The Crossroads

The old man shoved rusty gears to one side of the long table. Heavy cogwheels and hardware clanged and banged on the floor.

“A little quieter, if you please, Mr. Willoughby,” Miss Spratling said as her loyal chauffeur cleared off the greasy workbench.

She moved to Zack. The boy was sitting on the cracked concrete floor, his wrists bound behind his back, his arms chained to the steel pole.

“I’ll wager your stepmother has already forgotten you,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “And your father? Why, he could care less. I’m told he’s out of town on business, couldn’t be bothered.”

Zack didn’t say anything. He was biding his time because he had a hunch about how to beat Clint Eberhart when he got there. It was an idea based on what Davy Wilcox had taught him—actually, what Davy had shown him.

“Hey, Gerdy. What’s shaking, doll?”

The ghost of Clint Eberhart limped into the room. He tried to smile, tried to swagger, but Zack could see he was wounded. Weak.

Miss Spratling’s hand fluttered over her heart. “Are you all right, my love?”

“Yeah. But we need to hurry, doll.”

“Yes, dear. Mr. Willoughby?”

Willoughby had the knives and saws spread out on the workbench.

“Put the kid up on the table, Gerdy.”

“Mr. Willoughby? I will require your assistance.”

“Hurry.” Eberhart winced. He was getting weaker every second.

The old chauffeur groaned as he bent down to unlock the chain.

It was almost time. The lock snapped open.

Now!

Zack rolled sideways and cut the old man’s legs out from under him. Willoughby toppled to the floor. Zack had used the rolling-tackle move before—playing Madden NFL on his PlayStation. It worked in real life, too.

Zack had been twisting at the duct tape binding his wrists, stretching it out while his hot sweat worked to dilute the glue. Now it was easy to slip free.

“Clint?” Miss Spratling cried. “Do something! Please?”

“Don’t move, kid!” Eberhart screamed, but he didn’t do anything.

Zack’s theory was correct! Eberhart couldn’t hurt him, couldn’t touch him, couldn’t do anything except make noise and order these two old farts around. Just like Davy Wilcox couldn’t do anything. Davy never hammered a nail or drilled a hole or even ate a hamburger. Davy told Zack what to do and then stood around and watched Zack do it because Davy couldn’t do anything.

“Don’t let that kid—”

Eberhart groaned in agony. He doubled over and clutched his stomach.

“Clint? Sweetheart?”

“Accckkk…”

“Clint?”

Now Zack tore the tape off his legs.

Eberhart fell to his knees and slumped forward. But before his body hit the floor, he vanished into a swirling puff of dust.

Zack was getting used to these vanishing acts, so he didn’t skip a beat to watch Eberhart vamoose into the vapor. He was up and ready to run. He could’ve gone straight for the door, could’ve saved himself, but he wanted to save the baby, too. So he ran back to the center of the big room to grab the handle on the Tote ’n Go car seat.

The old lady snagged him, wrapped her bony fingers tight around his wrist. Then she pressed a serrated knife blade against his throat.

“And just where do you think you’re going, young man?”