The Boy in the Burning House Read Online Free PDF Page A

her like a zombie.
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œFind out,” she said. “About…you know, Tuffy, Tabor, Laverne — anything.”
    It was no use arguing with her.
    â€œWhatever you say,” he replied. If he sounded less than convincing, she didn’t try to stop him from leaving.
    â€œI’m sorry for hurting you,” she said. “And about… you know… It.”
    â€œWhat?” he said. He had jumped over to the other side of Incognito Creek. It wasn’t much but it put something between them. When he turned, she seemed almost invisible, as if she had gathered up dusk all around her like a cape. As if she was just a part of the forest, a part of the coming night.
    â€œAbout you losing your father,” she said. “I know what it’s like.”
    He looked at her. “No, you don’t. You know what it’s like losing
your
father.”
    He didn’t turn around again when she called after him.
    â€œIt’s worse for me,” she shouted. “I’ve got a new one who wants to kill me.”
    The wind picked up just as Jim opened the gate from the cornfield. He had to fight to rope the gate closed again. The rope was fraying badly; he’d need to replace it. There was so much to do.
    He stopped in his tracks. He had left the shovel at the dam. He stamped his foot like a three-year-old. He swore.
    â€œYou don’t leave a tool out in the rain, Jimbo, unless you never plan on using it again.”
    He turned to go and retrieve it. But he couldn’t. For all he knew, Ruth Rose was still out there prowling around, her teeth bared, worse than any wild dog with wildly impossible things pouring out of her black lips. She was a witch.
    He heard the screen of the kitchen door slam back hard against the house, caught by the wind. He could just make out the form of his mother outlined in the doorway, the warm light of the kitchen behind her spilling out into the cool. Then she stepped out of his line of vision; the shrubbery and garden shed came between them.
    Jim headed through the apple orchard until he caught a glimpse of her again. She was standing on the porch, talking to someone. A man. He was standing beyond the light of the doorway. Jim hurried, uneasy.
    Out from behind the protective ranks of corn, the wind made him shiver, made him pull his open jacketclosed around him. The zipper was broken. He hadn’t even bothered showing it to his mom. When was she going to find time to fix it?
    He got close enough that he could hear snatches of conversation from the porch. His mom was laughing. Now she was shaking the man’s hand. Now the man stepped back up the steps to give her a hug. Big dark arms closed around her. She hugged him back.
    Jim was at the garden shed now. He leaned against it, out of sight, watching.
    It was okay. The man was going. His mother was already heading back inside.
    Jim waited. The man was heading towards the front yard where his van was sitting, gleamy black under the yard light. Jim looked that way for the first time.
    He knew the van, knew the scripture that was quoted in white scrolled letters on the side panels. The only thing he could read from where he was standing was what was written on the plastic wind foil across the front of the hood. “I Am The Lord Thy Saviour.”
    It was the car people around town called the Godmobile. Father Fisher’s car.

4
    His mom saw him before she shut the door. She waited to herd him inside with a warm hug. There were tears in her eyes.
    â€œWhat did he want?” Jim asked.
    His mother was mopping up a tear with the corner of her apron, but there was a smile on her face.
    â€œHe was looking for his daughter,” she said as she cleared the kitchen table of tea things.
    Jim hung up his coat, kicked off his boots, stopped himself from blurting out anything.
    â€œApparently she roams. Lettie Kitchen — you know Lettie down on the Glenshee Road, the one who