“Hmmm,” said Zack’s father, “looks like somebody else around here likes cold pizza. You know, in law school, we used to eat cold pizza for breakfast and—”
“What was that?” said Judy. “Did you see that?”
“What?” Zack climbed off his stool.
“I saw a light. It went swinging by the window.”
“Could be a car,” George said, his mouth full of chewy cheese. “Down on the highway with its headlights aimed wrong.” He peeled off a pepperoni and presented it to Zipper, who wasn’t interested anymore. The dog scampered over to the window.
“There it is!” Judy said. “See? In the trees? Looks like a flashlight. Come on—let’s go investigate.”
“Might be dangerous,” said Zack.
“Might be fun!” his father said. “C’mon, Zack. Bring Zipper. He’ll protect us.” He got up and pulled a flashlight out of its recharging cradle near the back door. Judy grabbed her jean jacket. Zipper barked.
Zack had no choice.
He had to journey once again into the evil woods fringing his backyard. And this time, he’d have to do it in the dark.
Great.
But then he realized something: This time, he wouldn’t be alone. This time, his whole family was coming with him.
“You’re right, Dad. Let’s go see who’s out there!”
“My guess is a lost cat,” Zack’s father said as they made their way across the backyard. “Probably heard Curiosity Cat moved in next door.”
“It’s probably just somebody playing with a flashlight,” said Judy.
“Nah. Too bright for a flashlight,” said Zack’s father. “I’m figuring it’s a train that ran off the tracks and is making all local stops.”
The beam hit them like the searchlight in a prison movie.
“Don’t shoot!” Zack’s dad said dramatically, and held up his hands. “We surrender!”
“That the boy?” asked a voice from behind the unbelievably bright light.
“That’s him, Pops. Hey, Zack!”
“Hey, Davy,” Zack said. Zipper wagged his tail.
“These your folks?”
“Yep. My dad and my stepmom.”
“Hiya, folks,” Davy said. “Sorry if we gave you a scare. Wanted my pops to take a gander at our tree house.”
The light lowered. A rail-thin farmer stood next to Davy. He wore a tattered Huck Finn straw hat with salty white sweat ringing its crown.
“Howdy,” the farmer said.
“Hi. I’m George Jennings. This is my wife, Judy. My son, Zack. And, of course, Zipper.”
Zipper wagged his tail.
“That’s my pops,” said Davy. “He don’t talk much. Right, Pops?”
“Yep.”
“But he sure wanted to see what we built up in the tree today.”
“Me too.” Zack’s dad aimed his flashlight at the crooked boards and uneven floor. “That it?”
“Sure is, Mr. Jennings. Ain’t she something?”
“That’s our pirate ship!” Zack said. “See? There’s the ladder like you have to climb to get to the crow’s nest.”
Zack’s father nodded. “Very nice.”
“Davy, would you and your father like some ice cream?” Judy asked. “I could put on a pot of coffee.”
“No thanks, ma’am. We need to head on back. Pops just wanted to meet my new buddy, Zack.”
“Yep.”
“Well, it was very nice to meet you both,” said Judy.
“It was swell meeting you, too, Mrs. J. Zack sure is lucky to have such a nice new mom. Pretty as a galdern picture postcard, too.”
“Well, aren’t you the little charmer?”
“No, ma’am. I just call ’em like I see ’em. See you tomorrow, Zack!”
The old farmer nodded and touched his straw hat to say “So long.” He and Davy disappeared into the shadows.
“Nice boy,” Zack’s father said.
“Sure is,” said Zack.
“Do all the kids up here talk that way?”
“Nope. Just Davy. He’s a farmer. And he was born in Kentucky.”
“Oh. I see.”
“I’m glad I met him,” Judy said, draping an arm across Zack’s shoulder. “He seems like a great guy.”
“He is. Oh—guess what? He told me he loves cherry Kool-Aid.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“I was a grape man myself,” Zack’s dad said as he rested his hand on Zack’s other shoulder. “Used to pour the powder on my tongue straight from the pouch!”
“Well,” said Judy, “I haven’t had any kind of galdern Kool-Aid in ages, but maybe I could pick some up at the galdern store.”
“That would be swell,” said Zack. “Just swell.”
“Oh, Daddy! The son has come home!”
Gerda Spratling tottered around her bed in the mansion’s library.
Mondays were always difficult. This, however, was the worst Monday ever. Today she had learned that the loathsome sheriff’s son had come home to haunt her.
Miss Spratling’s life had ended when her fiancé, Clint Eberhart, was killed in the crossroads. It ended again twenty-five years later when her father committed suicide. Death surrounded Gerda Spratling. Her whole life was nothing now but a long, slow crawl toward the grave, where she prayed she would be reunited with the two men she had lost.
Memories and anger. That was all she had left, all that dragged her out of bed every morning.
But George Jennings? He must be so happy. Married to that pretty young thing with the flowers. Moving into a handsome new home.
She stared up at the highest bookshelf, at the rolling ladder, up to where her father had hanged himself.
“Sheriff Jennings made you do it, Daddy! I know he did!” She lurched across the room toward the ladder and wrapped one bony hand around a rung to hoist herself up.
“Daddy? Can you hear me? Daddy?”
Her foot slipped. She banged her chin against the sharp edge of a step. Warm blood trickled where she had bitten into her lip.
“Miss Spratling?”
Sharon rushed into the room and saw Miss Spratling sprawled out on the floor. “Let’s get you up from there, ma’am.”
“Get your hands off me, girl! Bring me my book!”
Sharon found the antique Bible on the bedside table and handed it to Miss Spratling. The old woman pried open the cracked leather cover and quickly located her most cherished passage.
Exodus. Chapter thirty-four. Verse seven.
The only words in the whole Bible that gave her any comfort:
“He does not leave the guilty unpunished; He punishes the children and their children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation.”
To the third and fourth generation.
That meant God would punish the son for what his father, the sheriff, had done. God would also punish the son’s son, the little brat with the filthy dog.
Miss Spratling only prayed that God would let her help.
Billy pulled his pickup truck into the parking lot of the old folks’ home a little before midnight.
The guy with the slicked-back hair wasn’t with him. He didn’t cruise along behind Billy’s truck in the phantom Thunderbird. He didn’t even show himself.
He didn’t have to do any of that anymore.
He and Billy had become one. Some kind of transference had taken place, and Clint Eberhart’s soul was able to slide into Billy’s body to take full control of everything the plumber said or did.
Billy stepped out of his truck and made his way to the bushes outside his grandmother’s bedroom window.
“Mee Maw?” Billy rapped his knuckles against the window. He could see her bed on the far side of the room, as far from the window as possible.
“Mee Maw?” Billy tapped louder. His thumb ring pinged sharply against the glass. “Open the window.”