The Boy in the Burning House (15 page)

“Looks like you were in a fight, Father.”

Fisher turned away to compose himself, but there was nothing he could do to hide his agitation.

“She is
sick
. I tried to explain that to you,” he said. “That child you are harbouring is deluded. She has terrible, morbid fantasies.”

Jim didn't want to listen. He concentrated on Father's wounds and something else. His cross was gone. The crucifix he always wore — had been wearing earlier that evening — was no longer around his neck.

“Her stories sound real, Jim — frighteningly real —
because she truly believes them. She doesn't mean to lie; she can't help it.”

But Jim was distracted yet again. The rain had let up, the wind had stalled. And in the country quiet beyond the hectoring voice of the pastor, Jim thought he heard a noise a long way off.

Father Fisher rattled the doorknob again. “All right, all right,” he said, his voice both tired and exasperated. “Do you think I don't know why she has come to you? There is a hole in your life, isn't there, Jim? The horrible mystery of your father's disappearance. And suddenly there is this girl who can supply a ready-made explanation. An explanation that nicely coincides with her favourite fantasy. And you fell for it.”

Jim was shaking now.

“She's dangerous, Jim. You're afraid to open the door, but believe me, the lunatic is in there with you.”

“Please go away,” said Jim.

“Hub was my friend, Jim. You
know
that.”

“Please!” Jim yelled it this time and he moved towards the phone. “I'm calling my mother.” That was enough to silence the pastor, and in the silence came a sound from across the fields. Something coming.

Father Fisher heard the sound, too. Jim's heart leapt; he knew for sure now what it was. He raced to the door.

The cornfield dog.

Poochie came barking out of the night like a wild chunk of moonlight. He came straight towards the back porch, barking his fool head off. The pastor turned to face him, leaning his back against the door.

There were scratches on his neck.

The dog stopped at the foot of the back stairs, his hackles bristling, his muzzle snarling.

Jim laughed. He couldn't help himself.

Fisher yelled at the dog.

Poochie stood his ground. He even bounded up the steps, snapping his jaws, making Fisher flinch.

“Get out of here! Go home.” Fisher sidled along the porch to the wood pile and grabbed a piece of iron-wood as thick as his wrist. The dog dashed away when Fisher threatened him, but came back for more. Fisher finally started edging away from the door down the length of the porch, his back against the brick wall, making his way towards the front yard. The dog raced after him, leaping at him.

Jim went to the front window and watched as the pastor walked in long strides towards the van, whirling around to ward off the dog that hounded his every step.

As the door of the van finally opened, a loud hallelujah escaped from Jim. “Way to go, Poochie,” he yelled, spinning around in a pyjama victory dance. The pastor threw the ironwood at the dog, missing him, then he jumped into the van. The door slammed shut and the engine started, drowning out Poochie's noise.

Jim ran upstairs, calling Ruth Rose's name all the way.

“Did you see it?” he shouted from the landing, out of breath. “Did you see it?” He turned to look out the landing window.

The van had not moved. He climbed the last flight of stairs.

“Where are you?” he called.

She appeared from the darkened doorway of the spare bedroom. Behind her, he saw the curtains billow in. The window was wide open. Her eyes looked strange.

Everything Father had been telling Jim suddenly flooded his mind. Then he noticed that Ruth Rose was holding something silver between her lips.

“What is that?”

She held it up. “A dog whistle,” she said.

“I didn't hear any whistle.”

“Of course you didn't,” she said. “You're not a dog. You didn't hear it when I called him out in the back field, either.” Then she filled her cheeks and blew as hard as she could. Jim heard nothing, but out in the front yard Poochie went into a frenzy of howling.

“Brilliant!”

Then they tore into Jim's front room and pulled back the curtains. The van still had not moved. And as they watched, the engine was turned off.

“Get your clothes on,” commanded Ruth Rose in a low voice. Jim grabbed his jeans from the floor and pulled them on over his pyjamas, grabbed his sneakers, didn't bother with his socks. Ruth Rose swore under her breath. Jim was on his knees feeling for his sweater under his bed. Then he heard the door of the van slam shut again.

When Jim joined Ruth Rose at the window, Father Fisher was opening the cargo door. He closed it and stood with a tire iron in his hand.

Poochie danced and barked just out of range of Fisher's raised hand. Then the pastor moved with a quickness that startled Jim, and the tire iron came down wickedly across the dog's back. Poochie yowled and bellied to the ground. Ruth Rose screamed.

Father Fisher straightened up, tall, and stared towards Jim's window as the dog slunk away into the darkness, yelping.

Jim grabbed Ruth Rose by the arm, “Let's get out
of here,” he said and dragged her towards the stairs. But even as they reached the landing they heard the sound of the back door crashing open.

Jim swore. “He found the spare key,” he said bitterly. Then he grabbed Ruth Rose and headed back upstairs.

“Children,” boomed the voice of Father Fisher. “Enough of this foolishness.”

At the far end of the upstairs hallway stood a door that led to a room above the kitchen. The Hawkins family called it the apartment. It was a spacious room with windows on three sides. There had been some thought a few years earlier of converting it into a granny flat for Hub's mother, but she had opted for a seniors' home, and the room was only used for storage now. Iris had stacked insulation against the door in an effort to keep the heating costs down. It made the door difficult to open.

“Help me!” Jim whispered. Ruth Rose immediately put her shoulder to the door and, after a few shoves, they were able to squeeze through. There was a latch on the inside. It wasn't much but it was something.

Yard light spilled into the crowded room, casting jumbly shadows. There were odd bits of furniture and cardboard boxes laden with junk. Sheets covered a dresser, a rocking chair, a sofa. Everything glowed a ghastly yellow. Ruth Rose began to pile things, as soundlessly as possible, against the door.

Father's voice drifted up from the first floor. “I can only be so patient,” he said.

Jim was already at the front window of the apartment.

“We can climb out onto the porch roof,” he whispered.
He turned the latch on the top of the sash and heaved up. Nothing happened.

They heard the pastor on the stairs. “Ruth Rose, leave the poor boy alone. He's got problems enough of his own without you adding to them.”

Jim heaved on the window again. It wouldn't budge. Ruth Rose shoved Jim out of the way and tried the window herself. He joined her and, straining with the effort, they both gave the window one last attempt. Nothing. It was painted shut.

“Over here,” hissed Ruth Rose.

She made her way through the confusion to the unpainted west wall. There was a window there above the kitchen door. It opened easily. A blast of cold air made the sheets come to life. Dust swirled up from the floor like snow.

Jim ran to her side. “There's no roof out there.”

Ruth Rose leaned out. Twelve feet below was the wood pile.

“It's so sad,” came the intruder's voice, raised to find them out, wherever they were. “Everyone knows Ruth Rose is mentally unstable, but what a surprise it will be when they learn that Jim Hawkins is mad, too. Of course, there have been signs, haven't there, Jim? The suicide attempts. How worried your mother was. And now this. I suppose it runs in the family.”

Jim froze. Ruth Rose stared wide-eyed at him. “Welcome to the club,” she whispered. By now she was halfway out the window. She was barefoot.

“No!” said Jim, grabbing her arm. “You'll break your ankle.”

“I'll hang from the ledge and just drop,” she said, shinnying farther over the edge. He held onto her.

“It'll make this huge noise and he'll be on us like a shot.”

Ruth Rose's eyes lit up. She scanned the room. Suddenly she was pushing Jim out of the way and rushing, silent as a ghost, to a ladder lying in the corner, an aluminium stepladder no taller than she was.

They heard footsteps outside the apartment door. “Just give me the letter,” said a voice from the other side. “You hear me, Ruth Rose?”

“The ladder's not long enough,” Jim whispered directly into Ruth Rose's ear.

Again she pushed him out of the way. He stumbled over a chair, which scraped on the floor.

The apartment door opened as much as the latch would allow, letting in hall light.

“The letter,” said Father. “Give it to me and I'll go.”

Ruth Rose met the question in Jim's eyes with a wide-eyed look of excitement. And then, to his utter disbelief, she spoke out. Loud enough for Father to hear.

“Jump!” she shouted.

She dropped the ladder out the window. It clattered onto the stoop below.

Father Fisher stopped pushing on the door. Meanwhile, Ruth Rose picked up a heavy box of old kitchen things. She hurled it out the window directly onto the wood pile, spilling the box's contents, which crashed and smashed and chimed.

Jim was horrified. But almost immediately he heard Fisher retreat and run back down the hall. In another moment he was clattering down the staircase.

Ruth Rose grabbed Jim by the hand and started towards the door. But he pulled her up short. “There's this old place at the end of the cornfield.” He pointed west. “It's deserted.”

She nodded impatiently. Then together they raced for the door. They ran down the hall and down the stairs. They had gotten as far as the landing, when they heard Fisher re-enter the house, slamming the door behind him.

“All right!” he yelled. “If this is how you want it!”

Ruth Rose froze in her tracks. Jim took over. He snapped the latch on the landing window and slid it up without a sound. He pushed Ruth Rose out. She hung from the ledge until her feet were only a few feet from the ground. She dropped, landing in a muddy garden plot below. Jim crawled out the window right after her. He could hear the pastor crossing the parlour floor, then he seemed to stumble. Snoot yowled.

“Out of my way!” Fisher bellowed.

“Nice work,” thought Jim grimly. Then he hung by his right elbow from the outer ledge and, reaching up with his left hand, managed to pull the window closed behind him. Father Fisher was already on the staircase when Jim fell silently out of sight.

Ruth Rose was already gone. Turning, he saw her running low across the front yard. Was she crazy? Fisher would see her if he stopped to look. But Jim didn't dare call to her, let alone follow. He took off around the house, where it was dark. Across the back lawn he raced, diving for cover as he caught a glimpse of Father in the apartment window, faintly lit from behind. He had lost his hat and his hair stood out in spikes. He looked like Frankenstein's monster. Then he was gone from sight and Jim was up and running, slipping on the wet grass, falling, recovering. He ran through the orchard, kicking fallen apples as he raced, past the garden shed until at last he reached the fence.
He hopped it in a single bound and ran until the cornfield had swallowed him up.

“Jim, what a deadly mistake you're making,” Fisher cried out at the night in his huge pulpit-voice. “If you only knew.”

Jim ducked out of sight, but there was already an acre of corn between them. Catching his breath, he hid and listened.

“You'll live to regret this foolhardiness, Jim Hawkins,” shouted Fisher.

Jim shuddered. The voice was as cold and threatening as the night.

There was a moon, but not so you could see its shape. Its light reached Jim through the seams of cloud cover.

He got to his feet but stood perfectly still. He was listening for a sound that wasn't just the wind fingering its way through the dry corn. A crazy girl, heading west as he had told her to. A wounded dog. A maniacal preacher.

Nothing.

Too shivering cold to listen any longer, he started towards Billy Bones' deserted shack. With every step, a little bit more of his fear drained away, replaced by an anger as hard as a stone. He gave himself up to visions of violent confrontation with Father Fisher — pushing him down the stairs, cracking him over the head with a two-by-four, making him hurt, the way
he
hurt. Seething with rage, he started to run, cursing under his breath and then out loud. He ran down a shimmering corridor of rustling corn higher than his head. He only hoped Ruth Rose was somewhere out here heading in the same direction.

Two towering white pines marked the western boundary of the Hawkins land. A million years ago, last November, Jim had climbed one of those trees to the top, intent on jumping to the next. It had been his last such folly.

Looking at the pines now, picked out by the bleak moonlight, it was hard to believe he had even contemplated it. They stood more than the length of three grown men apart. He never would have made it. He would have died trying.

Luckily, Billy Bones had intervened.

Down to the right of the trees, hard up against the split-rail fence that formed the property line, there appeared a dark smudge of bush, a windbreak. Behind it stood Billy Bones' ramshackle hut. Billy had saved Jim that snowy November day. Saved him from himself.

The door was not locked. There was no electricity but Jim would not have turned on the lights in any case. Even in the dark he could tell that no one had been here for a long time. A scurrying in the corner made him start, but it was not a human sound.