When the dishes were stacked in the dishwasher, she told her parents she was going to Mr. Henry’s house to feed Hoover. She had an urge to ask one of them to come along with her, but told herself she was being a baby. After all, there was no reason for Mrs. Hobbs to care if she went to Mr. Henry’s house. It was only seven o’clock and still light out, and Mr. Henry’s house wasn’t far away.
She gave her mother and father each a quick kiss on the cheek, saying, “I’ll be back soon.”
She grabbed her jacket from the hook by the kitchen door, called goodbye, and ran for her bike. When she got to Mr. Henry’s house, she checked the penned-in yard. There was no sign of Hoover outside, so she let herself into the kitchen, calling, “Hoover, it’s suppertime!” She waited, listening, but heard nothing except the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the clock on the wall.
“Hoooover,” she crooned. “Come here, you good girl.” She picked up a rubber squeak toy shaped like a bone and squeezed it a few times. “Want your bone, Hoovey? Want to play?” Ordinarily, Allie knew, when Hoover heard her squeak toy she came bounding from wherever she was, eager for a game of “chew the bone until it doesn’t squeak anymore.”
But there was no scramble of paws, no click of toenails against the floor, no sign of Hoover’s big golden head at the kitchen door—nothing but an eerie silence. Allie stepped from the kitchen into the combination living-and-dining area and called, “Hoover?” Her voice came out sounding small and shaky. She cleared her throat and gave a hearty “Hoover?”
Allie’s voice echoed in her ears, keeping time with the sudden loud thumping of her heart. She had allowed herself to hope that Hoover’s odd behavior in the morning was a temporary aberration, and that the dog would be her old self by dinnertime. But where in the world could she be? If anything had happened to her, Allie would be responsible.
Uneasily Allie looked at the staircase that led to the second floor. She supposed she was going to have to go up there, but it didn’t feel right to go traipsing around Mr. Henry’s house. It felt like snooping. She had to look, though. What if Hoover was up there, sick or injured or—Taking a deep breath, she began climbing the stairs, calling the dog’s name softly as she went.
At the top of the stairs was a bathroom. Allie glanced inside, but there was no sign of Hoover. To the right, she looked into a room that looked like an office, then into a spare bedroom. Nothing. She went back down the hallway and paused outside the doorway to what was clearly Mr. Henry’s bedroom. She looked around, feeling very uncomfortable, almost guilty, about invading her teacher’s privacy. There was no sign of Hoover, and she was about to go back downstairs when she heard a faint whimper.
“Hoover?” she whispered. “Is that you, girl?”
A series of low cries came from under the bed. Allie got down on her knees and crawled over, lifted the bedspread, and peered into the dim space. There, backed up against the wall as far from Allie as she could get, lay Hoover, trembling and whining in what appeared to be abject fear. This was so unlike the rambunctious dog Allie knew and loved, the dog Mr. Henry and all the kids at school loved, that Allie felt completely bewildered. Hoover, usually so jubilant and playful, was acting like an entirely different dog.
“Hoover,” Allie pleaded, “what’s the matter, girl?”
The dog, already pressed against the wall, tried to back even farther away. When she couldn’t, she stiffened and let out a fierce, sharp bark. Then she curled her lips and bared her teeth, and a low growl came from deep inside.
Allie was terrified. She couldn’t believe what was happening. She had no idea what she might have done to cause Hoover to act this way. All she knew was that she had to get away. Hoover was frightened and cornered, and even the gentlest dog might bite under those circumstances. Very slowly and deliberately, she backed away from the bed and inched, still backward, toward the door. She was afraid to stand up, afraid the movement would upset the dog further, afraid, too, of those jaws and teeth emerging from under the bed to close around her leg.
When she reached the door of the bedroom, she got quickly to her feet, slammed the door, and raced down the stairs to the kitchen. She stood for a moment, her heart pounding, while tears sprang to her eyes. She brushed them away, still unable to believe what had happened, unable to believe that she was frightened of the most sweet-natured dog she had ever known. It was equally strange and incredible, she thought, that Hoover appeared to be frightened of her.
With hands that were still trembling, Allie filled Hoover’s food and water dishes and let herself out of the house. She stood for a moment, looking up at the second-floor windows as if they might give her some kind of explanation for what had happened inside, but they stared blankly back, revealing nothing.
She raced home, where her mother was reading to Michael. She explained to her father what had happened and how she had left Hoover in the bedroom with the door closed. Together, they got in the car and went back to Mr. Henry’s house.
In the kitchen Mr. Nichols said, “You stay here, Al. I’ll go up.”
Allie listened to his footsteps ascend the stairs and cross the floor to Mr. Henry’s room. She heard the door open and her father’s muffled voice softly calling Hoover’s name. Then, to her astonishment, her father said jovially, “Well, hello, Hoover, old girl! How are you, big puppy? You okay now, girl? You gave Allie quite a scare, you know. Come on downstairs. That’s it, come on. Your supper’s waiting. Oh yes, what a good girl.”
Allie listened, amazed, as her father and Hoover came downstairs. Hoover bounded into the kitchen, her ears eagerly perked, her tail wagging happily. But before Allie could open her mouth, Hoover’s entire demeanor changed. Her tail went between her legs, her ears flattened against her head, and her legs stiffened as she came abruptly to a halt. Then she huddled behind Mr. Nichols’s legs, alternately whimpering and barking in short, sharp bursts.
“Dad!” Allie wailed. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know, Al,” he said, looking baffled. “She was fine until—”
“Until she saw me!” Allie cried. “But, Dad, I didn’t do anything to her, honest! Why is she acting like that? Why is she scared of me?”
“You didn’t do anything, Allie. She’s confused for some reason. Who knows why? Listen, why don’t you wait in the car? I’ll get her settled down, see if I can get her to eat something, and then we’ll go.”
Dejectedly, Allie went out and sat in the car. She had always credited animals, especially dogs, especially Hoover, with having a natural sense about people. Dogs seemed to know instinctively who was good and who was bad, who deserved their loyalty and love, and who didn’t. It made Allie feel awful to have Hoover act as if she were the worst bad guy in the entire Galactic Warriors universe.
She’d been rejected by her best friend. Now she’d been spurned by a dog. The only person outside her family who really cared about her was a ghost. The memory of John Walker’s sympathetic smile helped to soothe the aching place in Allie’s heart.
Eighteen
It took Allie a long time to get to sleep. Her brain felt like a blender, with terrible thoughts whirling round and round inside. Then, to her surprise, it was eight o’clock in the morning. She must have slept, after all.
She got out of bed and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where she fixed herself a bowl of cereal. She would have liked some company other than her own depressing thoughts, but the rest of the family slept late on Sundays.
Finally, her parents came down. Her mother began mixing pancake batter, and her father sat beside her at the table and said, “Would you like me to go over and check on Hoover this morning, Allie-Cat?”
“I guess so, Dad,” Allie said glumly. “I don’t want to torture her by making her see me again.”
“Cheer up,” said her dad. “When Mr. Henry gets home, I’m sure she’ll start acting normal again.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Allie, trying to smile back at her father.
“I think I’ll run over there now, then. I’ll be back for the final batch of pancakes.”
“Okay, Dad. Thanks.”
The phone began to ring as Mr. Nichols pulled the front door shut behind him. Allie answered, “Hello?”
“This is Alarm Services. Is Mrs. Ann Nichols there?”
“Just a minute, please.”
Allie listened while her mother spoke quickly, then hung up.
“The alarm went off over at the store,” Mrs. Nichols said, pushing her hair, still mussed from sleep, from her forehead. “I must have punched in the wrong code or something when I closed up last night. Usually Joan or Reggie sets it, but I was alone yesterday, in a hurry, as usual . . .” Mrs. Nichols was talking, sort of to Allie and sort of to herself, as she threw her raincoat on over her nightgown.
“I have to run down there, sweetie, just for a second. The batter’s all ready. Would you like to start a batch of pancakes for you and Michael?”
“Sure.”
“You’ll have to wake him up. Be careful with that hot frying pan. I’ll be back in two seconds.”
“Okay, Mom.”
Allie put some butter in the pan, waited for it to sizzle, and spread it evenly around. Michael liked lots of silver dollar pancakes, so she carefully spooned small dollops of batter until she had made twelve little circles. When the tops bubbled and the sides looked firm, she flipped them over and was happy to see that they looked perfect. Making perfect pancakes wasn’t exactly a major accomplishment, but it still felt good to be doing something right.
Allie turned down the flame and called up the stairs to wake Michael. When he didn’t answer, she ran to his room and found that he must have gotten up, after all.
“Michael?” She moved through the house, calling to him, but he didn’t reply. Then, figuring that he must have gone out to his fort, she leaned out the kitchen door and called across the yard, “Michael! Your pancakes are ready!”
There was no answer. “Come on, Mike, quit fooling around! I made your favorites, and they’re ready right now!”
No sound or movement came from the forsythia bushes. “Michael!” Allie said. “Give me a break!”
Michael still didn’t answer.
“I’ll eat them all myself,” she threatened.
Silence.
“Darn you, Michael,” she said angrily, storming across the lawn. The grass was still soaked with dew, and her slippers got wet, making her even madder. “Don’t think for one minute I’m going to guess some stupid password to get you to come out of there,” she grumbled, bending down and peering into the bushes.
There was no sign of Michael. Allie felt a peculiar mixture of exasperation and fear. “Michael!” she shouted. “Come out here right now, I’m not kidding!”
“I’m going to tell Mom and Dad,” she added desperately when Michael didn’t answer. “They’re going to be home any minute, and they’ll be really mad.”
The yard was still and silent in the early-morning sun, except for the chirping of the birds. Allie raced back inside and ran through the house again, calling for Michael and checking every room. In his bedroom she looked under the bed, under the covers, and in the closet to make sure he wasn’t hiding.
Finally, she let the truth wash over her. Michael was gone.
And she knew who had taken him.
In a near frenzy of panic, Allie tried to decide what to do. The idea of going after Michael by herself made her mouth feel cottony with fear. But waiting for her mother or father to come home would mean wasting precious minutes. An image of Michael, alone with the Snapping Turtle, hysterical with fear, filled her mind and nearly paralyzed her. No! She couldn’t wait while the seconds ticked away, not while Michael was in danger.
A horrible thought took her breath away. Mrs. Hobbs must have known Mr. Nichols was out, and had caused the alarm to go off, summoning Allie’s mother away, as well. Who knew what she might do to keep Allie’s parents from returning?
Choking back a sob, Allie made up her mind. Quickly she threw a pair of jeans over her shorty pajama bottoms, pulled on some sneakers, and ran downstairs and out the front door. Then she flew to the garage, onto her bike, and out into the street, grateful that she didn’t have far to go.
The street was deserted in the Sunday morning quiet. She stopped at 1228 Armstrong Street, got off her bike, and stashed it in the bushes. As Allie crept across the grass, her heart pounded under her pajama top. When she reached the steps that led up to the half of the porch that remained, a sudden noise made her gasp out loud and whirl around in terror. It was only one of the tarps that covered the roof and walls, flapping in a passing breeze.
On the porch she slipped quietly past the front door and over to the open window. She peered through the screen, terrified of what she might see. Her imagination offered images of Michael tied to a chair, blindfolded and gagged, choking on his sobs. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim gloom of Mrs. Hobbs’s living room. What she saw then caused her to gasp in disbelief.
Nineteen
Mrs. Hobbs was sitting alone on a couch, weeping. There was no sign of Michael.
Allie was so stunned by the sight of the Snapping Turtle crying that for a moment she simply stood staring, watching the rise and fall of Mrs. Hobbs’s shaking shoulders and listening to the lost, hopeless sounds of her sobs. Appalled, Allie wondered what in the world could have happened to make a woman like Mrs. Hobbs cry.
An answer too terrible to contemplate occurred to her. Had Mrs. Hobbs done something so awful to Michael that even she was feeling remorse? That thought put steel in Allie’s spine. Without knocking, she burst into Mrs. Hobbs’s living room. Having planned nothing—not what she was going to do or what she was going to say—she stood in the open doorway, her eyes locked furiously on the figure of Mrs. Hobbs.
Mrs. Hobbs lifted her tear-stained face. Her expression registered no surprise at Allie’s intrusion, no anger, no emotion at all except a profound weariness. In a low, dull whisper, she said, “I give up.”
Allie felt confused. Give up? Did Mrs. Hobbs mean she was giving Michael back? “Where is he?” Allie said, her voice sounding huge and angry in the tiny room.
Mrs. Hobbs’s expression didn’t change. “You know that as well as I do,” she said tiredly. Her voice was as strange and gravelly as it had been in the cafeteria, only now there was no fury left in it.
Is she joking around with me? Allie wondered in amazement. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?” she cried, taking a step toward the woman, feeling as if she might grab her and shake the answers out of her.
Mrs. Hobbs looked off toward the distance, to somewhere only she could see. “I suppose he thinks I did,” she said quietly.
“No,” Allie moaned, unable to bear the thought. “What did you do to him?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m going to put an end to it once and for all.”
Allie’s mind was racing in frantic circles. Put an end to what? Michael’s life? “Oh, please,” Allie whimpered. “Please, no.”
“I do wish you’d tell me something,” Mrs. Hobbs went on. Her voice remained slow and monotonous, and her face still showed a complete absence of feeling. “How did he get you to play his twisted little game?”
Game? Allie shivered in the warm, stuffy room, chilled by the thought that Mrs. Hobbs must be mad. In that case, what was the best course of action? Should Allie force her way past the woman and search the house for Michael? No, she thought, she shouldn’t do anything to make Mrs. Hobbs angry or upset. At the moment the woman was calm and unthreatening. Talk to her, Allie thought. Get her talking about Michael and maybe she’ll tell you where he is.
She had asked about Michael’s game. What game was she talking about? Allie racked her brain for an answer. “You mean the games he plays with those little plastic figures?” she asked desperately.
Mrs. Hobbs’s dull expression changed momentarily to confusion. Then she moved her hand as if to wave away Allie’s words and said
, “Did you think he was nice? Did he flatter you? Did he turn those dark, soulful eyes on you and make your heart swell with sympathy? Did he make you believe he was the only person in the world who understood your feelings? Did he make you feel needed?”
It dawned on Allie that Mrs. Hobbs wasn’t talking about Michael at all. At the same time, the woman’s odd questions settled uncomfortably in the back of Allie’s mind, ringing a familiar bell. But she couldn’t think about it then. “Where is my brother?” she screamed. “What did you do to Michael?”
Mrs. Hobbs merely stared at her dumbly, as if Allie was the one who was asking crazy questions.
Then Allie heard a small, plaintive voice wail, “Allie?”
“Michael!” Relief spread through her like warm butter, making her legs weak. She turned away from Mrs. Hobbs and shouted, “Michael, where are you?”
“Allie?” he said again. The sound came from somewhere outside, and Allie ran out onto the porch.
“It’s me, Mike,” she said urgently. “Keep talking so I can find you.”
“I don’t like this fort, Allie. I want to go home.”
Allie followed Michael’s voice to the unfinished side of the house. Was he under there somewhere? Trying to make herself sound calm and reassuring, she said, “Good idea, Mike. Let’s go home. Come on out here and we’ll go.”
“I’m scared. It’s dark.”
Allie’s heart wrenched at the pitiful sound of his voice. It was coming from somewhere under the part of the house that was covered with plywood and tarpaper and tarps. She lifted the edge of the plastic.
“Mike?”
When she heard sniffling and soft crying, she ripped the tarp from the staples that held it down and got to her knees. Only a small amount of light reached under the makeshift wall, but it was enough for her to see Michael’s small, huddled form. She reached out to him, saying, “It’s okay now, Squirt-Face. Come on. Let’s go home.”
Michael wriggled across the dirt and into Allie’s arms, and for a moment they simply sat and hugged each other. Allie thought she had never been so happy in her entire life, and she squeezed her eyes shut and wept with relief.
The Ghost and Mrs. Hobbs Page 8
