The Ghost and Mrs. Hobbs (10 page)

A sharp tingle ran through her, and she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Chief Rasmussen's fall had not been an accident!

A feeling of despair swept over her. Until now she had not understood the full extent of Mrs. Hobbs's power, or the depth of her malevolence. Even worse for Allie was the realization that whatever had happened to Chief Rasmussen was her fault. She was the one who had brought up the subject of the Hobbs fire, rekindling the chief's memories and causing him to look up the records on the case. He had been doing Allie a favor, trying to help with her project by giving her information from the investigation.

Allie felt her father's arms around her and heard his concerned voice. “Allie, honey, are you all right?” She buried her face in his chest and cried, while he patted her back and comforted her.

Allie wanted more than anything to pour out the whole story to her father, to pass the burden to him and let him decide what to do next. But she couldn't.

Mrs. Hobbs had hurt the chief because of his knowledge. Allie was afraid that if she told her father everything, he would be in danger, too. The idea of something happening to him terrified her.

Who else had she told about her suspicions?

Dub! Her heart lurched. Of course, Dub had pooh-poohed her, saying her theory was “far-fetched.” She was mad at Dub, but she certainly didn't want anything to happen to him. She would have to be very, very careful from then on. She could confide in no one. Mrs. Hobbs had murdered three people and gotten away with it, then harmed another to protect her secret. There was no telling where she'd stop.

As these thoughts were racing through Allie's mind, her father lifted her tear-streaked face by the chin and looked sympathetically into her eyes. “Come on, Allie-Cat, let's go home.” He kept one arm around her while they walked. Michael stayed close to her other side, and she felt his small hand grip hers when they crossed the grassy lawn of the high school.

“Don't be sad, Allie,” he whispered. “It's okay.”

It wasn't okay. Nothing was okay. But Michael didn't understand what was going on: he was just trying in his own way to make her feel better. Touched by his sweet concern, her eyes filled again with tears.

She wished she'd never told him anything about the Snapping Turtle. The less he knew about Mrs. Hobbs, the safer he'd be.

At home, Allie's father turned on the local TV news station, and they watched a report confirming Chief Rasmussen's accident at the station house shortly before noon that day. A representative from the hospital said that the chief had suffered a broken leg and a severe concussion. It was impossible to know how long he might remain unconscious.

Allie listened, terrified. Unconscious. Unable to tell what he knew. He'd been hurt, she was sure, because he'd been about to give Allie information Mrs. Hobbs didn't want her to have. It couldn't have been actual proof—he'd said that himself—or Mrs. Hobbs would be in jail. She must have covered her tracks very cleverly. Now she had acted to make sure they remained covered.

Several firemen were interviewed. None of them could understand how or why their chief had fallen.

“He could have slid down that pole with his eyes closed. It doesn't make sense,” one said, before turning away from the camera.

“The false alarm makes it worse somehow,” said another. “Chief always said it was his duty to give his life, if he had to, to save somebody from a fire. But this is just a waste.” Then, angrily, he added, “Whoever called in that alarm oughta be ashamed.”

Allie imagined Mrs. Hobbs listening, too, not ashamed at all, but gloating and triumphant.

Along with Allie's guilt and fear was the creepy feeling that Mrs. Hobbs somehow seemed to know what she was doing and thinking. I'm only a kid, she thought. How can I take on someone as powerful and treacherous as Mrs. Hobbs?

During supper Allie picked at her meat loaf while her father and Michael told Mrs. Nichols all about what had happened when she was at work. Allie's mother shook her head in amazement and murmured, “I can hardly believe it. How terrible for the chief—for everybody involved.”

“Do you think he'll be okay?” Allie asked.

“It's hard to tell with concussions,” answered Mr. Nichols, “especially with adults. But there's a good chance he'll bounce back from this. Let's turn on the six-thirty news and see what they say.”

He switched on the little TV set on the kitchen counter, and Allie cleared the table as they all listened. Soon a local reporter appeared, saying, “And now an update from County Hospital on the condition of Eric Rasmussen, fire chief for the town of Seneca.”

The picture switched to a woman in a white lab coat, who was identified as Dr. Leslee Barness. “Chief Rasmussen is responding very well to therapy,” she said. “He is healthy and strong, and he's a fighter. We expect rapid progress and a full recovery.”

Allie, who had been holding her breath, let it out in a rush of relief.

“Oh, that's wonderful,” said Mrs. Nichols.

“Good news, eh, Al?” said her dad.

Allie nodded, too grateful to speak. She began rinsing the dishes, praying silently that Mrs. Hobbs would leave the chief alone to get well. Allie hoped he would forget all about the Hobbs fire. She certainly wasn't going to ask him about it again, even if he recovered that very evening.

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.

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.