“Might be dangerous,” said Zack.
“Might be fun!” his father said. “C’mon, Zack. Bring Zipper. He’ll protect us.” He got up and pulled a flashlight out of its recharging cradle near the back door. Judy grabbed her jean jacket. Zipper barked.
Zack had no choice.
He had to journey once again into the evil woods fringing his backyard. And this time, he’d have to do it in the dark.
Great.
But then he realized something: This time, he wouldn’t be alone. This time, his whole family was coming with him.
“You’re right, Dad. Let’s go see who’s out there!”
“My guess is a lost cat,” Zack’s father said as they made their way across the backyard. “Probably heard Curiosity Cat moved in next door.”
“It’s probably just somebody playing with a flashlight,” said Judy.
“Nah. Too bright for a flashlight,” said Zack’s father. “I’m figuring it’s a train that ran off the tracks and is making all local stops.”
The beam hit them like the searchlight in a prison movie.
“Don’t shoot!” Zack’s dad said dramatically, and held up his hands. “We surrender!”
“That the boy?” asked a voice from behind the unbelievably bright light.
“That’s him, Pops. Hey, Zack!”
“Hey, Davy,” Zack said. Zipper wagged his tail.
“These your folks?”
“Yep. My dad and my stepmom.”
“Hiya, folks,” Davy said. “Sorry if we gave you a scare. Wanted my pops to take a gander at our tree house.”
The light lowered. A rail-thin farmer stood next to Davy. He wore a tattered Huck Finn straw hat with salty white sweat ringing its crown.
“Howdy,” the farmer said.
“Hi. I’m George Jennings. This is my wife, Judy. My son, Zack. And, of course, Zipper.”
Zipper wagged his tail.
“That’s my pops,” said Davy. “He don’t talk much. Right, Pops?”
“Yep.”
“But he sure wanted to see what we built up in the tree today.”
“Me too.” Zack’s dad aimed his flashlight at the crooked boards and uneven floor. “That it?”
“Sure is, Mr. Jennings. Ain’t she something?”
“That’s our pirate ship!” Zack said. “See? There’s the ladder like you have to climb to get to the crow’s nest.”
Zack’s father nodded. “Very nice.”
“Davy, would you and your father like some ice cream?” Judy asked. “I could put on a pot of coffee.”
“No thanks, ma’am. We need to head on back. Pops just wanted to meet my new buddy, Zack.”
“Yep.”
“Well, it was very nice to meet you both,” said Judy.
“It was swell meeting you, too, Mrs. J. Zack sure is lucky to have such a nice new mom. Pretty as a galdern picture postcard, too.”
“Well, aren’t you the little charmer?”
“No, ma’am. I just call ’em like I see ’em. See you tomorrow, Zack!”
The old farmer nodded and touched his straw hat to say “So long.” He and Davy disappeared into the shadows.
“Nice boy,” Zack’s father said.
“Sure is,” said Zack.
“Do all the kids up here talk that way?”
“Nope. Just Davy. He’s a farmer. And he was born in Kentucky.”
“Oh. I see.”
“I’m glad I met him,” Judy said, draping an arm across Zack’s shoulder. “He seems like a great guy.”
“He is. Oh—guess what? He told me he loves cherry Kool-Aid.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“I was a grape man myself,” Zack’s dad said as he rested his hand on Zack’s other shoulder. “Used to pour the powder on my tongue straight from the pouch!”
“Well,” said Judy, “I haven’t had any kind of galdern Kool-Aid in ages, but maybe I could pick some up at the galdern store.”
“That would be swell,” said Zack. “Just swell.”
“Oh, Daddy! The son has come home!”
Gerda Spratling tottered around her bed in the mansion’s library.
Mondays were always difficult. This, however, was the worst Monday ever. Today she had learned that the loathsome sheriff’s son had come home to haunt her.
Miss Spratling’s life had ended when her fiancé, Clint Eberhart, was killed in the crossroads. It ended again twenty-five years later when her father committed suicide. Death surrounded Gerda Spratling. Her whole life was nothing now but a long, slow crawl toward the grave, where she prayed she would be reunited with the two men she had lost.
Memories and anger. That was all she had left, all that dragged her out of bed every morning.
But George Jennings? He must be so happy. Married to that pretty young thing with the flowers. Moving into a handsome new home.
She stared up at the highest bookshelf, at the rolling ladder, up to where her father had hanged himself.
“Sheriff Jennings made you do it, Daddy! I know he did!” She lurched across the room toward the ladder and wrapped one bony hand around a rung to hoist herself up.
“Daddy? Can you hear me? Daddy?”
Her foot slipped. She banged her chin against the sharp edge of a step. Warm blood trickled where she had bitten into her lip.
“Miss Spratling?”
Sharon rushed into the room and saw Miss Spratling sprawled out on the floor. “Let’s get you up from there, ma’am.”
“Get your hands off me, girl! Bring me my book!”
Sharon found the antique Bible on the bedside table and handed it to Miss Spratling. The old woman pried open the cracked leather cover and quickly located her most cherished passage.
Exodus. Chapter thirty-four. Verse seven.
The only words in the whole Bible that gave her any comfort:
“He does not leave the guilty unpunished; He punishes the children and their children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation.”
To the third and fourth generation.
That meant God would punish the son for what his father, the sheriff, had done. God would also punish the son’s son, the little brat with the filthy dog.
Miss Spratling only prayed that God would let her help.
Billy pulled his pickup truck into the parking lot of the old folks’ home a little before midnight.
The guy with the slicked-back hair wasn’t with him. He didn’t cruise along behind Billy’s truck in the phantom Thunderbird. He didn’t even show himself.
He didn’t have to do any of that anymore.
He and Billy had become one. Some kind of transference had taken place, and Clint Eberhart’s soul was able to slide into Billy’s body to take full control of everything the plumber said or did.
Billy stepped out of his truck and made his way to the bushes outside his grandmother’s bedroom window.
“Mee Maw?” Billy rapped his knuckles against the window. He could see her bed on the far side of the room, as far from the window as possible.
“Mee Maw?” Billy tapped louder. His thumb ring pinged sharply against the glass. “Open the window.”
He sensed movement underneath the blankets. Saw her small white head turn on the pillow. She was only half-awake but staring straight at him. He held up a box of oatmeal pies.
“I brung you Little Debbies, Mee Maw,” he said. “A whole dozen!”
His grandmother beamed. “Billy? Is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am, Mee Maw!” His smile looked more like a leer.
“Such a dear, sweet boy.”
Mee Maw slowly crawled out of bed, found her slippers, and shuffled to the window.
“Well done, Billy boy,” said the voice inside Billy’s head. “Well done.”
Mary O’Claire sat perched on her bed, nibbling a spongy oatmeal pie.
She smelled the familiar scent.
Brylcreem.
“Who are you?” s
he muttered to her grandson.
“Me? Why, I’m your grandson. Billy O’Claire.” The young man, who didn’t sound at all like Billy tonight, sat in an orange vinyl chair next to her bed.
“You’re not my grandson!”
“Yes, I am. I’m Billy! Your grown-up grandbaby.”
“No. You may look like Billy, but that’s not who you really are!”
“Is that so?” The evil spirit inside Billy’s body made his wicked grin grow wider. “Well, then, who do you think I am?”
Mary trembled. “You’re him.”
“Him who?”
Mary put one hand to her chest. She felt her ribs tighten and squeeze most of the air out of her lungs. She knew who was sitting in the room with her.
“You’re my husband,” she gasped. “Clint Eberhart. I can see his evil in your eyes.”
“Well, well, well. You’re pretty sharp for a dried-up old biddy,” said Billy, speaking the words the dark spirit of Clint Eberhart dictated. “I’m surprised you’re still alive. And don’t call me your husband. I dumped you a long time ago. Remember?”
“We weren’t divorced….”
“Oh? Then why’d you change your name back to O’Claire?”
“After what you did, I couldn’t stand being called Mary Eberhart!”
“Cut the gas, doll. I don’t need to hear your noise.”
“You’re evil, Clint. Pure evil!”
“Yeah? Well, I could’ve been evil and rich, but you had to butt in and ruin everything!”
“I told Sheriff Jennings the truth!” Mary whispered. “There were children on that bus, Clint. Children!”
“So? You ask me, you’re the one who killed ’em all! If you hadn’t called Mr. Spratling, nobody would’ve died!”
Mary could hear her heart pounding. It sounded like it had moved up to her skull. It sounded like it might explode.
“Sheriff Jennings knew everything, Clint. I finally told him—after he shot my son.”
“Son? Wait—let me guess. You married some other sap?”
“I never remarried, Clint. My son was your son.”
“That’s impossible!”
“The night you died, I was six months pregnant.”
“No, you weren’t! I never had no son!”
“Yes, you did. You just never met him.”
“You’re lying!”
“No, Clint. Lying is a sin.”
“Really? The nuns teach you that?”
Mary nodded.
“So how come you never told me about this baby?”
“Because you abandoned me, Clint. When you and Mr. Spratling cut your deal!” Mary shook her head. “No wonder my boy went bad. Like father, like son!”
“Shut up, you old hag!”
“No!” It was Billy. The real Billy. Fighting back. He wanted to hear more. Learn about his father. His grandmother could sense that he was struggling to regain control of his body.
She smiled gently. “Are you in there, Billy? If so, remember that I love you. No matter what.”
“Shut up!” Eberhart was back. “No more talking!”
Eberhart’s spirit made Billy’s body rise from the chair. Made him stretch out his arms and moan so fiercely that it shook the windowpanes and knocked a drinking glass off the bedside table.
“Die, old woman!” he roared. “Die like you should’ve died fifty years ago on that bus!”
Then Clint Eberhart allowed his real body to materialize inside the room. He became a mushrooming cloud of red-hot rage hovering over Mary O’Claire. He moved his ghostly hands toward the old woman’s throat as if he would strangle her.
It was enough to scare Mary O’Claire to death.
That week’s front page of the North Chester Telegraph ran a feature story about Mary O’Claire.
“MIRACLE MARY” DIES
NORTH CHESTER—“Miracle Mary” O’Claire, the sole survivor of the Greyhound bus accident of June 21, 1958, died in her sleep at the County Rest Home on Monday night.
She was called Miracle Mary because she walked away from the infamous bus wreck that killed 38 passengers, the driver, and the occupant of the Ford Thunderbird it collided with. She was the only survivor.
Miracle Mary boarded the Greyhound Scenicruiser in Massachusetts. When the bus neared North Chester, it was broadsided by a Ford Thunderbird convertible driven by a Spratling Clockworks employee named Clint Eberhart. Mr. Eberhart had been traveling south on Highway 31. The bus was headed east on Route 13. A state motorcycle trooper was also killed that night, raising the total number of casualties to 41.
The accident, still the worst in county history, led to public safety hearings and the installation of a blinking red light at the crossroads of 13 and 31.
After escaping the bus wreck uninjured, Mary O’Claire disappeared from the public spotlight. Her son, born three months after the accident, later achieved his own notoriety.
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.
Miracle Mary is survived by one grandson, William O’Claire, a plumber who still works in the North Chester area. Mr. O’Claire could not be reached for comment.
Zack stood barefoot on top of the rock jutting out over the swimming hole.
“Jump in, sport!” Davy floated in the water below. “There ain’t nothin’ to be scared of!”
“I didn’t see you jump in!” Zack shouted to Davy.
“Don’t worry. Water’s over ten feet deep. You won’t crack open your head bone!”
“But the water’s freezing!”
“Wait for the sun. Here it comes. Clouds are partin’! Jump, Zack! Jump!”
For the first time in his life, Zack did something he knew was extremely foolish. He went running across the slick stone and kept running after he reached its edge.
“Geronimo!” He plunged feetfirst into the frigid pool and sent up a foamy geyser.
It was dark and cold underwater. Zack should have been terrified, but instead he felt exhilarated. His toes touched the slimy creek bottom, so he pushed off and kicked his way back to the surface.
“Whoo-hoo!” he screamed through a rush of bubbles when he sprang up. “Whoo-hoo!”
“By jingo, you did it, Zack! You dove off Dead Man’s Bluff.”
“I want to do it again!”
“All rightie. Have at it!”
Zack swam to the shore and hauled himself out of the water. The pockets of his cargo shorts bloated out into water balloons.
“This time, I’m gonna do a cannonball!”
Zack clambered up the cliff and took off running. He leapt and kicked and climbed into the air. He tucked his knees up to his chest and screamed as he plummeted into the briny depths of the bounding main. He smacked the top of the water with a stinging, thumping whack.
“Whoo-hoo!”
When Zack bobbed back up to the surface, he saw Davy in the woods, pulling on his overalls.
“Hey, where you goin’?” In the distance, Zack could hear a bell softly chiming.
“Pops is ringing the bell. Must need me to do some chores.”
“What? It’s Saturday. Nobody works on Saturdays.”
“Farmers do.”
“Oh. But what about the big plan?”
“You know what we need next.”
“Sure, but…”
“You’ll find it just where I said.”
“But…”
“What’s wrong, Zack? Somethin’s troublin’ you, I can tell.”
“Promise you won’t laugh?” Zack climbed out of the pond and pulled his T-shirt off the branch where he had hung it.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Well, what if…” Zack hesitated.
“What if what?”
“What if Kyle Snertz sees me?”
“That don’t make
no nevermind.”
“It doesn’t, hunh?”
“That boy’s all wax and no wick. If he gives you any guff, just give it right back.”
“How?”
“I reckon you could always pants him.”
“Pants him?”
“Yes, sir. Just pull down his trousers and show everybody his underwear! That usually works.”
“Really?” Zack sounded doubtful.
“Or you could give him a wedgie. Tug real hard and pull his underpants up into his butt crack.”
“I see.”
Zack wished Davy had some better ideas on how to defend himself against Kyle Snertz. Ideas that didn’t involve underwear.
“Pants him or pull a wedgie, hunh?”
“Yes, sir. Either one will do the trick.”
The bell tolled louder in the distance.
“Jiminy Christmas, I best run. See you later, pardner!”
Davy scampered up the hillside and disappeared into the forest. That meant Zack would have to face his demons alone.
Especially the one named Kyle Snertz.
Judy sat on the back porch with the newspaper, a yellow legal pad, and a big jug of sun tea.
George was at his office in New York—even though it was Saturday—making final arrangements for his trip to Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia, on Monday night. Zack was off playing with Davy. Judy was ready to start working her puzzle.
On her pad, she had already jotted down some notes from her conversation with Gerda Spratling: June 21, 1958. Clint.
Now she added some items she had circled in the newspaper story about Miracle Mary O’Claire: Greyhound bus accident. June 21, 1958. Thirty-nine dead on bus. Clint Eberhart dead in Thunderbird. Motorcycle cop killed. Intersection of 13 and 31.
She sipped some tea.
Miss Spratling’s Clint had to be this Clint Eberhart. He died after his car collided with the bus in the crossroads.
She remembered something else Miss Spratling had said: “They ran him off the road.”
Probably up the embankment and into the oak tree.
She wanted to go find Bud. The neighbor who had helped fix her flat tire. He worked for Greyhound. Maybe he knew more of the story. She also wanted to go see Mrs. Emerson down at the library, see what she could find in the local history books and old newspapers.
The Crossroads Page 8