The Crossroads (14 page)

“Where have
you been? You and me need to talk!”

Billy O'Claire sat in his tattered La-Z-Boy recliner. It was midnight and he had been trying to watch TV when Clint Eberhart materialized like some alien beamed up on
Star Trek
.

“What do you mean, where have I been?” asked Clint. “I've been inside your body ever since we went to visit the old lady.”

“That was Monday, man.”

“So?”

“This is Saturday! Buy a watch, dude. One with a calendar!”

Clint grinned. “You have a bad attitude, boy.”

“Yeah. Like father, like son.”

Clint moved closer. There was a hungry look in his hypnotic eyes. “I need you, Billy. Need your body.”

“So do I. Go get your own.”

“Sorry. I'd have to dig it up, and I don't even know where I'm buried.”

“Maybe you weren't. Maybe your car was burned to a crisp after it hit that bus and there was nothing left of you but a greasy stain!”

“Doesn't matter. I'll use yours.”

“My car?”

“Your body!”

“Sorry. You can't have it. Like I said: I'm already using it.”

Clint Eberhart grinned devilishly. “You're flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, Billy. That's why it's so easy for me to slip inside your head and take control, make you do whatever I want you to do. We're family!”

Now it was Billy's turn to laugh. “Family? You scared my grandmother to death!”

“She should've died decades ago!”

“I take it you two had ‘issues'?”

“Mary O'Claire ruined my big score! Why couldn't she just die like everybody else on that bus?”

“Don't know. But, personally, I'm kind of glad she didn't. Otherwise I wouldn't be here right now, would I? And we wouldn't be having this conversation, which I can't believe we're doing, anyhow! I mean, what are you? Some kind of Halloween ghost? A zombie? One of those soul suckers from the comic books? Are you even here now, or am I just going crazy?”

Eberhart narrowed his icy blue eyes. “Tell me about my son.”

“Who's he?”

“Your father, lamebrain.”

“Oh. Right. What do you want to know?”

“How about his name?”

“Thomas. But most people called him Tommy.”

“And your mother?”

“Alice. She and my father both got themselves killed when I was a baby.”

“How? How did they die?”

“Cop shot 'em.”

“What?”

“On his twenty-fifth birthday, Mee Maw finally told my father who
his
father was. In other words, I guess she told him all about
you
and, for whatever reason, Tommy figured Mr. Spratling owed our family some money, so he set off to collect the cash.”

“Go on.”

“Tommy and Alice went over to Spratling Manor and demanded to see old man Spratling. The security guards told them to vacate the premises. My father threatened the guards. The guards called the cops.”

“And then?”

“The sheriff told Tommy and Alice to go home. Promised he wouldn't press charges. They pretended to walk away.”

“And?”

“Well, when they figured the sheriff wasn't looking, they twirled back around and whipped out their weapons!”

“Hot diggity dog! What were they packing?”

“Shotguns. Tommy fired first; then Alice pumped off a round.”

“And that sheriff got peppered full of lead, right?”

“No. They missed.”

“What?”

“They missed!”

“Both of them? With shotguns?”

“Yeah. I think my parents needed glasses. I know I do sometimes. Like when I watch TV or read the funny pages.”

“Billy?”

“What?”

“Tell me what happened!”

“Oh. The sheriff shot back. Tommy and Alice both died. End of story.”

“Okay. Okay. Tell me about the fuzz, this sheriff—what's his name?”

“Um…”

“Where is he? How do we find him? Because it's payback time, Billy!”

“I think his name began with a J.”

“So this is why my spirit never passed over to the other side. Too much unfinished family business to take care of!”

“Sheriff ‘Juh'-something.”

“We need a plan, Billy! This sheriff—is he still alive? Does he have any family? A son? Maybe a grandson? Billy? What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“Well, hurry up!”

“Okay. Yeah. I remember. His name was Jennings. Sheriff James Jennings.”

“You ready
for another?” George Jennings stood over the griddle, flipping Sunday-morning pancakes.

“Okay, just one more,” Judy said after taking a big gulp of milk.

“Zack? How about you?”

“Sure!”

Zack's dad flipped two fresh pancakes onto his plate.

“You know,” he said, “it's a law that all American fathers must make pancakes for their families one morning every weekend.”

Judy giggled between bites. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. It's in the Constitution. The Founding Children put it there.”

Zack rolled his eyes. “The Founding Children?”

His dad moved back to the bowl to give the batter another good whisking. “Yep. They were sort of like the Founding Fathers, only, you know, younger. I believe it was twelve-year-old Benjamin Bartholomew Bisquick who penned the pancake proclamation.” He tapped the box of pancake powder. “Family business and all that.”

Judy was laughing too hard to chew. Zack shook his head and smiled.

And people thought
he
had an overactive imagination.

 

After breakfast,
Zack, his dad, and Zipper went out into the yard to check out the progress on the tree house.

“Wow. Neat.”

Zack's dad looked up at the crooked collection of lumber and plywood nailed helter-skelter to the limbs of a tree.

“Is that the door?” He pointed at a triangular space where three sheets of plywood didn't quite meet.

“That's a porthole.”

“Unh-hunh. I see. Neat.”

A blue plastic tarp was hanging over the top of the structure.

“That the roof?”

“Now it is.”

“Unh-hunh.”

“Sometimes it's our sail.”

“Zipper go up there with you guys?”

“Yep. We built him an elevator.” Zack pointed to a plastic mop bucket tied to a yellow nylon rope.

“Well, you boys certainly have been…busy.”

“Yeah. Davy's good with construction projects. He thinks up the plans. I do most of the work.”

“Unh-hunh…”

“We like the way it looks. Sort of like a ship. Judy went into town and got us the pirate flag.”

“Cool. So where'd you guys get all the wood and stuff? Judy drive you out to Home Depot?”

“Nope. Scrap piles.”

“Scrap piles?”

“From the construction sites. It was free because it's scrap.”

“Zack? That's a brand-new sheet of plywood.”

“We were told we could take anything we wanted.”

“And exactly who told you that?”

“The aluminum-siding man.”

“Who?”

“The tin man.”

“Are you making this up?”

“No. We met an aluminum-siding salesman in the forest across the highway and he said—”

“A tin man? In the forest? Is this
The Wizard of Oz
all of a sudden?”

“No. It's true. A tin man is what they call aluminum-siding salesmen.”

“Zack, no one has sold or used aluminum siding since 1959!”

“Well, Mr. Billings still sells it. Clarence W. Billings, and he said—”

“Zack? Stop. Enough.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm very disappointed in you, Zachary. You cannot steal wood from construction sites. However, you
can
go to jail for petty larceny. You can also cost me my law license if the court finds me to be an accessory to your felonious behavior.”

“But we didn't
steal
the wood.”

“Yes, you did, and, frankly, you only make matters worse when you lie and say you didn't.”

“But, Dad—”

“This is what you do, isn't it? Make up complicated stories to cover your tracks. Tin men. A traveling salesman named Clarence W. Billings—”

“But, I—”

“Your mother told me about this. ‘He's making me sick with his silly, childish jokes and stories.'”

“Judy said that?”

“No. Your real mother. Susan.” He took a deep breath. “She was in pain and there was nothing I could do. I'd try to cheer her up, but cancer is very serious business, son, and—”

And then his father choked on whatever words he wanted to say next.

Zack could see him straining to hold back tears.

“Okay, Zack,” his father finally said. “Here's what we are going to do. You and I are going to make a list of every piece of ‘scrap' you stole and where you stole it. Then we are going to drive out to Home Depot and purchase replacements. The cost will be deducted from your allowance until the balance is paid in full. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was absolutely, completely, 100 percent clear: His mother's ghost had definitely followed them up to Connecticut.

Judy drove
over to the North Chester Library when Zack and his father took off for Home Depot.

“What brings you here on such a gorgeous Sunday?” Mrs. Emerson asked. “Researching your next book?”

“No. Remember how you told me that you didn't know why Miss Spratling put her memorial on that tree behind our house?”

“Yes, dear. I remember. In fact, I have a very keen memory. My knees are shot, but my memory is just fine. Now, then—what have you discovered about Gerda Spratling's shrine?”

“What do you know about the Greyhound bus accident of June 21, 1958?”

“I know how to find out more. After all, dear, I am a librarian.”

An hour
later, the two women sat at a large table covered with clothbound volumes of old newspapers.

“‘The Greyhound Scenicruiser was on its usual route from Boston to New York,'” Mrs. Emerson read from the lead news story in the
North Chester Telegraph.
“‘Along the way, it picked up campers from Camp Still-waters….'”

“A Boy Scout camp?” Judy asked.

“No, dear. A Bible camp. Used to be dozens up this way.” She tapped at a list printed alongside the main story. “This is the passenger manifest. Mostly strangers who had never met and they end up spending eternity together.”

“You think they're linked in the afterlife because they died together?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Read, dear. We'll discuss my ontological speculations later.”

“Ontological?”

“The metaphysical study of the nature of being and existence.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Read, dear. Read.”

Judy studied the list.