“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 runaway 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.