The Boy in the Burning House

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  A buzz of excitement arose at one point early on Friday afternoon when a searcher discovered a brand new lip balm dispenser in a deep thicket near the property line and far from any road or byway. As instructed, the searcher did not touch the article but reported the find to the nearest police officer. Sadly, it turned out that the discovery was a red herring. The lip balm belonged to one of the other volunteers who had wandered out of his prescribed search area. The searcher apologized for raising the team’s hopes. It was Father Fisher of the Church of the Blessed Transfiguration, who was Hub Hawkins’ pastor and friend.

  Without a sound, Jim closed the heavy book and leaned against the sloping counter. Dorothy wandered by from the front office on her way to the print shop. He didn’t acknowledge her smile. It crossed his mind that he must look lost in thought.

  But he wasn’t lost. For the first time in a year he felt he saw the faintest trace of a trail opening up before him.

  7

  Jim stepped out of the Ladybank Expositor building onto McMartin Street and stood for a moment stock-still. The sunlight — what there was left of it — made him blink after almost an hour in the stuffy, windowless corridor. He still had the smell of aging newsprint in his nose.

  He took a deep breath — a good strong whiff of fall-cooled air and car fumes. His head was buzzing with strange images: a burning log cabin in a field of snow, flat irons dancing down a staircase, and a tiny little plastic dispenser of lip balm lying on the rotting floor of the forest. In his mind’s eye the dispenser glowed like something lit from inside.

  He heard his name and turned to see Hec Menzies at the door of the newspaper office, his glasses on his head.

  “Didn’t see you leave, Jimbo,” he said. “Get what you were after?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Jim. “But, thanks.”

  “No problem. That’s what a paper is for.” Hec smiled at him but there were little searchlights in his eyes. “Working on a school project, are you?”

  “No, sir,” said Jim, his hand instinctively closing around the folded piece of foolscap in his pocket. “Just something I was interested in, that’s all.”

  Hec nodded, rolled down his sleeves against the chill in the air.

  “Well, glad to be of service,” he said. He held out his hand. Jim shook it. The old man held on an extra second. “Good to see you back on your feet, Jimbo. If there’s anything else you’re after, don’t hesitate to come around for another visit, you hear?”

  “Promise,” said Jim. Then he waved and turned along McMartin Street. As he turned left down Truelove towards the library, he saw that Hec was still standing in the doorway following him with his eyes.

  It wasn’t far to the library and there was still half an hour before his mother was to pick him up. Time enough to set himself up behind a wall of books and try to sort out the jumble of images in his head.

  Ruth Rose had accused him of being afraid. “You’re not ready for this,” she had told him. Twice. Well, she had that right. But there was stuff Jim couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried, and now it came elbowing its way into his brain.

  For months before Hub went missing he had suffered from what the family called nerves and what the inquest called paranoid delusions. He believed someone or something was after him. Jim saw little evidence of the symptoms at the time; his father kept the worst from him. What Jim experienced was his father’s long silences and longer walks and then moments of holding Jim in his arms too tightly and telling him how much he loved him. Iris begged Hub to see a doctor but he told her — and Jim did hear this — “I don’t need a doctor to tell me what I already know.” He prayed a lot, worked his farm and took his troubles to his spiritual advisor, Father Fisher. At the inquest Father spoke of Hub’s delusional state, revealing no source for it beyond the “mysteries of the Lord’s working.”

  If Ruth Rose was telling the truth, Father knew, all right, what was behind Hub’s feelings of persecution. Somebody had been out to get him!

  What had Ruth Rose overheard at the church the night before his father disappeared? She’s got nothing to go on.

  But who? Laverne Tufts?

  A past was a big thing. Jim didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. He knew hardly anything about his father’s past. So why did he feel, suddenly, as if he knew far more than he ever wanted to know?

  He crossed Truelove, and just as he reached the walk on the east side, a vehicle passed him and pulled into the next available parking spot up ahead.

  It was the Godmobile.

  Flustered, Jim pretended not to notice, but the driver’s door opened and it was too late.

  “Is that Jim Hawkins?” came the hearty voice of Father Fisher. “This has got to be the answer to a prayer.”

  The memory of what Ruth Rose had told Jim flashed through his mind and he was suddenly afraid the pastor might fall to his knees right there on Truelove Street. Instead he took both of Jim’s hands warmly in his own, the way he did at the door of the church after Sunday service.

  “How are you, son?” he asked, his grey eyes beaming. They were sharp eyes — little bits of Cambrian Shield granite set in a face that was surprisingly smooth and young for a man near fifty. He was the size of Jim’s father and, like Hub Hawkins, he had grown up on a farm. Though he was now in the business of farming souls, as he liked to say, he still had a real farmer’s stockiness about him — the rounded, muscular shoulders, broad chest and ham-sized hands. Unlike Hub, whose hair had thinned on top and gone to salt and pepper, Father Fisher’s hair was lustrous and thick and raven black. It must be dyed, thought Jim. It was the first time such a thing had crossed his mind. And then he thought, if it was dyed, it was surely the only thing he had in common with his stepdaughter.

  “I’m fine, Father,” said Jim. “How are you, sir?”

  “Better for seeing you,” said the minister. “We’ve been doing a mighty job of praying for you over at the Blessed T.” He liked to call the church the Blessed T., as if it were a ranch and the parishioners were all cattle waiting for God’s brand to be burned into their hearts. His homilies were always ripe with metaphors. Cattle sometimes, fish other times, needing to be schooled, lest the Devil shark gobble them all up. The children in the congregation would laugh out loud and the parents would chuckle and nod their heads in appreciation. He was a good storyteller.

  He was still holding Jim’s hands. It was odd, thought Jim, because it was the second time in less than five minutes that a grown-up had held onto him as if maybe he was going to slip away.

  “Are you library bound?” he asked.

  Jim nodded.

  “Well, bless my soul, I was heading that way myself. They’ve got a new Colin Dexter on hold for me. Do you like mysteries, Jim?”

  “Not much.”

  “I like a good mystery,” said Father Fisher. “Mind if I tag along?”

  “No, sir,” said Jim. He had been flustered when he first saw him, but it was hard to keep Ruth Rose’s loathing of the man in mind when you were in his presence. The pastor seemed almost ready to explode with good will.

  They started walking and each time the pastor turned towards him to ask how his mother was doing, how school was going, his cross caught the light. It was roughly crafted but contained chips of a beautiful green crystalline stone. It dazzled Jim.

  Then the minister said, “I gather you’ve been seeing something of Ruth Rose.”

  Jim answered, “Yes, sir,” before he could stop himself. “I mean, I ran into her,” he added quickly.

  “God love us, she’s something, isn’t she?”

  “Something?”

  The minister chuckled. “I guess you’d have to say she was her own person. An original. I admire that.”

  They were almost at the library; Jim was counting the steps.

  “She’s full of fire,” said Father Fisher. “Full of passion. That is surely God’s gift to teenagers, isn’t it, a fervent spirit.”

  Jim knew he had to say somethin
g. “She’s pretty spirited, all right,” he said. Then suddenly he felt as though he had betrayed her.

  Father Fisher stopped walking. Out of politeness, Jim stopped, too. The minister was looking into the distance but not at anything Jim could see — his head tilted back a little to one side, like a man listening to some distant sound. It made Jim nervous.

  “She’s a troubled child, Jim,” said Father Fisher. His voice had dropped. He spoke tenderly. “Did you sense that, son?”

  “She seemed okay to me.” Jim’s eyes skittered away from contact. The minister turned to him, stepped between him and the library, blocking his way as if he could see Jim’s impatience in his eyes.

  “Jim, I’m not sure if it’s my place to be telling you this, but I feel I owe it to you as a family friend.” His voice dropped further still. “Young Ruth Rose has had a hard time of it. The death of her father has resulted in some severe psychotic episodes. Do you know what that means?”

  Jim shook his head.

  “It means that there are times when she loses it, as you might say. Misapprehends and misinterprets the true nature of reality.”

  Jim felt the hairs on the back of his head stand up. Father’s voice was so sad and so persuasive that Jim suddenly felt every bruise the girl had dealt him in their first meeting. He could see her bared teeth as she pinned him to the ground.

  “Are you okay, Jimbo?” Fisher asked.

  Jim couldn’t look at the pastor. He nodded. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I mean, about Ruth Rose.”

  Father Fisher smiled at him and rested a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

  “You’ve seen it happen, haven’t you?” said the pastor. “Seen her fantasies get the best of her.”

  Jim glanced up at him and he wanted to nod vigorously — share with someone that first meeting in the woods. But somehow he managed to shake his head instead.

  “No, sir,” he said. “It sounds bad, though. Scary.”

  “It’s a fiercesome sight,” said Father Fisher, a sombre expression on his face. “It’s chronic and that is tragic in one so young.” He squeezed Jim’s shoulder.

  “I really am sorry,” said Jim. Father Fisher let his hand drop.

  “I’m sure you are,” he said. “And I’m sure you will understand that one must be very careful with the girl. She’s as smart as a whip, Jim. But the thing is, you see, she hears these voices. Voices whispering awful things, telling her to do awful things. I hope she didn’t scare you?”

  Before Jim knew what he was doing, he found himself nodding. Then he caught himself.

  “Not really,” he said. “I mean, she surprised me, I guess. But she didn’t say anything weird or anything.”

  Jim was sure he saw relief in the pastor’s eyes. “Good, I’m glad to hear that,” said Father Fisher. “When she’s on her medication, she can remain stable for considerable periods of time. But when an attack comes on…well, ‘attack’ just about sums it up.”

  His face distorted in a convulsion of grief. Then the expression passed and the minister fixed Jim with a weary smile. “She has been institutionalized,” he said. “We really hope it doesn’t come to that again.” He sighed. “Poor Nancy.”

  Jim nodded again.

  Father Fisher brought his hands together before him. “Each of us has his cross to bear,” he said. Then his eyes got all dewy. “Jim, I hope, in the fullness of time — when you are ready — you’ll join us again at the Blessed T. We miss your shining face, my son.”

  Jim looked down. “Thank you, sir.”

  Father Fisher grinned and held up his hands, as if for a benediction.

  “No pressure,” he said. “Just downright selfishness on my part. The ol’ ranch just ain’t the same without ya.” There was a real tear in the pastor’s eye almost as dazzling as the stones on his cross. He shook Jim’s hand warmly and headed back up Truelove to the Godmobile.

  O, Saviour victim, opening wide the gates of life to man below. That was the passage on the passenger-side door.

  Father Fisher waved at Jim as he drove by. It took Jim a moment to realize that the pastor had forgotten all about the book he had on hold.

  In the library, Jim went right up to the counter and asked Mrs. Bhanerjee if they had a new Colin Dexter. She punched the name in on her terminal, waited, shook her head. “Nothing since Death Is Now My Neighbour,” she said.

  “Is it on hold?” asked Jim.

  Mrs. Bhanerjee checked and shook her head again. “I didn’t know you liked mysteries, Jim.”

  A small smile lit up Jim’s face. “I’m beginning to,” he said.

  8

  There was construction on Highway 7. Jim and his mother had to sit in the truck and wait while earth-moving equipment lumbered across their path. The truck was idling funny. They both heard it — a clackety sound that could only mean repair bills some time soon.

  “Did Father find you?” Iris Hawkins asked over the clacking.

  “Find me?”

  “I was talking to him earlier,” she said. “I told him where you would be.”

  Jim was sitting knee-deep in groceries. He fidgeted. A carton of tea spilled out of a shopping bag. He tried to pick it up with his feet and put it back in the bag.

  “That’s weird,” he said. “Father pretended he had been on his way to the library and it was a big surprise running into me.”

  Jim glanced at his mother. This didn’t seem to strike her as relevant. Obviously she had something else on her mind.

  “What did he want to talk about?” she asked.

  Jim delved into a bag and found a box of Saltines. He opened it, helped himself to a couple.

  “He just wanted to see how I was doing,” he said. “You know, see if I was ready to come back.”

  His mother nodded. She looked as if she was going to say something but changed her mind. So Jim went on.

  “Father said he was picking up this mystery they had reserved for him, but they didn’t. I asked. They didn’t even have the book at all.”

  Iris peered at Jim under lowered eyebrows. “What made you ask?

  “Pardon?”

  “Were you checking up on him?”

  Jim shrugged. “It was kind of… peculiar.” He was going to say suspicious but didn’t want to get into that. With relief, he watched her turn on the radio. It didn’t work so well with just a coat hanger for an aerial. She gave up after a minute and turned it off. The static had only deepened her frown.

  “Why was it kind of peculiar?” she asked. There were little needles in her voice. Not anger, really, but something. Worry?

  Jim kept his eyes on the earth mover, listened to its back-up beeping noise. “Well, it was sort of a white lie,” he said. “I mean, why didn’t he just say he’d been talking to you? Why did he make up anything at all?” Jim tried to keep his voice light.

  His mother dismissed him with a little snort. “He’s a busy man, Jim,” she said. “I imagine his mind was on other things. He has parishioners to visit in hospital, folks who need his prayers.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Outside, a girl in a hard hat and fluorescent yellow jacket swirled her sign from STOP to SLOW.

  “You know about his Kosovo Relief Fund?” Iris asked, as she put the truck in gear and edged ahead. “I know that’s taking up a huge part of his time right now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Jim. He had seen notices his mother had brought home from church.

  “Do you know what he’s done? He’s gotten all the churches in Ladybank to work together on this. When did you ever hear of such a thing? All working together. Not only that, he’s spoken to all the service clubs in town and even a couple of the factories.” Her voice had risen a notch, as if this was a point she needed to make. “What started out as a gesture of compassion from our little congregation has now brought in something like thirty-seven thousand dollars! All because of the effort of one man. Do you have any idea how amazing that is?” She paused. “And the thing is, Jim, he does this k
ind of thing all the time. He is a very committed man.”

  Jim couldn’t believe his tattle-tale had provoked such a lecture. It was clear to him that Father Fisher’s character was not up for debate.

  “You’re right,” he said as enthusiastically as he could. “It is pretty amazing, about the Kosovo fund. And the other stuff. I know it.”

  His mother nodded. They were finally able to pull back onto the highway. Two of the cars following them immediately pulled out to pass. The truck didn’t accelerate all that fast.

  “It’s a miracle, Jimbo,” said Iris Hawkins with a tremulousness in her voice that surprised him. He looked at her and she returned his glance with eyes full of fuss and worry, then quickly turned her attention back to the road. But Jim knew, suddenly, that Father Fisher had got to her. He must have told her about Jim’s run-in with Ruth Rose, how sick the girl was with her demented campaign against her stepfather. That’s why his mother was getting all hot under the collar.

  He didn’t want that. Didn’t want her worrying about him.

  Ruth Rose phoned him again that night. It was just after his mother had set off for work, as if she had been waiting. As if she had been watching.

  “Can you talk?” she asked. Her voice was raised, almost shrill. There were street sounds behind her. It seemed she was phoning from a phone booth.

  “What do you want?” he said guardedly. He looked out the window across the windy yard, half expecting to see a lit phone booth out on the Twelfth Line. Jim heard a car’s horn beeping in the receiver, otherwise silence. He was just about to ask if she was still there when, at last, she spoke.

  “I’ve figured it out,” she said.

  Jim pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. “Figured out what?”

  “How he did it,” she said. “The day he killed Hub.”

  Now it was Jim’s turn to go silent.