Officer Mulgrew was hit by Eberhart’s speeding vehicle, fell face-first to the pavement, and became trapped underneath the chassis as the Thunderbird sped toward the bus in the crossroads.
However, after hitting the police officer and then the bus, Eberhart lost control of his own vehicle. His car flew up into the forest, where it plowed into a massive oak tree.
According to an eyewitness, the bus slid off the highway and came to rest in a cornfield, where it exploded like a “galdern ball of fire.”
The eyewitness put the time of death “for all them folks on the bus” at ten minutes before ten, “give or take a minute or two.”
Mary (O’Claire) Eberhart was the only survivor.
CONCLUSIONS
Miss O’Claire (she understandably reverted to her maiden name after the incident) first told me about these events when I went to offer her condolences on the death of her son, Thomas, the young man I shot outside Spratling Manor.
I told her I was sorry for what I had done. Much to my surprise, Miss O’Claire said it was all her fault.
Apparently, she had decided in June of 1983 (on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Greyhound bus tragedy) to tell her son for the first time what his father (Mr. Clint Eberhart) had done.
Mary’s revelations had the unintended consequence of making Tommy covet the money Julius Spratling had promised Eberhart. He figured that as Eberhart’s only surviving heir, he was entitled to payment for the services his father performed back in 1958.
As you know, Mr. Spratling, you did not see matters the same way.
When Tommy threatened to disclose your long-buried secrets, you called the police and demanded that we take care of the situation. You claimed you were being blackmailed.
In truth, you knew Mary O’Claire was a recluse who would never tell anybody what you and Eberhart had conspired to do. Her son and his wife were your final threats. No wonder you were so pleased when I killed them both.
Shame on you, sir.
Their blood and the blood of all Eberhart’s victims is on your hands.
At that point in the narrative, the type changed color. It was no longer a blurry carbon copy but a black-ink original.
ADDENDUM
Yesterday, at eight p.m., I presented the original of this report to Mr. Julius Spratling. He told me he would read it.
Apparently, he did.
Last night, Mr. Spratling committed suicide.
I see no need to publicly tarnish the Spratling name or to reveal what I know to his only survivor, his daughter, Gerda, a woman who has spent so many years mourning the death of her “beloved” fiancé, perpetuating the lie initiated by her father.
Therefore, my report shall remain unpublished. The dead have been avenged. It is time for the living to move on.
I would, however, like to acknowledge those who helped me compile this report.
First, Ms. Mary O’Claire. It took a great deal of courage for her to relive that terrifying night.
I would also like to thank the newspaper reporters, the former Spratling Clockworks employees, the Greyhound bus personnel, the North Chester Public Library, and all those who helped me piece together the truth from 1958.
Finally, I would like to thank Mr. David Wilcox. As a young boy of ten, he was at the crossroads that night. This is the first time he has told anyone what he witnessed. In 1958, no one thought to ask the young boy any questions. After he read about the shootings of Tommy and Alice, he came forward to tell me everything he remembered about the original incident. I’m glad he did. If it wasn’t for Mr. Wilcox’s eyewitness account, we might never have known what actually happened at the crossroads.
“We should talk to Mr. Wilcox,” said Judy. “If he was ten back in 1958, he’d be only what now? Sixty?”
“I’m afraid that might prove somewhat difficult,” said Mrs. Emerson.
“There’s a Wilcox family that lives close to our house. Their son plays with my stepson. Maybe they’re related.”
“Unfortunately, this particular Wilcox passed away a few years back. Tractor accident. He was a farmer. In fact, he owned all the land on both sides of the highway near your home. Rocky Hill Farms? That’s what Davy Wilcox called his place.”
“Davy?”
“Yes.”
“What about Davy’s father?”
“Oh, he died ages ago. I remember meeting him when I was a child. A man of very few words, he always wore this Huckleberry Finn straw hat….”
Judy stood up from the table. “I have to go home.”
“Is something wrong, dear?”
“Yes. Davy Wilcox is my stepson’s best friend. And—he’s only ten!”
Zack pulled the blue tarp off the stump.
The kerosene fumes that had been trapped underneath flew up and seared his nostrils.
“Wow! That stinks!” He fanned the air with his baseball cap.
“Yep,” said Davy. “Like a gas jockey’s grimy green jumpsuit!”
The holes sunk into the stump were full of kerosene. There were three ten-pound sacks of charcoal leaning against the trees under the tree house and one propane grill hidden in the shrubs off to the side.
“The other fellers help out with the charcoal?” Davy asked.
“Yeah.”
“Say, Zack?”
“Yeah?”
Davy pointed to the rolling grill with its attached white tank. “What’s that?”
“One of the guys’ fathers doesn’t use charcoal, so he dragged their gas grill all the way over here.”
“What the blazes was he thinking?”
“I dunno. I guess he figured a grill’s a grill.”
“About as sharp as a bowling ball, ain’t he?”
“Yeah.” Zack laughed as he dumped the first dusty bag of briquettes over the stump.
It felt good to laugh. He didn’t care whether his dead mother saw him having fun: Davy Wilcox was the best friend he had ever had in his whole life.
The priest parked his Lincoln Town Car in front of Spratling Manor.
Sharon met him under the sagging portico. She held a flickering candle.
“Miss Spratling is waiting in the chapel. She apologizes for not sending her chauffeur to pick you up, but Mr. Willoughby is otherwise engaged.”
Sharon led the priest down twisting corridors to the library and took him to a mahogany wall panel set between two towering bookcases.
“This way.”
She pressed against the wall and a secret door slid open. The priest ducked his head and followed Sharon down the dark tunnel. Up ahead, he could see the fluttering light of more candles.
They neared the Spratling family chapel.
Tonight the priest would say prayers for Clint Eberhart, whose soul had departed this earthly realm fifty years ago this very night.
Or so the priest had been told.
Zack pushed the button on his watch to illuminate the dial.
“It’s 9:52,” he said. “Just like the clock in the tower, hunh?”
“Yep,” Davy said. “Light her up!”
Zack held the box of matches.
“You do it,” he said.
“What?”
“You light it. I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what, pardner?”
“I dunno. What if the stump explodes or something?”
“Kerosene don’t explode. You’re thinkin’ gasoline.”
“You do it! Okay? Please?”
Davy shook his head. “Nope. It’s up to you. You’re the chosen one, Zack.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because this was too important to trust to anybody else. Light the match, Zack. It’s time.”
“What do I tell Judy when she—”
“We’ll worry about that later. Light ’er up!”
Zack’s hands were shaking so much he rattled the matchbox. He finally worked the lid open, pulled out a wooden Blue Tip, and scratched it along the strike pad. The match sparked but wouldn’t light.