The Crossroads (17 page)

On Monday
night, Zack's father flew off to Malaysia.

Judy was secretly glad George would be out of town and out of reach for almost a week. It would give her more time to learn all she could about the other passengers on the Greyhound bus. Maybe one night she'd even go check out the graveyard, see if Bud was still there, see if any of the Rowdy Army Men were with him.

George might be on his way to an exotic foreign country, but Judy knew she was venturing someplace far more exciting!

 

Early Tuesday,
Zack and his new friends were in the backyard playing. Judy brought the boys a snack.

“Where's Davy?” she asked Zack.

“Farm chores.”

“Aren't you glad we don't live on a farm?”

“Yep.”

“I'm going to the library. I'm taking my cell phone if you need me.”

“Okay.”

“Stay in our yard while I'm gone, okay?”

“Okay.”

“My mom's home,” one of the other boys said. “She'll keep an eye on us, too.”

“Great. Okay. Am I forgetting anything?”

“Nope. I don't think so.”

“Great. Have fun!”

Judy kissed Zack on his forehead. Zack stepped back, wiped the wet spot off his brow. The other guys sort of looked away, scuffed at the dirt with their shoes.

“Oops,” Judy whispered to Zack. “Not cool?”

“It's okay.”

“I won't let it happen again.”

“Have fun at the library, Judy.”

“I will.”

Judy made a mental note:
Only kiss stepson when no other boys are present.

 

“Thank goodness
you're here!” the librarian said. “Come into my office.”

Judy followed Mrs. Emerson into a small room. “Look what I found!” She pointed to several cardboard boxes stacked on her desk. “Well, it's really two things. Which do you want first?”

“How about the first thing?”

“Excellent choice. Thing number one: old police logs.” She pried open a box. “When the North Chester Police moved to their new building, they sent us scads of archival information. Boxes and boxes of it. Most of it is junk. Old gun magazines and equipment catalogs and…”

“And?”

Mrs. Emerson pulled a dusty ledger from the box.

“The call log for June 21, 1958. A minute-to-minute accounting of the day's events. See? The North Chester Police received a report of a suspicious person harassing the Greyhound bus at 9:20 p.m.”

“Who made the report?” Judy asked.

“The call came from the driver, Mr. Bud Heckman. Apparently, he had a two-way radio. He also informed the police that a woman passenger was in danger, so he was…” Mrs. Emerson ran her finger under a line in the ledger. “‘Fleeing the scene at a high rate of speed.'”

“And so?”

“The North Chester Police contacted the state police, who dispatched an officer on motorcycle. Let me see…yes…Officer Mike Mulgrew. You'll find his name cited in several newspaper reports about the accident. He died at the scene with all the others.”

“So,” Judy asked, “what was the second thing?”

“Ah, yes. While performing my research, I noticed something rather peculiar: We are not the first to investigate this incident.”

“Oh?”

“I kept noticing the same name on prior requests for the same information.”

“Who?”

“Your late father-in-law, Sheriff James Jennings. Twenty-five years ago, he was looking at everything you're looking at today.”

Late Tuesday
afternoon, Zack and the boys finished drilling.

There were so many one-inch tunnels sinking down into the stump, it looked like a giant wheel of Swiss cheese. Zack put the drill back into the toolbox at the construction site before Davy even touched it.

“Summer's the busiest season on a farm,” Davy explained when he showed up after the other guys had gone home. “So many chores, it's a wonder I'm still alive!”

“Whatever,” Zack said. He placed a big rock on the edge of the tarp covering the stump.

“Hey, pardner—you ain't mad at me, are you?”

“Well, maybe. A little. You come up with all these big plans, but you're never around to do any of the work!”

“I know. I know. Like I said, Pops has been—”

“And what about the kerosene? What if it explodes? What if there's spontaneous combustion or something? We need someone who's done this kind of thing before, someone who's worked with kerosene and stumps and…”

“Like a farmer boy who's cleared him a field or two in his day, hunh?”

“That's right. We need you, Davy.”

“Zack, you're right. We'll do her tonight!”

“What?”

“You and me, pardner. We'll soak in the kerosene tonight!”

“Really?”

“Yep! Here's how we'll swing her. We'll tell your stepmom we're camping out up in the tree fort. She'll go for that, right?”

“I guess.”

“Sure she will. Shucks, she'll probably even cook us a late-night snack!”

“No way.”

“How come?”

“Judy doesn't cook. She's from New York City.”

 

“Here you
go, boys.” Judy put two Burger King sacks into the mop bucket. “Whoppers, fries, and chocolate shakes. And some Milk-Bones for Zipper. You can let him have some of your burgers, but no onions, okay? It'll make him gassy.”

“Thanks!” Zack hoisted the snack up to the tree house. Zipper pranced on his hind legs. Zack unwrapped a burger and placed it on the floor, back where Judy couldn't see Zipper having a feast, onions and all.

“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.