Free The Boy in the Burning House by Tim Wynne-Jones Page A

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.
    â€œNo, sir,” he said. “It sounds bad, though. Scary.”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œI really am sorry,” said Jim. Father Fisher let his hand drop.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œNo 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 asdazzling 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.
    â€œIs 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.
    â€œDid Father find you?” Iris Hawkins asked over the clacking.
    â€œFind me?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThat’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