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.”
16
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.