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Lies! He was telling lies on me! Wasn't none of that true!

"You did it all! You are the crazy man, John Amos!" and like Malcolm would, I ran over to kick at him. "Die, John Amos! Die and be redeemed through death!"

My arms were caught and I was lifted away. Daddy had me in his arms and was trying to calm me. "Your mother . . . where is your mother? Where is the fire?"

A red haze was in my eyes, but I reached in my pants pocket and gave my daddy the key. "In the wine cellar," I said dully, "waiting for the fire to end them like they ended Foxworth Hall. Malcolm wanted it that way--all the little attic mice to burn and stop reproducing contaminated seed."

Far away from my body I was standing, watching the stunned terror in Daddy's eyes as he tried to delve into my eyes. . but I knew they were blank--for I wasn't there. Didn't know where I was. Didn't care.

Redemption

.

Fire. The mansion was on fire.

I straddled John Amos, who fought me off--or

tried to, but soon he knew who had the best of the battle. "You can't get away, old man. You've poisoned my brother's mind, made him think awful things. I hope to God you rot in some jail cell for the rest of your life for what you've done."

While John Amos and I had at it, Dad sped off to find Mom and his mother, with Bart at his heels screaming out how he could get to the wine cellar.

"Get off me, boy!" yelled John Amos Jackson. "That brother of yours is crazy--dangerous! He starved that poor puppy then stabbed him with a pitchfork. Is that the act of a sane child?"

"Why didn't you stop him if you saw him do all that?"

"Why, why . . ." sputtered the old man, "he would have turned on me like a wild beast. The boy is insane like his grandmother. Why it was my own wife who saw him dig up the skeleton of her pet kitten. Ask her, go on, ask her."

Some of what he said was getting to me. Bart was irrational. Yet, yet--was he a killer? "Bart talks in his sleep, old man. He repeats everything he hears during the day like a parrot. He quotes from the Bible and pronounces words he wouldn't be able to if someone like you wasn't coaching him."

"You fool boy! He doesn't know who he is! Can't you see that? He thinks he is his greatgrandfather Malcolm Foxworth . . . and like Malcolm he's driven to kill every last living member of the Foxworth clan!"

At that moment I saw my father stumble into the garage carrying my mother in his arms, with his mother, dirty and in rags, following behind. I jumped up and ran. "Mom, oh Mom!" I cried, overjoyed to see she was still alive. But she looked dreadful, dirty, pale and thin . . . but alive, thank God!

She was conscious. "Where's Bart?" she whispered. With that question she lost consciousness and slumped in Dad's arms. While looking around for Bart, I noticed that John Amos Jackson was no longer to be seen. "Dad," I said to draw his attention, and just then out of the dim shadows of the garage, the butler appeared with a heavy shovel. He brought that shovel down hard on top of Dad's head. Silently, without a groan, Dad slumped to the floor with Mom still in his arms. Again that butler raised the shovel as if to kill Dad--and maybe Mom too. I ran, and I kicked with my right leg as I'd never kicked before. The shovel went spinning away, and as John Amos Jackson whirled to face me, I let him have it with my left foot square in his stomach. He groaned and slumped over.

But Bart--where was Bart?

"Jory," called the mother of my parents, "get your parents out of this garage as quickly as you can! Pull them so far away they won't be hurt if the garage blows when the fire reaches the gasoline in here. Hurry!" I started to object, but she took care of that. "I'll find Bart. You just keep my son and daughter safe."

It was easy to pick up Mom and run with her to a safe place and lay her do

wn, but not so easy to drag Dad by his shoulders to lie beside her under a tree-still I managed. The house now smoked from several windows. My brother was in there--and my grandmother too.

John Amos Jackson had recovered and he too rushed inside the burning house. In the kitchen I saw John Amos struggling with my grandmother. He was battering her face with slaps. I ran to rescue her though the smoke was in my eyes. "You'll never get away with this, John!" she yelled as he tried to choke her. I fell over a chair that had been turned over, and jumped to my feet just in time to see her bring down a heavy Venetian glass ashtray so it struck him on his temple. He slumped to the floor like a bird shot down from a rifle. That's when I saw Bart. He was in the parlor trying to lug that huge portrait to safety. "Momma," he was sobbing, "gotta save Momma. Momma, I'm gonna get you out of here, don't you fear, 'cause I'm just as brave as Jory, just as brave . . . can't let you burn. John Amos was lying, he doesn't know what God wants, doesn't know . . ."

"Bart," crooned my grandmother. Her voice was so like my Mom's. "I'm here. You can save me-- not just the portrait." She stepped forward, limping badly, and I guessed she'd tripped and sprained her ankle, for at each step she grimaced. "Please, darling, you and I have to leave the house."

He shook his head. "Gotta save Momma! You're not my momma!"

"But I am," said another voice in another doorway. My eyes widened to see my mother standing there, clinging weakly to the doorframe as she pleaded with Bart. "Darling, let go of the portrait and all of us will leave this house." Bart looked from her to his grandmother, still clinging to the huge heavy portrait that he could never have the strength to drag from the house. "Gonna save my momma, even if she hates me," muttered Bart to himself as he tugged at the huge heavy portrait. "Don't care no more if she loves Jory and Cindy better. Gotta do one good thing and then everybody will know I'm not bad, and not crazy."

Mom ran to him and covered his small dirty face with kisses, as all around us the room filled with smoke.

"Jory!" called my grandmother, "call the fire department! Take Bart out of here, and I'll lead your mother out."

But Mom didn't want to go; she seemed oblivious of the danger of staying in a smoke-filled house, with fire underneath. Even as I dialed 0 for the operator and told her what was going on, then gave her the address, Mom was down on her knees hugging Bart close. "Bart, my sweetheart, if you can't accept Cindy as your sister and live happily with her, I'll send her away."

His grip loosened on the portrait as his eyes grew wider. "No you won't . . ."