“Oh, I’m fine. How’s Zack?”
“Fine.” She wondered whether Zack and Davy had had any visitors during their overnight stay in the graveyard. Had Bud shown up?
“We was gonna have us that sleepover at my place tonight,” Davy said. “Remember?”
“I’m all set!” Zack stood behind Judy, carrying a small gym bag.
Judy turned to Davy’s father. She knew that Billy O’Claire was no longer a threat. If the boys spent the night at Davy’s house, she and Mrs. Emerson could check out that safe-deposit box at the bank.
“Sir, are you sure you’re okay with the boys sleeping over at your house tonight?”
“Yep,” said Davy’s father.
Judy knelt down to look Zack in the eye.
“Honey, the sheriff caught the plumber,” she said.
“You figured it out, didn’t you?” Zack whispered. “You told the police how to catch him.”
“Well, I had a hunch. Turns out I was right.”
“Thank you!” He hugged her.
Judy thought about how much Zack had been hurt in his short life. There was so much she wanted to say. How she was sorry his mother had been so mean. How things were going to be different now.
But “Have fun, honey” was all she said.
From the look on Zack’s face, it might have been enough.
“We will,” he said. “Hey, you could use a little fun, too. Maybe you should go see a movie or something. I mean, Dad’s not home. I’ll be over at Davy’s. You and your librarian friend could go out to dinner or the movies or…”
Judy smiled. “Don’t worry. I know how to have fun.”
“You’re not going to stay home and watch TV, are you?”
“No. I’ll probably go hang out with Mrs. Emerson.”
“Zack?” Davy called. “Come on, pardner! We need to find us some good green switches for marshmallow roastin’!”
“I gotta go, Judy. See you tomorrow.”
Judy went inside and placed a call.
“Mrs. Emerson? Judy Magruder Jennings. I’m free this evening and I was wondering—do you think you and your husband could meet me at the bank in, say, ten minutes?”
Zack and Davy waited in the woods until they heard the garage door grind up, then grind down.
“She’s off to the movies or Mrs. Emerson’s house,” Zack said, tugging down on his Mets cap, ready for action.
“Good thing you suggested it, pardner.”
“Yeah. But what about your father? Won’t he wonder where we are?”
The boys had hung back near the stump while Davy’s dad hiked across the highway. The old man had never looked back to see if the boys were following him.
“Pops? Shoot, he’s plum tuckered out. I’ll betcha he marched straight home, plopped into bed, and forgot all about us. You grab some matches?”
“Yeah.” Zack zipped open his gym bag. “I brought the whole box.”
Sharon went down to the carriage house and kissed her baby.
“Is this your night off, girl?” her mother asked.
“No. But I had to see Aidan and make sure he was safe.”
“He’s fine. Look, Sharon—it’s a shame about the police shooting Billy, but you need to get back to the big house. Don’t give Miss Spratling any excuse to fire us!”
Miss Spratling was waiting in the darkened foyer when Sharon returned.
“Did your mother offer her sympathies on the loss of your ex-husband?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How considerate. Of course, they all mourn at first. But then life goes on, doesn’t it? After the cards and flowers and condolence calls, they all forget and you’re the only one left to mourn his death!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come along,” Miss Spratling commanded. “We must prepare the chapel. Father Murphy is on his way.”
Sharon had never been allowed to enter the Spratling family chapel before. It was also the one room her mother had never cleaned. In fact, no one was ever permitted inside the chapel except Miss Spratling herself. But tonight was the fiftieth anniversary.
Tonight was special.
Judy and Mrs. Emerson were sitting in a conference room, staring at the long metal tray they had removed from the safe-deposit room.
Hank Emerson, head of security for North Chester First Federal, had the second key needed to open the double-locked box. Now he was in the security office, making sure the bank’s surveillance cameras were sweeping the parking lot, vault, and lobby while ignoring the conference room.
Judy raised the hinged lid. A brown envelope was tucked inside the narrow box. She undid the flap clasp and discovered what looked like a high school term paper: a typewritten report tucked inside a clear plastic binder with a slip-on spine. The lettering was blurry: a carbon copy off an old typewriter.
Judy knew they had found the missing link.
The Greyhound Bus Incident
A Search for Justice
Compiled by
Sheriff James K. Jennings
September 2, 1983
I am composing this report to work through the remorse I feel over the deaths of Thomas O’Claire and his wife, Alice, whom I shot outside Spratling Manor, leaving their infant son, William, an orphan.
1958
Julius Spratling had a problem with his only child, his daughter, Gerda. At age twenty-two the woman had no romantic prospects and, being considered somewhat homely, seemed doomed to live out herdays as a spinster.
In an attempt to pacify his daughter, Julius Spratling hired a suitor: a cocky young custodian from his factory named Clint Eberhart.
Mr. Eberhart loved to flirt with the factory girls, often inviting them to join him for makeout sessions in an abandoned machine shop behind the factory.
Julius Spratling offered Mr. Eberhart a lucrative payday if he married Gerda. Mr. Eberhart agreed but failed to mention to Mr. Spratling that he was, in fact, already married.
Eberhart proposed to Gerda and their engagement was announced in all the local papers.
On the afternoon of June 21, 1958, a butler summoned Mr. Spratling to the telephone for a call from Sister Elizabeth Synnott. The nun ran a home for women in need in Middleford, Massachusetts. One of her residents had seen the engagement announcement in the newspaper and claimed that Clint Eberhart was her husband, who had abandoned her several months earlier, leaving her poor and destitute. She then told the nun that she was pregnant with Mr. Eberhart’s child.
Sister Elizabeth knew the girl named Mary making this accusation to be honest and trustworthy. She informed Mr. Spratling that she would publicly protest the upcoming nuptials.
Mr. Spratling challenged her. “Prove it,” he said. “Let this girl make these slanderous allegations to my face!”
Sister Elizabeth advised him that Mary (O’Claire) Eberhart would be coming down to North Chester on the next bus. She and two of her colleagues would serve as chaperones for the frightened young woman.
Mr. Spratling confronted Mr. Eberhart with this news. The fact that Mr. Eberhart was already married didn’t seem to trouble Mr. Spratling. The butler heard him declare, “I don’t care about that! A deal is a deal! Clean up your mess. You will marry my daughter, but first you must get rid of this other woman!”
Eberhart caught up to the bus when it made its regular stop at a filling station near Crawford. While several passengers boarded, Mr. Eberhart searched for Mary. When he saw where she was seated, he began to pound on her window and cursed her for trying to rob him of his “biggest paycheck ever.”
Six members of the United States Army who were passengers on the bus chased Eberhart away.
Mr. Eberhart, however, did not give up. He pursued the bus in his convertible.
At this point, the bus driver used atwo-way radio to make an urgent request for help. A Connecticut State Police motorcycle officer responded to the call.
Meanwhile, Mr. Eberhart took a shortcutto the intersection of Route 13 and Highway 31, w
here he presumably planned to force the bus to a stop so he could board it and “take care” of Mary. A charred swing-blade knife was found in the wreckage of his vehicle.
The motorcycle cop arrived at the crossroads first.
When Mr. Eberhart saw the police officer, he apparently changed his plan. No longer content to stop the bus, he drove toward the intersection in a manner clearly intended to run the Greyhound off the road.
Officer Mulgrew was hit by Eberhart’s speeding vehicle, fell face-first to the pavement, and became trapped underneath the chassis as the Thunderbird sped toward the bus in the crossroads.
However, after hitting the police officer and then the bus, Eberhart lost control of his own vehicle. His car flew up into the forest, where it plowed into a massive oak tree.
According to an eyewitness, the bus slid off the highway and came to rest in a cornfield, where it exploded like a “galdern ball of fire.”
The eyewitness put the time of death “for all them folks on the bus” at ten minutes before ten, “give or take a minute or two.”
Mary (O’Claire) Eberhart was the only survivor.
CONCLUSIONS
Miss O’Claire (she understandably reverted to her maiden name after the incident) first told me about these events when I went to offer her condolences on the death of her son, Thomas, the young man I shot outside Spratling Manor.
I told her I was sorry for what I had done. Much to my surprise, Miss O’Claire said it was all her fault.
Apparently, she had decided in June of 1983 (on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Greyhound bus tragedy) to tell her son for the first time what his father (Mr. Clint Eberhart) had done.
Mary’s revelations had the unintended consequence of making Tommy covet the money Julius Spratling had promised Eberhart. He figured that as Eberhart’s only surviving heir, he was entitled to payment for the services his father performed back in 1958.
As you know, Mr. Spratling, you did not see matters the same way.
When Tommy threatened to disclose your long-buried secrets, you called the police and demanded that we take care of the situation. You claimed you were being blackmailed.
In truth, you knew Mary O’Claire was a recluse who would never tell anybody what you and Eberhart had conspired to do. Her son and his wife were your final threats. No wonder you were so pleased when I killed them both.
Shame on you, sir.
Their blood and the blood of all Eberhart’s victims is on your hands.
At that point in the narrative, the type changed color. It was no longer a blurry carbon copy but a black-ink original.
ADDENDUM
Yesterday, at eight p.m., I presented the original of this report to Mr. Julius Spratling. He told me he would read it.
Apparently, he did.
Last night, Mr. Spratling committed suicide.
I see no need to publicly tarnish the Spratling name or to reveal what I know to his only survivor, his daughter, Gerda, a woman who has spent so many years mourning the death of her “beloved” fiancé, perpetuating the lie initiated by her father.
Therefore, my report shall remain unpublished. The dead have been avenged. It is time for the living to move on.
I would, however, like to acknowledge those who helped me compile this report.
First, Ms. Mary O’Claire. It took a great deal of courage for her to relive that terrifying night.
I would also like to thank the newspaper reporters, the former Spratling Clockworks employees, the Greyhound bus personnel, the North Chester Public Library, and all those who helped me piece together the truth from 1958.
Finally, I would like to thank Mr. David Wilcox. As a young boy of ten, he was at the crossroads that night. This is the first time he has told anyone what he witnessed. In 1958, no one thought to ask the young boy any questions. After he read about the shootings of Tommy and Alice, he came forward to tell me everything he remembered about the original incident. I’m glad he did. If it wasn’t for Mr. Wilcox’s eyewitness account, we might never have known what actually happened at the crossroads.
“We should talk to Mr. Wilcox,” said Judy. “If he was ten back in 1958, he’d be only what now? Sixty?”
“I’m afraid that might prove somewhat difficult,” said Mrs. Emerson.
“There’s a Wilcox family that lives close to our house. Their son plays with my stepson. Maybe they’re related.”
“Unfortunately, this particular Wilcox passed away a few years back. Tractor accident. He was a farmer. In fact, he owned all the land on both sides of the highway near your home. Rocky Hill Farms? That’s what Davy Wilcox called his place.”
“Davy?”
“Yes.”
“What about Davy’s father?”
“Oh, he died ages ago. I remember meeting him when I was a child. A man of very few words, he always wore this Huckleberry Finn straw hat….”
Judy stood up from the table. “I have to go home.”
“Is something wrong, dear?”
“Yes. Davy Wilcox is my stepson’s best friend. And—he’s only ten!”
Zack pulled the blue tarp off the stump.
The kerosene fumes that had been trapped underneath flew up and seared his nostrils.
“Wow! That stinks!” He fanned the air with his baseball cap.
“Yep,” said Davy. “Like a gas jockey’s grimy green jumpsuit!”
The holes sunk into the stump were full of kerosene. There were three ten-pound sacks of charcoal leaning against the trees under the tree house and one propane grill hidden in the shrubs off to the side.
“The other fellers help out with the charcoal?” Davy asked.
“Yeah.”
“Say, Zack?”
“Yeah?”
Davy pointed to the rolling grill with its attached white tank. “What’s that?”
“One of the guys’ fathers doesn’t use charcoal, so he dragged their gas grill all the way over here.”
“What the blazes was he thinking?”
“I dunno. I guess he figured a grill’s a grill.”
“About as sharp as a bowling ball, ain’t he?”
“Yeah.” Zack laughed as he dumped the first dusty bag of briquettes over the stump.
It felt good to laugh. He didn’t care whether his dead mother saw him having fun: Davy Wilcox was the best friend he had ever had in his whole life.
The priest parked his Lincoln Town Car in front of Spratling Manor.
Sharon met him under the sagging portico. She held a flickering candle.
“Miss Spratling is waiting in the chapel. She apologizes for not sending her chauffeur to pick you up, but Mr. Willoughby is otherwise engaged.”
Sharon led the priest down twisting corridors to the library and took him to a mahogany wall panel set between two towering bookcases.
“This way.”
She pressed against the wall and a secret door slid open. The priest ducked his head and followed Sharon down the dark tunnel. Up ahead, he could see the fluttering light of more candles.
They neared the Spratling family chapel.
Tonight the priest would say prayers for Clint Eberhart, whose soul had departed this earthly realm fifty years ago this very night.
Or so the priest had been told.
Zack pushed the button on his watch to illuminate the dial.
“It’s 9:52,” he said. “Just like the clock in the tower, hunh?”
“Yep,” Davy said. “Light her up!”
Zack held the box of matches.
“You do it,” he said.
“What?”
“You light it. I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what, pardner?”
“I dunno. What if the stump explodes or something?”
“Kerosene don’t explode. You’re thinkin’ gasoline.”
“You do it! Okay? Please?”
Davy shook his head. “Nope. It’s up to you. You’re the chosen one, Zack.”
“Me? Why?”
“What do I tell Judy when she—”
“We’ll worry about that later. Light ’er up!”
Zack’s hands were shaking so much he rattled the matchbox. He finally worked the lid open, pulled out a wooden Blue Tip, and scratched it along the strike pad. The match sparked but wouldn’t light.
“Try again,” urged Davy.
Zack snapped the match sharp and quick. The head flared to life and he flicked it at the stump. A small spot of blue flame erupted on the edge of a single clump of charcoal. Fire spread slowly at first, creeping across the briquettes, then—whump! The flames found the fuel-soaked wood.
“We’re in business!” said Davy.
“Yeah.” Zack brought his arm up to shield his face from the fire’s intense heat. “You think we poured in too much kerosene?”
“Nah. It’ll settle down.”
A bell rang in the distance.
“Oh, no! Is that your father?”
“Dang. I reckon he finally figured out that we didn’t follow him home. I’ll go deal with him. You stay here.”
“What?”
“See you later, Zack. And thank you. Thank you kindly.”
“For what?”
“Doin’ what needed to be done.” Davy ran down the hill to the highway.
“Wait!” Zack heard the fire roar behind him, heard a hiss when it boiled what little water remained inside the old lady’s flower bucket. The white cross’s knotty wood popped like corn in the microwave.
“Davy?”
The flames shot higher and filled the black sky with burning red stars.
“Davy!”
No one answered.
Davy was gone.
“Oh, my.”
The priest had never been inside the chapel before. It was a smallish room with four wooden pews facing a marble altar.
Gerda Spratling knelt in the front pew, dressed in a flowing white gown, her head covered by a bridal veil. A rack of fifty ruby votive candles flickered in front of her. But what amazed the priest most were the other statues.
The Crossroads Page 14