At the door stood Father Fisher with a rifle in his hands. He had just engaged the bolt action to put a shell into the firing chamber. The rifle was aimed at Jim.
22
Fisher was smiling. “My, but the Lord does go on answering my prayers,” he said. “That’s the power of faith, Jim Hawkins.”
Jim knew the rifle. It was a Cooie bolt action .22. It usually sat in a rack above the door in the back room. It was for varmints — raccoons with a taste for the hen house, groundhogs who set up shop in the vegetable garden, beavers that couldn’t be persuaded to build elsewhere.
Jim stared at Father Fisher defiantly. Fisher raised the rifle to his shoulder, expertly looking down the sights.
“I grew up in the country, Jim. I know how to use this thing.” Jim flinched. It was enough to make Fisher lower the firearm to rest in the crook of his arm. But he didn’t engage the safety.
He glanced around the half-painted room. “What a difference a day makes,” he said.
“You did it, didn’t you?”
Fisher held Jim’s angry gaze as if it were a wasp in a jar. “If that’s what you care to believe.”
“It’s what’s true.”
“It’s what you believe to be true, jimbo. That doesn’t quite make it the Gospel Truth.”
“Don’t talk to me about the Gospel,” said Jim. “You’ve got red paint all over your hands.”
Fisher glanced at the fingers of his hand, unperturbed. “Who’s to say it isn’t blood?”
“You killed my father,” shouted Jim.
Fisher showed no emotion. “Only a lunatic would think to say such a thing.” He spoke softly. “Start spreading it around and people just might think you’re as crazy as Ruth Rose.”
“You killed Francis Tufts,” said Jim. “And you killed my father because he was going to tell on you.”
“Really?” said Fisher placidly. “You must tell me all about it. Sometime. But right now, I’m on a tight schedule.” His eyes wandered again to the letters.
“If this is what you came for, take it,” rasped Jim. He threw the letters, which fluttered to the floor in front of the pastor.
Fisher kneeled to retrieve the little bundle. “Thank you,” he said. “It would have been far better had I found it last night,” he added wearily.
“Ruth Rose didn’t have it,” said Jim.
Fisher was reading the letter from Laverne, his gaze darting back and forth from the page to his captor.
“I know,” he said. “When I didn’t have any luck here, I put two and two together and went home again.” He folded up the letters and put them in the back pocket of his jeans. He was wearing a denim jacket over a work shirt. He wasn’t wearing his dog collar. Jim couldn’t recall ever seeing him without it. On his feet were sneakers, wet and speckled with greyish grit. Jim had never seen him dressed in normal clothes.
“Nancy was gone, of course, but I was able to reconstruct her treachery,” he said. His eyes invited Jim to ask him how and it gave Jim a certain amount of pleasure not to. But Fisher could not resist a captive audience.
“I found a discarded piece of note paper in the garbage can: an 800 number — FedEx, as it turned out — with the confirmation number jotted down underneath. Handy thing, a confirmation number. That’s how I was able to trace the parcel and find that it would be delivered here by three o’clock today.” He laughed at this. “Only three hours late,” he said. “I have had to wait with the patience of Job.”
He had been around the farm somewhere all afternoon. Jim shuddered.
“I must admit,” continued Fisher, “I wasn’t quite sure how I would handle it. I thought maybe I could cut the courier off at the pass, before you or your mother noticed — what with all the noise and all. I didn’t fancy a run-in with Iris. I’m sure you’ve been telling her all kinds of wild and fanciful stories. I trusted in the Lord to make my way easier. And voilà! Off goes Iris on some errand.” He looked at his watch. “It’s too early for work, I guess, but there’s nowhere she could be going that would take less than half an hour, so here we are, Jim, alone at the end of the world.”
The menace in his voice was studied, calculated to frighten. This time Jim didn’t flinch. But he had to stop himself from spitting in the man’s face. Fisher grinned.
“You hate me, dont you,” he said. “Go on, admit it.” Jim clenched his fists and swallowed the venom that was filling his mouth.
“Hate will do you in, Jimbo,” said the pastor. “Just like it did your father.”
Jim launched himself at the man — hurled himself with a vengeance, pushing off from the ladder, which crashed to the floor behind him. His head met Fisher square in the chest, his arms swinging. Fisher gave, but only a little, and the next moment Jim was lying on his back on the floor with the muzzle of the rifle pressed painfully against his chest. He laid his head back, breathing hard, his nose sucking in the burned smell of fine sawdust.
“Hate warps a man, Jim,” said Fisher. “Makes him putty in the Devil’s hands. It killed Francis Tufts, too. You want to hear the story?”
“No,” said Jim. Carefully, he pushed the barrel of the rifle away from his chest. Fisher didn’t stop him. His eyes were blazing.
“Your father started the fire that killed Francis Tufts. Bet you didn’t know that! No, of course not. Well, it’s true. He thought he was burning down my father’s hay mow. But he was too full of hate to know or care what the consequences of his action might be. See how it happens? When you’re burning up with hate, it doesn’t take much.”
Fisher’s eyes were watering, though his voice remained more or less composed. Jim closed his own eyes, tried to control his breathing. Then he smelled, suddenly, the acrid stink of sweat near his face and opened his eyes to find Fisher kneeling over him, his face so close that Jim had to turn away from the stench.
“After the fire I was scared,” said Fisher. “I ran off and hid. Hid and prayed. And that’s when the miracle happened. The Lord came into my heart and took up permanent residence there. He decided there was a lot of life in me and it would be a shame to waste it. I did some fierce praying and it saved our hides, Jimbo. But did your daddy accept that gift from above? No. He couldn’t. Didn’t have the faith. And when Stanley and his impertinent mother crawled out of the woodwork a year or so back, Hub got to hating again. Hating himself. As if he hadn’t learned from that fire what hatred can do to a man. He couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t stand it anymore. You hear what I’m saying, boy?”
Jim lay perfectly still, his head pressed to the floor.
“My trust in the Lord never faltered,” said Fisher. “I led Hub to that cabin New Year’s Eve. I knew I was a sinner for my part in the whole thing, but I knew the Lord loved me anyway. ‘Hated the sin, loved the sinner,’ as we like to say. ‘Hub,’ I told him. The Lord knows of our sins. No one else needs to. One day we will answer to Him. In the meantime, let’s get on with this life the best way we know how.’ But could 1 convince him of that? No, I could not.”
Fisher leaned back on his haunches. He lay the rifle across his thighs, looked thoughtful. His face was drawn, his eyes tired.
Then, abruptly, he was back in the present, looking at his watch, climbing to his feet.
“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Wherever your mother got to, she’s probably on her way home now.” He climbed to his feet. “Which means I should be on my way.”
Startled, Jim could only lie perfectly still and watch the man recover the FedEx package from the floor and shove it in his pocket. He looked around to see if there were any other signs of his being there. Satisfied, he turned to Jim.
“Tell your mother I was here, will you? Hmmm, I wonder what she’ll say?” Fisher raised his finger to his chin in a caricature of deep reflection.
“Maybe something like, Poor Jim. He’s having delusions. Only a year ago he was speechless with grief, suicidal. Now he’s mad as a hatter. Hooking up with Ruth Rose was the last straw. It was like hooking up with a run
away roller-coaster.’” He tapped his finger on his head. “Go ahead, spill the beans. See where it gets you. But, Jim, please, when you do, don’t forget the part about your daddy lighting the match. Tell the whole truth now, as you were taught to do. That is, if the truth is what you’re after.”
Jim stared at Fisher as if he were an alien — something from another planet.
“Of course, I’ll refute anything you say,” said Fisher. “I’ll shake my head sadly and pray for your over-imaginative broken heart. My record, Jim, my goodly deeds, my excess of faith and charity — these things speak so much louder than anything a confused and frightened child might say.”
Jim cleared his throat. “What did you do to Stanley?”
Fisher smiled. “Ah, Stanley? He’s all right. He’ll be gone in a day or two, his tail between his legs, scurrying back to his mother’s skirts. I’ve turned the tables on them, Jim. If Laverne Roncelier wants to see number-two son again, she’ll drop her foolish crusade.” He sighed. “And then we can all get back to doing the work God put us on earth to do.”
“To kill people?”
Fisher’s face contorted, with pain, anger — Jim wasn’t sure. Then he recovered. “Things happen in this life, Jim. You make a mistake, you ask for the Lord’s forgiveness. You move on.”
Then he left.
Jim was too stunned to move. He lay there listening to the night, the frogs, a dog barking. He didn’t hear a car start up. Fisher must have come on foot. He did hear a train loudly announcing its passage down Ruth Rose Way. In another quarter hour or so, she would hear it herself, rumbling through Ladybank. He imagined her lying in her cell on a cot as hard as any floor, wondering where that train was heading.
He struggled to his feet, his legs wobbly under him. Gently, he touched the back of his head. There would be a bruise on his skull where Fisher had hurled him to the floor. He pulled up his shirt and found a circular impression the diameter of a .22 calibre rifle muzzle. These wounds were the only proof the man had been there.
Were they enough?
Oh, by the way, Mom, while you were out, Father Fisher dropped by. At gunpoint, he stole the blackmail letter Nancy couriered to us. He told me about how Dad killed Francis Tufts twenty-five years ago, but he admitted that he had a part in it. Then he said goodbye and walked off into the night. See, here is the proof.
He thought of the courier. Jim had signed for Nancy’s package. Wasn’t that proof? Yes, but only proof that a package had arrived. Not proof of what happened to it.
He picked up the ladder, leaned against it. His head was reeling. Ruth Rose was under arrest, Stanley Tufts was being held for ransom, somewhere, until Laverne dropped her accusations. There was no proof of anything.
They could contact Nancy but would she talk? She was obviously scared out of her mind.
The stolen rifle would end up in the bottom of a quarry — or worse — the police would probably find it hidden in Ruth Rose s bedroom. Jim had been wrong. Fisher wasn’t on the run; Fisher wasn’t even breaking into much of a sweat.
Jim got himself a drink of orange juice from the fridge, closed his eyes and let the sweet coldness revive him. He let his mind wander into the future as far as next Sunday.
Fisher at church.
If everything worked out the way the pastor planned, he would be in church as usual. He would deliver a sermon about the evils of hatred, perhaps — just to taunt Jim. And there was nothing Jim could do to stop him. He could stand up and yell at him. He could write his story out on the walls. Then he’d be carted off like Ruth Rose, with Fisher falling to his knees to pray for his lost soul.
No. Jim could say and do nothing. That was the way the world worked.
In a kind of daze, Jim washed his face with cold water, well water from the stone heart of the earth. He dried himself off. Then, with shaking hands, he gathered some things for supper — plates, cutlery, napkins, glasses — and carried them out to the parlour where the kitchen table now stood. He laid the table and he thought about his father.
His father had done something terrible and he had been ashamed of it. It wasn’t hate that killed him, it was shame. But Fisher had no shame and there was no one in the world to bring shame upon him.
Unless…
An idea began to take form in Jim’s brain. The hurt faded. The rage faded. His hatred faded. There was no room for it if he was to make his plan work. He had to put aside the past, make his way lightly and carefully through the present and keep his mind on the future. If he could just keep his cool until tomorrow.
Leaning his head against the window, he watched his mother arrive. By the time she entered the house, he had summoned up a smile.
23
Jim had never skipped school before. But then, he had never tried to visit someone in jail, either, or cooked up a plan to track a murderer. It was a day of nevers. A day he would never forget.
He wrote a letter to Ruth Rose on the school bus. The writing was jerky but the message was clear enough. Anyway, he was hoping she would never see it. He was hoping she would see him in person. He imagined a room like in a movie, the two of them sitting on either side of a glass wall with guards at the door in case anybody tried anything funny.
By the time the bus pulled into the school driveway, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to wait until lunch time to see her. By lunch time, he might chicken out.
The jail was an historic building attached to the back of the old courthouse on St. James Hill just a few blocks from the library. He had stared up at the high grey walls and barred windows and imagined dark corridors and grizzled, desperate men in striped pyjamas. It was hard to picture Ruth Rose in such a place. And it was his fault she was there. She had wanted to be caught because he had let her down.
Inside the front door there was a stiflingly small reception area, bare of any furnishings or decoration. There were three doors and one window with thick glass — bullet-proof glass, Jim suspected — which looked into an office. There was only one person in the office. She wasn’t in uniform.
“Can I help you?” she asked, with a look that suggested she couldn’t.
Jim bent down to the little talk hole in the glass. “I’d like to speak to one of your prisoners,” he said.
The woman behind the glass twitched away a smile. “Did you have a particular one in mind?”
“Ruth Rose Fisher,” he said. “I’m not sure if it’s visiting hours yet, ma’am, but it’s really urgent.”
The woman’s expression softened. “Well, I’m sorry, but you just missed her. She’s gone.”
Jim’s eyes grew wide with surprise. “She got away?”
The woman nodded vigorously. “Uh-huh. Flew the coop. Some guy came in here with a birthday cake for her and I guess it must have had a rat-tail file hidden in it.”
Jim Hawkins the idiot.
“I was just pulling your leg,” said the woman good-naturedly. “Ruth Rose was remanded into custody pending her trial.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, she’s been charged with public mischief, but we’re not going to keep her locked up for that. Usually she’d be out under the supervision of a family member. In this case, no one seemed to be available and Children’s Aid wasn’t interested. Luckily, someone stepped forward to act as her guardian.”
“Not her real guardian?”
“Well, it’s a bit unusual,” said the woman, leaning on the counter behind the glass. “But Chief Braithewaite figured it was all right. Anyway, the girl was all for it.”
“May I ask who took her?” said Jim as politely as possible.
The woman observed Jim closely. He tried to keep eye contact with her, tried not to look like a criminal — hoped she wouldn’t ask him why he wasn’t in school.
“I guess it can’t hurt,” she said at last. “She left here with Mr. Menzies, the publisher over at the Expositor. How does that sound to you?”
“Great,” he said. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
He went directly to the newspaper office. Hec wasn’t in. He wasn’t at home, either.
“He could be anywhere,” said Dorothy.
There was nothing he could do but go back to school. He signed in late and told the secretary he would bring a letter from his mother the next day. It was difficult getting through the day, and the bus ride home seemed to take forever. Then, when he got home, there was no news. No word from Hec, no word from Ruth Rose. What was going on?
Jim tried to help, but his mother shooed him out of the house. “Why don’t you go check on those beavers,” she said. “Blow off some steam.”
He didn’t feel like going down to the south pasture, but he did go outside. And then he realized where he really wanted to go.
He set off north across the Twelfth Line. He climbed the split-rail fence and headed towards the ridge, towards Old Tabor.
Fisher was in hiding and he was obviously nearby. That was the only explanation for him being on foot the night before. Jim’s bet was on Tabor. And if Jim was right, Tabor was the very place Ruth Rose would make for. He could only hope she would tell Hec Menzies about their suspicions. It was hard to imagine her confiding in anyone after what had happened, but just maybe, if Hec told her what he had told Jim, she would open up. And then, with any luck, Hec would have told Braithewaite and there would be a whole search party already up on the ridge.
That’s what Jim hoped to find, anyway.
The field he crossed belonged to Lar Perkins. It was lying fallow this year, the bare earth hard under foot despite the rains. There had been a stiff wind and the going was relatively dry. Jim climbed the sloping field, crossed a rise and fell out of sight of his mother or anyone travelling on the Twelfth that brisk, late afternoon.
He hopped another fence. Now he was on Purvis Poole’s property, a sea of tangled weeds. He slogged on a way until he came to the shore of a sea of dunes, the edge of the first sand pit. He jumped down and cut across the pit, his feet sinking into the soggy sand. He had put on his work boots for the climb ahead but they seemed clunky now, and he wished he had worn his sneakers.
The Boy in the Burning House Page 15
