The Ghost and Mrs. Hobbs (11 page)

“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.

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.

Then she looked up and remembered where they were. She didn't want Michael frightened any more than he already was, so she brushed her tears away. Trying to make it seem like a game, she said as calmly as she could, “Okay, Mike. Let's run, okay? Ready? Come on!”

They ran across the grass, and Allie grabbed her bike from its hiding place in the bushes. She got on, lifted Michael onto the seat in front of her, and pushed off, pedaling furiously. As she turned off Armstrong Street, she looked back, half expecting to see Mrs. Hobbs lurching after them with her lopsided gait. But the street was empty.

When she reached Cumberland Road, Michael pointed excitedly to a fire truck and two police cars whose lights were flashing in front of their house.
What now? Allie wondered. She pulled into the driveway, and Mrs. Nichols burst out the front door. Her face, blotchy and swollen from crying, crumpled with relief, and she crushed Allie and Michael in a long, fierce embrace. “Thank God you're safe.”

Inside, the house seemed filled with men and women in uniform. There was a period of confusion as the firefighters, their job completed, prepared to leave. It seemed everyone was talking at once. Allie heard the word “pancakes” and groaned. She had run out, leaving the heat on under the frying pan. Sorry as she was that Chief Rasmussen was in the hospital, Allie couldn't help feeling relieved that he hadn't witnessed this latest disaster. She imagined the panic her parents had felt upon returning home to find the pancakes burning, the smoke alarm blaring, and both their children missing.

Now Allie and Michael, their parents, and one remaining police officer were gathered in the living room. Michael was snuggled in his mother's arms, and Allie stood next to her father, his arm around her shoulder. Everyone was looking at her.

“What on earth were you thinking, running off like that?” asked Mrs. Nichols.

Allie could hear in her mother's voice that relief was giving way to anger. Now that Allie and Michael were safe and sound, they were going to have some explaining to do. Quickly Allie told how she'd been
unable to find Michael to give him his breakfast and had gone to look for him.

Mr. and Mrs. Nichols turned to Mike. “Why did you run away, Mike? Where did you go?” asked Mr. Nichols.

Michael buried his face against his mother's chest and murmured something.

“What, honey? Tell Mommy and Daddy where you went.”

Michael mumbled something else, and Allie caught the word “fort.”

“Where was the fort? How did you get there?” Mrs. Nichols asked.

Allie couldn't hear Michael's muffled answer. She saw the policeman lean forward, trying to listen, too. Then she watched her mother turn pale. “The man took you?” Mrs. Nichols said, looking with alarm at Allie's father. “What man?”

Allie saw the fear in her mother's face and felt it spreading through her own stomach. She watched as her mother, struggling to keep the hysteria from her voice, gently pried Michael's head from her chest and looked him square in the eyes.

“He was a nice man, Mommy,” Michael said.

Allie could tell her mother was trying to sound calm, but there was a tremor in her voice as she said, “Tell Mommy about the nice man. What was his name?”

Michael shrugged.

“Where did you see him?”

“In my room.”

“This morning?” Mrs. Nichols asked incredulously.

Michael nodded. “When I woke up. He was there before. Remember, Allie?”

Allie, bewildered, shook her head. Her mother asked urgently, “Mike, did he talk to you?”

Another nod.

“What did he say?”

“He said he had a big fort. He said Allie was there, and I should come, too.”

Allie stiffened at the idea that the man had used her name to gain Michael's trust. Mike's story was getting more and more peculiar.

“And so you went with him?”

Nod.

“In a car?”

Michael shook his head.

“You walked?”

Michael nodded.