The Crossroads

Billy O’Claire sat in his trailer, staring at the blade of a butter knife.

Someone had carved a message into the stainless steel.

Unfinishd biznis.

Billy knew he had probably scratched the words into the knife himself. Probably used a paper clip. Maybe a chunk of gravel from out in the yard.

But if his hands were responsible for etching the words, he wasn’t the one choosing them. It was the other guy, his newly discovered grandfather.

It was early Monday morning. Billy’s head throbbed and his teeth felt slimy. He hadn’t showered or shaved for a couple of days. He was a stinky, stubbly-faced wreck. But he was alone.

Alone!

Clint Eberhart, the evil spirit, wasn’t with him! Wasn’t inside him!

Billy had to think.

Who else does Eberhart want dead?

He already gave Mee Maw a heart attack. Now he wants to hunt down this Jennings family. But what about the rest of the O’Claire clan? What about me?

And Aidan!

Oh, no. What about Aidan? What if he wants to kill my son?

Billy raced over to Spratling Manor.

He saw his ex-wife’s car parked out front in the same circular driveway where his parents—Tommy and Alice—had been shot twenty-five years earlier.

Billy hated this place, but he had to do this, had to do what was right. He had to protect his son.

An antique Cadillac crawled out from behind a vine-covered brick wall. Billy climbed down from his pickup truck and hurried across the weedy driveway to confront the chauffeur.

“Excuse me? Sir?”

The sleepy-eyed old man tilted his head slightly.

“I’m looking for Sharon.”

“What?”

“Does Sharon still work here?”

“Who?” The chauffeur looked confused.

“Sharon!” he shouted at the old man.

“Billy?”

Sharon was on the front porch. She was dressed in a puke green nurse’s smock.

Billy ran over to her, but she gave him the palm of her hand.

“Hold on, Billy.”

He froze.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t ever want to see you again!”

“I know. But you’ve got to listen to me. Just this one last time.”

“Billy,” Sharon said impatiently, “it’s Monday and we need to take Miss Spratling into town and then out to her memorial. If you have something to say, you better say it fast!”

“Don’t ever let me near my son.” He said it as quickly as he could. “Don’teverletmenearmyson!” He repeated it even faster.

“I don’t get this, Billy. Ever since the divorce, you’ve been pestering me: ‘Let me see Aidan.’ Now you’re telling me to keep you away?”

“Yes! No matter what I say. No matter what I do. Don’t let me anywhere near Aidan, okay?”

“My, my, my. Who is this?”

The old bag, Gerda Spratling, appeared on the porch behind Sharon. She was wearing some sort of long black gown and a black veil that covered her face. She raised it to smile flirtatiously at Billy and give him a queasy stomach.

He tried hard to smile back. It wasn’t easy to do when a wrinkled old prune was giving you goo-goo eyes.

“Sharon?” Miss Spratling crowed dryly. “Who is this handsome young man? Your boyfriend, perchance?”

“No, ma’am.” Sharon’s ears burned red. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Not in the least. You are rather homely.” Miss Spratling took a step forward. “Have we met before?” she asked Billy. “You look so familiar…especially around the eyes.”

Billy took off his sweat-stained baseball cap. “I’m just a friend of Sharon’s.”

“A friend, eh?” The old lady hunched her head toward her shoulder. “My, my, my.”

“Well, I have to go.”

“So soon?” Miss Spratling fluttered her eyelids. “You will call again, won’t you, Mr…. I’m sorry; I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“O’Claire. Billy O’Claire.”

Gerda Spratling cringed at the name.

O’Claire. Just like Mary O’Claire—the lying guttersnipe who walked off that bus and told all those horrible lies about Clint Eberhart.

She should have hated anyone named O’Claire.

But this charming boy named Billy was just too handsome to hate—almost too handsome to resist.

With such soulful blue, blue eyes.