The Crossroads by Chris Grabenstein Page A

where he had hung it.
    â€œCross my heart and hope to die.”
    â€œWell, what if…” Zack hesitated.
    â€œWhat if what?”
    â€œWhat if Kyle Snertz sees me?”
    â€œThat don’t make no nevermind.”
    â€œIt doesn’t, hunh?”
    â€œThat boy’s all wax and no wick. If he gives you any guff, just give it right back.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI reckon you could always pants him.”
    â€œ
Pants
him?”
    â€œYes, sir. Just pull down his trousers and show everybody his underwear! That usually works.”
    â€œReally?” Zack sounded doubtful.
    â€œOr you could give him a wedgie. Tug real hard and pull his underpants up into his butt crack.”
    â€œI see.”
    Zack wished Davy had some better ideas on how to defend himself against Kyle Snertz. Ideas that didn’t involve underwear.
    â€œPants him or pull a wedgie, hunh?”
    â€œYes, sir. Either one will do the trick.”
    The bell tolled louder in the distance.
    â€œJiminy Christmas, I best run. See you later, pardner!”
    Davy scampered up the hillside and disappeared into the forest. That meant Zack would have to face his demons alone.
    Especially the one named Kyle Snertz.

Judy sat on the back porch with the newspaper, a yellow legal pad, and a big jug of sun tea.
    George was at his office in New York—even though it was Saturday—making final arrangements for his trip to Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia, on Monday night. Zack was off playing with Davy. Judy was ready to start working her puzzle.
    On her pad, she had already jotted down some notes from her conversation with Gerda Spratling: June 21, 1958. Clint.
    Now she added some items she had circled in the newspaper story about Miracle Mary O’Claire: Greyhound bus accident. June 21, 1958. Thirty-nine dead on bus. Clint Eberhart dead in Thunderbird. Motorcycle cop killed. Intersection of 13 and 31.
    She sipped some tea.
    Miss Spratling’s Clint had to be this Clint Eberhart. He died after his car collided with the bus in the crossroads.
    She remembered something else Miss Spratling had said: “They ran him off the road.”
    Probably up the embankment and into the oak tree.
    She wanted to go find Bud. The neighbor who had helped fix her flat tire. He worked for Greyhound. Maybe he knew more of the story. She also wanted to go see Mrs. Emerson down at the library, see what she could find in the local history books and old newspapers.
    Zack and Zipper came running into the backyard. Zipper’s paws were muddy, his underbelly a collection of matted muck. Zack’s shorts were dripping wet.
    Okay. The puzzle may have to wait until after a load of laundry.
    â€œHow’d you guys get so soaked?”
    â€œDavy and I found a secret lagoon.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œActually, I think it’s a cow pond.”
    â€œI like the sound of ‘lagoon’ better,” said Judy.
    â€œYeah. Me too.”
    â€œBet it felt good. On a hot day like this.”
    â€œYep. Real good.”
    â€œWell, why don’t you clean up Zipper, then run inside and put on something dry.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œYou want to go down to the library with me later?”
    â€œMaybe. Can I grab something to eat first?”
    â€œOh. Sure. I can make you a sandwich.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I’ll just, you know, fix it myself.”
    â€œI promise I won’t toast, bake, or broil.”
    â€œI’ll just do a PB and J. And then I might take a shower.”
    Judy grinned. “You don’t want to go to the library, do you?”
    â€œNot really. Not today. I mean, it’s Saturday and all.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Judy said. “Go get cleaned up.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Zack ran into the house.
    Judy glanced back at her notes.
    June 21.
    June 21 was the summer solstice. The longest day of the year. The shortest night.
    1958.
    Fifty years ago this Wednesday.
    She wondered