The Crossroads Page 12

  “Of course, Zipper’s sleeping with you guys tonight,” Judy said, “so what do I care if he, you know, gets gassy?

  Real gassy.”

  Zack realized “gassy” was a grown-up word for “fart.” He tried to pull the Whopper away, but Zipper’s front paws had already trapped the wrapper.

  “Do you have your lantern, Zack?”

  “Yep.”

  Judy saw the big gas cans sitting on the ground under the tree house.

  “Do you need that much kerosene for one lantern?”

  “We might,” Zack said. “Especially at night. In the dark and all.”

  “You never rightly know,” Davy added. “Best to be prepared.”

  “Okay. But don’t stay up too late, promise?”

  “Promise,” said Zack.

  “Have fun, boys.”

  “We will, Mrs. J.!”

  Judy noticed the shadowy tarp draped over the stump. It was propped up to a pup-tent peak by the plastic statue’s head.

  “What’s with the tarp?”

  “Well, Mrs. J., I heard what that galdern old lady said to you.”

  “You did?”

  “Hard not to, what with her hollerin’ and all. I heard every nasty word that old witch had to say.”

  “Now, Davy…”

  “Ma’am, if you ask me, folks shouldn’t ought to say things like that. Dwellin’ on the sad parts of life when you ought to be livin’ each day and bein’ happy. So, if you don’t mind, we’d rather not have to look at her galdern stump and statue all week long.”

  Judy smiled. “Good night, guys.”

  “Oh, Mrs. J.? Can Zack sleep over at my place tomorrow night? I asked Pops and he says it’s okay by him if it’s okay by you.”

  “Well, we’ll see. Let me check with Zack’s father when he calls tomorrow. Good night, boys.”

  When Zack was certain Judy was gone, he turned to Davy.

  “I get to sleep over at your place tomorrow? Neat!”

  “Well, that’s the little white lie we’ll be telling your stepmom. Meanwhile, I’ll tell Pops I’m sleeping over here.”

  “Is this another part of the plan?”

  “Yep. Just because I ain’t been doin’ any drillin’, don’t mean I ain’t been doin’ any thinkin’.”

  “Cool! Want a burger?”

  “No, thanks. I ate at home.”

  Zack munched a few salty fries. Zipper padded over, hoping for seconds.

  “You sure you don’t want a burger?”

  “Positive. Let Zipper have at it.”

  “He’ll fart.”

  “I reckon he might. Just don’t light a match nowheres near his butt if he does.”

  “Yeah, he might make the kerosene explode!”

  “Dang right! And we don’t want that to happen—not till tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yep. Why do you think we’re planning us that sleepover date?”

  Judy had hired a babysitter, Nicole Murray, a teenager recommended by Mrs. Emerson.

  “Keep an eye on the boys, but try not to let them see you. I don’t want them to think I think they’re babies who need a sitter.”

  “I’ll stay inside unless I hear something.”

  “Great. And help yourself to anything in the fridge.”

  “Okay. What if I need to reach you?”

  Judy handed Nicole a slip of paper. “Call my cell.”

  “Cool. So where you going?”

  “The graveyard.”

  “Really? At night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Awesome.”

  It was ten p.m. when Judy pulled out of the Rocky Hill Farms subdivision and merged onto Highway 31.

  When she reached the crossroads, she turned left.

  She headed west for a couple hundred yards, then eased onto the soft shoulder in front of the graveyard, stopping in the same spot where she and Bud had fixed that flat tire

  Judy knew from reading the old newspapers that this was the Haddam Hill Cemetery and that Bud Heckman was buried here. None of the others who died that night were laid to rest in North Chester, but their spirits roamed around near the crossroads because that was where they had died. It didn’t really matter that some, like the Rowdy Army Men, were buried as far away as Indiana or Tennessee. Their ghosts still haunted Connecticut.

  Judy switched on her emergency flashers. She didn’t have a flat tire but thought if she pretended to be in automotive distress, Bud might show up again like he had that first time.

  Judy’s eyes quickly adapted to the darkness. She looked up the hill. Weeds and tall grass grew between weathered headstones. A spiked fence penned in the rectangular plot. Angels with frozen stone wings topped a few monuments.

  A car came up the road. Its headlights made Judy squint. When the lights passed, she could see that it was a truck, not a car. Some kind of pickup. It didn’t stop. Judy was relieved.

  She looked up at the graveyard.

  Still nothing. No Bud. No army soldiers stumbling around the headstones. No bony skeleton hands poking up through crumbling topsoil like they always did in the movies.

  Judy stepped out of her car and onto the gritty shoulder of the highway. The night was warm, the moon full. Crickets screeched their noisy lullaby. She walked into the field, felt long strands of straw whip against her jeans.

  She looked up the hill and saw the shadowy outline of a tall man.

  Behind the fence.

  He moved quickly and carried some sort of satchel: a small suitcase like you might take with you on a Greyhound bus trip from Boston to New York!

  The man slipped out of view when he crossed behind a shed-shaped mausoleum.

  Judy moved faster, crouched lower. She made her way to the fence and heard voices. Giggling. The man and now a woman. Not in the graveyard. Beyond it. Near the fence on the far side. Judy crept past the corner post and saw two silhouettes sitting on the ground, pointing up at the stars.

  “Hello?” Judy called out. “Is anybody there?”

  A woman’s voice answered: “Judy?”

  Oh, no—one of the ghosts knows my name!

  “Is that you, dear?”

  A battery-powered lantern snapped on. Judy saw Mrs. Emerson sitting with a thin man in his sixties. They were eating sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.

  “Mrs. Emerson?”

  “Hello, dear. Care for a deviled egg?”

  “No, thanks….”

  It was a picnic basket, not a suitcase.

  “We came out,” Mrs. Emerson said, “to see if there were any souls doomed for a certain term to walk the night.”

  “That’s Hamlet, right?” the man said.

  “Actually, dear, it’s the ghost of Hamlet’s father.”

  “I mean, it’s from Hamlet.”

  “Yes, dear. Judy, allow me to introduce my husband, Henry Emerson.”

  “Most folks call me Hank.”

  “That doesn’t make it right, dear.”

  “How long have you two been out here?” Judy asked.

  “Since sundown,” Mrs. Emerson said.

  Mr. Emerson winked. “She told me we were coming out to watch the submarine races.”

  Judy smiled. “Seen anything interesting?”

  The Emersons stood, brushed specks and flecks and burrs off their pants.

  “Nothing,” Mrs. Emerson said.

  “Too bad. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Indeed. After all, tomorrow will be the fiftieth anniversary of the bus accident. But tonight? Not a soul is stirring.”

  Mr. Emerson winked again. “You might say it’s totally dead!”

  Judy went home, paid the babysitter, checked on the boys and the dog asleep in the tree house, and then went upstairs to bed.

  She had forgotten all about the pickup truck that had passed by the graveyard earlier. It was now parked very close to the crossroads.

  Waiting.

  Zipper started barking.

  Zack woke up. Looked at his watc
h. It was three a.m.

  “What is it, Zip?”

  Zipper barked again. Zack struck a match and lit his lamp.

  “Lose the lantern,” Davy ordered. “Somebody’s coming. Somebody bad.”

  Zack twisted the knob to extinguish the flame.

  “Put Zipper in the bucket.” Davy remained remarkably calm. “Lower him down.”

  “All by himself?”

  “We’re heading down, too. Don’t worry, pardner. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Davy said it with cocksure confidence. “You first. Down the ladder. I’ve got you covered.” Davy pulled out his slingshot. “Hurry, pal. He’s coming.”

  Zack swung his feet around and found the ladder. He skipped a few boards on the way down and landed hard.

  Davy was already on the ground and held a finger up to his lips. “Shhh.”

  The boys could hear the ping ping of aluminum bouncing against aluminum. Davy used his right hand to gesture “to the left and down.”

  The clanging came closer. So did the voice of a crazy man who sounded a lot like the scary street people Zack remembered from New York City, the ones who marched up and down the sidewalks screaming at themselves.

  “Up the hill! No! Do it. I can’t! Chicken! Shut up!”

  Davy slipped silently under the trees without so much as snapping a twig.

  Zipper started barking again.

  Zack turned and, in a bright shaft of moonlight, saw the plumber guy who had been at the house earlier—only now he was dragging a ladder, its pulley rattling against the rungs. Ping ping. Ping ping.

  The plumber stopped, saw the boys.

  Zack saw the insane look in the guy’s eyes.

  The knife dangling off his belt.

  “This way!” Davy rambled down the slope toward the highway. Zack and Zipper ran after him.

  Billy dropped the ladder and chased after the boys. He slipped on a wet patch of leaves, lost his legs, landed on his butt.

  “Get up!” the spirit of Clint Eberhart insisted.

  “No!”

  “Come on, Billy boy—get up off the ground.”

  “No! You can’t make me do this!”

  “Kill the Jennings boy and we’re done. I promise!”

  “Up there!” Davy cried as they ran up the highway.

  “Where?” Zack was winded. If they had to run much farther, he knew he’d be lying in the middle of Route 13, wiggling and kicking like an upside-down bug.

  Davy ran faster.

  “Head for the graveyard, pardner!”

  “What? Are you crazy?”

  “Nope. But that feller chasin’ us sure is!”

  Zack dared a glance over his shoulder. The plumber was less than a hundred yards away. Zack saw a knife blade flash in the moonlight. He ran faster.

  “He’s afraid of graveyards!” Davy said when they reached the iron fence.

  “Why?”

  “Most bad eggs are.”

  “Really?”

  “You bet.”

  “How come?”

  “What’d’ya say we hop over the fence first and discuss it later?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Climb on over. Zipper can squeeze through the bars.”

  Zack wished he were better in gym class, better at running or scaling walls or climbing ropes. There was no way he could pull himself over the fence.

  “Let’s go around to the gate….”

  “Ain’t got time.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “I’m no good at—”

  “Hush. Use the crossbeams like a ladder!”

  Davy pointed and Zack saw how he might be able to scramble over the wall.

  “There you go. Easy does it. One foot at a time and alley-oop!”

  Zack hauled himself up and over.

  “Way to go!” Davy was waiting for him on the other side. Zipper had made it, too. “You should of seen ol’ Zip slipping through them bars!”

  The plumber was still coming, still screaming.

  “Follow me,” Davy said. He led Zack through the gravestones and into the deep shadow of a mammoth tomb topped with a concrete cross.

  “We’ll be safe back here.”

  “How come?”

  “Sacred ground.”

  “Hunh?”

  “The crazy ones are always scared of sacred ground.”

  Zack looked around. They were near the gate. It was wide open.

  “The gate! It’s open!”

  “Don’t worry, pardner. He can’t come in.”

  Zack couldn’t see the maniac plumber anymore, couldn’t hear his screams or his threats. All he could do was hope that Davy was right about sacred ground and that the plumber knew the rules, too.

  Billy stopped running when he reached the cemetery fence.

  “I want to go home,” he groaned. “Now.”

  “Shut up, you big baby!” he yelled at himself in the voice of Clint Eberhart.

  “I need to go home,” said Billy. “I’m exhausted.”

  “You’re like a broken record! I swear I ought to—”

  “There will be no swearing, young man. This is sacred ground.”

  Three nuns were standing behind the fence—three penguins in flowing black robes with winged white wimples on their heads.

  “Nuns?” fumed Eberhart. “I hate nuns!”

  “Hate can be very dangerous, Mr. Eberhart,” said the shortest nun. “Hate will doom you to hell for all eternity!”

  “Hah! I ain’t never going to hell, Sister. I’m going to live forever!”

  “No man lives forever.”

  “Oh, yeah? Just watch me, doll!”

  The oldest nun spoke even more serenely than the first.

  “Mr. O’Claire? Mr. William O’Claire? Can you hear me? I know the demon spirit has taken control of your body, but I hope you are in there, too. Mr. O’Claire, my name is Sister Elizabeth Synnott.”

  “Sin-snot? What kind of name is that? Do people call you Sister Boogers?”

  “Billy?” said Sister Elizabeth. “Listen carefully. Your grandmother forgives you for what the evil spirit forced you to do.”

  “What?” Billy heard the nun through the fog that always came whenever Eberhart took charge of his body.

  “Mee Maw forgives you, Billy. She told me that you were a good boy. That you visited her in the nursing home and brought her oatmeal pies and—”

  “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?”