“Exactly.”
“What’s that smell?” Hargrove sniffed the peppery air.
“Kerosene.” Judy saw Zack’s lantern shattered on the ground. “They must have dropped it.” Judy scanned the backyard, saw some bent branches. Footprints. “They ran that way. The dog went after them.” She pointed at paw prints in the mud and then a grooved indentation left by a big boot. “So did the plumber.” Judy saw more dog tracks. “This way,” she said.
“Wait a second. It might be best if—”
“This way!”
The sheriff followed Judy down a trail the boys had ripped through the underbrush. When they reached the highway, they saw the plumber’s pickup parked on the shoulder.
“Stay back. Behind that tree there. Now. Go.”
He approached the vehicle. “Mr. O’Claire? Mr. O’Claire?”
There was no response.
“He’s not here!”
Judy squinted, looked up and down Route 13.
“See that tall grass near the graveyard?” she said. “It’s been trampled down!”
“Yeah.” Hargrove started jogging. Judy ran after him. She was faster.
“Zack?” Judy yelled between breaths. “Zack!”
A dog barked.
“Zipper?” she called out.
The dog barked louder. Judy and the sheriff crested cemetery hill. She saw Zack standing behind the railings.
“Zack!”
Hargrove ran around the fence, found the gate. Judy worked her arms through the bars so she could hug Zack.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
“Where’s Davy? Is Davy okay?”
“Davy went home,” Zack said. “The farm bell rang. He had chores to do.”
Sheriff Hargrove worked his way through the graveyard and stood next to Zack and Zipper. “Are you okay, son?”
“Yeah. It was the plumber. He wanted to kill us, so we ran away.”
The sheriff scanned the horizon. “Where’d he go?”
“I don’t know. We hid behind a tombstone all night long.”
“Good for you!” said Judy.
She silently vowed that she’d never let Zack out of her sight again, not until he was eighteen—no, twenty-one!
Judy and Zack sat in the breakfast nook, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Zack had a tall glass of cold milk, Judy iced tea. Zipper lay patiently on the floor, dreaming about peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“Your dad should be calling soon,” Judy said.
“I’m sorry I ran away.”
“You did the right thing.”
“Dad will just think I’m a scaredy-cat.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Do we have to tell him?”
“Well, I think he’ll want to know.”
“He thought I wouldn’t go into her room because I was scared to see her dying and all.”
“Your mom?”
“Yeah. She hated me.”
“No, she didn’t, honey. She had cancer and they were giving her all sorts of medicines and that can make people say and do—”
“Judy?”
“Yes?”
“My mother hated me before she ever got sick.” Zack fiddled with the crust on his sandwich.
“You want to tell me about it?” Judy asked.
“You won’t think I’m just making it up?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Okay. I never told anybody any of this. Not even my dad.”
“You can tell me.”
Zack realized maybe he could. “Okay. My mom said I made her life miserable and stole my dad away from her. And the cigarettes that killed her? She only smoked them on account of me. Cigarettes were the only pleasure she had left in her whole life, and the more miserable I made her, the more cigarettes she had to smoke. So I tried to stay away from her, honest, I did, especially when she got the cancer, so she wouldn’t have to smoke so much but she said even when I wasn’t there she could still see me because she had minions—these evil servants who spied on me. Like the Wicked Witch has those flying monkeys, my mom had her minions so she could always see what I was up to.”
“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.
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.
“Who am I?” The man laughed. “Why, I just happen to be the proud father of your bouncing baby boy.” He put on his cutest, dimpled smile. “We were married for a while. Remember, dolly?”
Embarrassed, Sharon nodded. “Yes.”
“You two were married?” Miss Spratling fanned herself. “My, my, my, Sharon. Keeping secrets? My, my, my.”
“I need to see my boy, Shari. Need to see Aidan real bad.”
“No.”
The man pursed his lips. “Purdy, purdy please?”
“No.”
Sharon remembered Billy’s plea: “No matter what I say. No matter what I do. Don’t let me anywhere near Aidan.”
“Why do you wish to see Aidan at this hour?” Miss Spratling twirled a strand of stringy hair around her wrinkled finger. “What’s your tale, nightingale?”
The man smiled a devilish grin. “Do you know where my boy is, Gerdy?”
“Miss Spratling, please,” begged Sharon. “Don’t tell him!”
“Of course I know where Aidan is, dearie. I know everything.”
“Good. ’Cause I need to see my boy. Need to see him real bad.”
“Get out of here, Billy! I mean it! Leave!”
Billy laughed. “I need your son, Shari. This Billy body is no good for me anymore. Won’t do what I tell it to do.”
He lunged at Sharon.
She kicked over a chair and ran.
Sharon dashed through the pantry, darted right, and raced across the dining room.
She veered left and headed down a long hall into the old ballroom. There were doors on all sides of the vast, empty space. She took the one that would take her past the library, through the portrait gallery, into the foyer, and out to the driveway. Once outside, she’d race to the carriage house and save her son.
Sharon realized she had only one advantage over her pursuer: She knew her way around the ratty old mansion in the dark; he didn’t. But she could hear Billy behind her. Stumbling. Cursing every time he crashed into furniture.
Sharon made it to the front door. As she grabbed the doorknob, she felt a push.
Someone was on the other side, trying to get in!
Had Billy crawled through a window? Was he outside?
Sharon let go of the knob and backed away from the door.
“Hello?” came a man’s voice from the other side. “Is somebody there?”
“Yes?” Sharon was shaking.
“I’m Sheriff Ben Hargrove with the North Chester Police,” said the voice. “May we come in?”
“Yes. Please! Hurry!”
“Ma’am, we have reason to suspect that—”
“He’s here!” Sharon screamed. She could see there were three police cars in the driveway.
“Billy O’Claire?”
“Yes! He’s here!”
Hargrove turned to a female officer standing behind him in the doorway. “Mary Beth?”
“Got her. Ma’am?” The female officer grabbed Sharon and escorted her out of the building.
Hargrove pressed a button on his walkie-talkie.
“Jimmy?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You and Dave cover the side. Keep an eye on the windows.”
“Will do.”
“Springer?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You and Bull cover me. I’m going in.”
“Ten four.”
“The woman is secure,” the female officer’s voice crackled from the walkie-talkie. “I’ll cover the front door.”
Hargrove pulled out a high-intensity torchlight and moved forward. He stepped into a dusty corridor that looked like it might be the Spratling family gallery. Ancient portraits lined all the walls.
“You like the paintings?” Eberhart made Billy O’Claire snarl.
Hargrove swung his light to the right.
O’Claire was standing in front of a painting. He held a knife.
“Drop the weapon. We have you surrounded.”
Billy jammed his blade into a crusty canvas portrait of Julius Spratling and tugged down to slice a long gash through the dignified old man’s head and chest.
“Cheapskate! Old man Spra
tling was a penny-pinching welsher, never paid people what they were owed!”
“Mr. O’Claire, put down the knife.” Hargrove raised his weapon.
Billy’s eyes twitched. “Shoot me! Please? Stop me!”
“Drop the knife and nobody needs to shoot anybody.”
“You don’t understand. It’s the only way.” He gagged. “Don’t listen to this coward! I can’t take this anymore! Shut up! Shoot me!”
Billy dropped the knife and clutched his head. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
Hargrove holstered his pistol and reached behind his back for a pair of handcuffs.
“What do you think you’re doing, fuzz?”
“Let’s take this nice and easy.”
“No way, copper! You’ll never take me alive!”
“Freeze!”
Billy ran to the foyer, where he saw the swirling red lights of police cars pouring in through the open front door.
“Freeze!” he heard Hargrove yell.
Billy didn’t freeze. He raced out the front door. He was going to end this once and for all. He was going to save his son!
The police took him down with a single bullet. Billy O’Claire died in the driveway of Spratling Manor—right where his father and mother had died twenty-five years before him.
The phone rang. Judy snatched it up.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Jennings? Ben Hargrove. I just wanted to let you know we got him.”
“Mr. O’Claire?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You have him in custody?”
“No. He’s dead. You were right. He came after Miss Spratling. He sounded crazy. Talking to himself. And he had a knife.”
“I’m sorry you had to—”
“Yes, ma’am. Me too. Anyhow, I thought you and Zack would like to know.”
“Thank you.”
Judy knew there was still one piece of the puzzle missing. She also knew she held the key to cracking it.
Literally.
She squeezed the tiny bank key in her hand.
A bright beacon of light swung across the kitchen windows. Judy went to the back door.
“Davy? Is that you?”
“Howdy, Mrs. J.! You remember my pops?”
“Well, I certainly remember his flashlight.” Judy shaded her eyes. “Are you okay, Davy? After last night?”
The Crossroads Page 13