The Crossroads

“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 Spratling 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.