The Crossroads Read online

  Miss Spratling scowled, then seethed.

  The priest dabbed his brow with a linen handkerchief. “I just came to bless the statue,” he said. “To commemorate the fiftieth anniversary.”

  “The anniversary of what?” George demanded.

  Miss Spratling’s lips quivered.

  “The accident,” said Judy.

  “It was no accident, you foolish little girl! I remember what that bus driver did to Clint.” She glared at George. “I remember what others did to my father!”

  “Look, it’s okay, George,” said Judy. “She can put her statue there for the celebration.”

  “Celebration? Why, you ignorant, ill-bred child!”

  “Hey!” George shot back. Judy cut him off with a shake of her head.

  Miss Spratling knotted her fists. “There is nothing here to celebrate!”

  “I’m sorry, I meant—”

  “You wait. You’ll see. One day, your husband here will drop dead and you will be forced to go on living—knowing that you will never, ever see him again. When that happens, will you celebrate, Mrs. Jennings? Will you decorate your home with gaily colored balloons?”

  “Okay.” Judy had heard enough. “We’re going inside now. You can pull up the rosebush. You can tear out everything. You can do whatever you want.”

  “My, my, my. Aren’t you congenial?”

  Then Miss Spratling grabbed the thorny rosebush with her black-gloved hands and ripped its roots right out of the ground.

  Zack and Davy saw and heard everything.

  They had come back from the swimming hole and were hiding in a thicket where they had a leaf-framed view of the Wicked Witch and her priest.

  “So, pardner,” Davy whispered, “you think that statue is made out of plastic?”

  Zack watched as the priest twisted the statue down into the loose dirt.

  “Sure looks like plastic.” Zack heard a hollow plunk when the priest banged its pedestal against a rock. “Sounds like plastic, too.”

  “Swell. That means the galdern thing will melt. It’ll melt real good.”

  The old lady crawled back inside her Cadillac and was driven away. The other cars drove away, too.

  “Okay,” said Davy, “we’ll be ready in a couple days.”

  “Is that enough time? There’s so much to do.”

  “Just bore them holes like I shown you. Soak her good with the kerosene. She’ll be ready to go.”

  “You’ll help, right, Davy?”

  In the distance, the boys once again heard the farm bell tolling.

  “Aw, shucks. It’s Pops. Jiminy Christmas, seems he rings that dang bell every time we’re all set for an adventure!”

  “Don’t go, Davy.”

  “Have to, Zack. Pops would tan my hide if I don’t come when he rings the bell.”

  “I can’t do this without you.”

  “Sure you can. In fact, you can do it better than anyone. That’s why I chose you.”

  “No. Wait. If you knew who I was…”

  “You’re Zack Jennings.”

  “No…I mean who I really am…what people say about me…what my mother…I screw things up, Davy. I ruin everything for everybody!”

  “Zack?” said Davy. “I don’t rightly care what folks say about you. What they say can’t make you who you are—’less, of course, you let ’em.”

  The bell clanged louder in the distance. “Wait! Don’t go, Davy. Okay? Stay.”

  “Can’t, I reckon. But don’t worry. I’ll be back. I promise.”

  Zack needed more. “Cross your heart?”

  “Yep! And hope to die!”

  About an hour later, George fixed Judy a tuna fish sandwich.

  “Why does she have to be so mean?” she asked.

  “I think it runs in the family. Besides, some of the locals say the Spratling money is almost gone. I guess she’s bitter about that and her dead boyfriend—even though that was fifty years ago and you’d think, you know, she might have worked that one out by now.”

  “I don’t want her coming out here every Monday, ripping up our flowers.”

  A bassy thumping came thundering from the backyard. An angry man grunted and rhymed.

  “What’s that noise?”

  “Either the end of the world,” said George, “or rap music.”

  Judy was at the window. “It’s Zack.”

  “No way. Zack likes rap?”

  They saw Zack and Zipper at the edge of the trees. Zack smiled and waved. Zipper wagged his tail. There were three other boys, all about Zack’s age, hanging out around a boom box.

  “Who are all those other kids?” Judy asked.

  George recognized the boys from the empty lot. “Neighborhood kids. Looks like our shy guy has made some more new friends.”

  “Pump up the volume,” Zack said to the boy manning the boom box.

  The four boys hiked down the trail toward the stump.

  “The music will cover any noise the drill makes. I’ll do the first hole. Then we’ll take turns.”

  Zack pulled the cordless drill with the forty-inch auger bit out of his nylon gym bag. The boys would drill to the depth that Davy had specified. Later they would fill the holes with kerosene.

  They’d pour in at least two and a half gallons—more if they could scrounge it up from their camp lanterns and their parents’ space heaters. With time, the kerosene would soak down into the wood and seep into the deep roots. If all went according to plan, the stump would be burned out of the ground before next Monday.

  Before the old lady came back to hurt Judy’s feelings again.

  A little before four p.m. that same day, Billy O’Claire drove his pickup truck into the Rocky Hill Farms subdivision. He needed money so he could get away from his grandfather’s ghost, maybe head down to Florida. He stroked his hand through his sweaty hair and remembered the house with the gurgling toilet. He had never really finished that job. He should go back, talk to the owner, tell him he needed to do more work on his sewer lines, the main one in the basement, if he seriously wanted to stop the problem from reoccurring.

  The owner would cut him a deposit check, might even give him cash. Of course, Billy would never come back to finish the job. He wouldn’t be able to: He’d be in Florida, hiding from Grandpa’s ghost.

  “Car!” Zack yelled when he heard somebody pulling into the driveway. “Tarp!”

  Two of the boys draped a big blue sheet over the stump to hide the holes. The boy currently manning the drill stuffed it back into the gym bag, then tossed the sack to another boy waiting up in the tree house, who stashed it behind a sliding panel of plywood.

  The boys had all seen a lot of prison escape movies and knew how this sort of thing was supposed to be done.

  “Howdy, son,” Billy said politely, holding his grungy baseball cap in his hands. “Is your mom or dad home?”

  Zack stood with his hands on his hips. Zipper was at his side, ready to pounce.

  “Dad?” Zack hollered. “Dad?”

  His father came out to the back porch. “What’s up, Zack?”

  “This guy’s here. The plumber.”

  “Hey, great! I’ve been meaning to call you. I think we should take a look at the main drain—which I think is also our main pain.”

  Billy nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s why I swung by. I was thinking the same thing. We might need to snake out the pipe leading to the street.”

  “Exactly! Can you come back and do the job?”

  “Yes, sir. Early next week.”

  “Great.”

  “Of course, I’ll need to rent a bunch of special equipment.”

  “I could give you a deposit. Say fifty percent now, fifty percent when the job is done. Would that help?”

  Billy smiled. “Yes, sir. That would help a whole bunch.”

  Billy sat in the kitchen, sipping a cold Coke the man had given him while he ran off to find his checkbook.

  Florida, here I come!

  He felt a little bad abou
t ripping this guy off, taking money for a job he knew he’d never finish. Heck, he wouldn’t even start it. He’d be on his way to Miami before the sun went down, which made him happy and sad at the same time. Happy that he was protecting his son. Sad that he’d probably never see his boy again.

  All of sudden, he thought he could smell some of that minty gunk his ghostly grandpappy slicked through his hair. Then he saw a bowl of foil-wrapped candies sitting on the kitchen counter. Peppermint patties. Man, he had to get out of North Chester. Fast. The whole town was messing with his mind.

  He stood up, eager to hit the highway. He was going to call out to the guy hunting down the checkbook until he realized he didn’t even know the man’s name. The general contractor who’d built the house had paid Billy for all his previous work. The job was always called “14 Stonebriar.” Never the “Jones House” or the “Smith House.”

  Not knowing what to say, Billy went with the generic.

  “Uh, excuse me? Sir? Sir?”

  The man came into the kitchen. “Sorry,” he said. “Took me a minute to find the checkbook.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “Please, call me George.”

  “Okay, George. I’m Billy. Billy O’Claire.” Billy stretched out his arm to shake George’s hand.

  “George Jennings.”

  Billy blinked.

  “Jennings?”

  “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 look
ing 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…”

  “Like a farmer boy who’s cleared him a field or two in his day, hunh?”

  “That’s right. We need you, Davy.”

  “Zack, you’re right. We’ll do her tonight!”

  “What?”

  “You and me, pardner. We’ll soak in the kerosene tonight!”

  “Really?”

  “Yep! Here’s how we’ll swing her. We’ll tell your stepmom we’re camping out up in the tree fort. She’ll go for that, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Sure she will. Shucks, she’ll probably even cook us a late-night snack!”

  “No way.”

  “How come?”

  “Judy doesn’t cook. She’s from New York City.”

  “Here you go, boys.” Judy put two Burger King sacks into the mop bucket. “Whoppers, fries, and chocolate shakes. And some Milk-Bones for Zipper. You can let him have some of your burgers, but no onions, okay? It’ll make him gassy.”

  “Thanks!” Zack hoisted the snack up to the tree house. Zipper pranced on his hind legs. Zack unwrapped a burger and placed it on the floor, back where Judy couldn’t see Zipper having a feast, onions and all.