauffeur groaned as he bent down to unlock the chain.

It was almost time. The lock snapped open.

Now!

Zack rolled sideways and cut the old man’s legs out from under him. Willoughby toppled to the floor. Zack had used the rolling-tackle move before—playing Madden NFL on his PlayStation. It worked in real life, too.