The Ghost of Ernie P. (9 page)

Jeff waved to Art, who was already settled in a corner with a copy of
Sports Illustrated
, and went down the hall to the examining room.

A few minutes later Dr. Palm bustled in. He looked surprised when Jeff came out from behind the curtained-off dressing area, stripped to his underwear.

“Thought Mrs. Miller was in this room,” the doctor huffed, sounding flustered. “Swollen ankles, she said. You don't have swollen ankles, do you, Jeffrey?” He sorted through a stack of folders without waiting for an answer. “Everything's in a mess,” he grumbled. “Part-time receptionist. Part-time nurse. Never should have let her go away.”

“You mean Mrs. Drewek?” Jeff asked.

“Of course I mean Mrs. Drewek. Lot of nonsense, traipsing off across the ocean. What's she want to do that for? We've got plenty of peculiar sights and strange people right here in Treverton.”

Jeff agreed with him. He didn't say so, though. When Dr. Palm was upset, it was better not to interrupt.

“So.” Dr. Palm opened one of the folders and studied it fiercely. “It says here that your mother is worried about you.” He cocked an eyebrow at Jeff. “Nothing new about that, is there?”

“No, sir.”

“It says here you've been in a state of depression ever since a friend of yours died. That true?”

“No, sir.” Jeff looked away from the doctor's piercing stare. “I mean, he wasn't a close friend, and I'm not depressed. I'm just—” For a second or two, he considered telling Dr. Palm the whole story, but that was impossible. Long before he finished telling about the Top Secret Project, the doctor would say he was talking foolishness. Jeff knew exactly how the conversation would go. Here in this quiet office, with pictures of Dr. Palm's children and grandchildren on the walls, the T S P would seem totally unbelievable. It
was
unbelievable.

“I'm just sort of tired,” he said. “You know how upset my mother gets about nothing.”

Dr. Palm nodded briskly. “Your mother is a wonderful woman,” he said. “She worries a lot, but that's because she doesn't want to take any chances. So let's just see if we can reassure her.”

Quickly, the doctor checked Jeff's lungs, his temperature, and his heart. He asked if his appetite was good and if he was sleeping well, and then, unexpectedly, he gave Jeff a hard swat between the shoulder blades.

“First rate, Jeffrey,” he announced. “Nothing wrong with you that a good spell of vacation can't cure. What do you say?”

Jeff nodded weakly.

“But to make your mother happy, we'll try a dose of super-duper energizer, too,” he continued. “Go ahead and dress, and the nurse will bring it in. If you need more, I'll write a prescription later.”

Jeff sighed. He wished he could have told Dr. Palm about the ghost of Ernie Barber and about Margo Muggin, but he couldn't. Still, the doctor's good report was sure to make Jeff's mother happy. She wouldn't worry if Jeff spent most of the next week “resting” in his room.

He was behind the screen, pulling his shirt over his head, when the door to the examining room opened and light footsteps tap-tapped across the floor.

“Here's the energizer Dr. Palm wants you to take.” The voice was soft and coaxing. It was also strangely familiar. A hand came around the curtain holding a small plastic cup of pinkish liquid.

“Drink it in one gulp, Jeffrey,” the soft voice urged. “That's the best way.”

Jeff took the cup and waited, hardly breathing, while the footsteps tapped across the room again. The door opened and closed. Whose voice was that? It hadn't sounded at all like the lady at the reception desk. This voice was much younger, and it reminded him of—

He gasped. It reminded him of Margo Muggin! The first time he met her she had sounded harsh and threatening until Mrs. Muggin returned from the kitchen. Then she had turned into the sweetest, gentlest person imaginable.

Margo Muggin was here in Dr. Palm's office. She'd brought this—this stuff he was supposed to drink.

The plastic cup slipped from Jeff's fingers and splashed across the floor. There was a sizzling sound, and tiny puffs of smoke spiraled up from each bright pink drop.

Jeff stared down at the steaming splashes. As he watched, the sizzling faded, and the pink blobs turned brown.

With a yelp of terror, Jeff hurtled across the room. In the hallway he almost crashed into Dr. Palm but ducked away. He shot through the waiting room like a cannon-ball. The gray-haired lady at the desk put out a hand to stop him, but he darted past her down the hall and out the front door.

“Jeff! Hey, Jeff! Stop!”

A hand clamped on his shoulder. “Hey, what's the matter? You cracking up again, man?”

Jeff jerked away from Art's grip. “Gotta get away,” he said thickly. “Right now.”

“You forgot something,” Art said. “Come on back inside.”

“No way,” Jeff roared. “I'm never going in there again.”

“You have to,” Art said. “Dr. Palm was yelling at you.”

Jeff shook his head. “Don't care.”

“Well, how about this?” Art said, sounding disgusted. “You forgot your jeans! And your shoes. If the cops see you like that, you'll be arrested.”

Jeff stared down at his bare legs and bare feet.

“What happened in there, buddy?” Art demanded. “You went through that waiting room so fast, you were just a blur.”

Jeff looked into his friend's anxious face. “You don't want to know,” he said. “You think you do, but you don't. Honest.”

Art shook his head. “Well, your mom's going to have a heart attack if she sees you, man,” he said finally. “I'll go back in and get your stuff.” He started up the walk and then turned. “What'll I say if I see Dr. Palm?”

Jeff tried to tug his T-shirt down over his knees. “Tell him I won't need any more of that energizer,” he said grimly. “Tell him one dose really got me moving.”

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

“Where's Art?” Mrs. Keppel asked, when Jeff came in from the backyard. “I thought we'd have some cinnamon-apple pie to celebrate.”

“He couldn't stay any longer. Had to go home to baby-sit his sisters.” Jeff took a deep breath. “What are we celebrating?”

“Your great good health, of course,” his mother said gaily. “Dr. Palm just called and said you're fine! Except your memory,” she added with a chuckle. “He said from now on I'd better check you over before you go outside. What happened? Did you forget to tie your shoelaces?”

“Something like that.” Jeff's face burned as he pictured himself waiting in front of the clinic while Art went back for the missing pants and shoes. He'd managed to get dressed, crouched behind a forsythia bush, just a minute or two before his mother drove up.

“I hear the doctor has hired a couple of part-time people while Mrs. Drewek is away,” Mrs. Keppel said. “What's his new nurse like?”

Jeff shuddered. “She's—she's the Muggins' niece,” he muttered, hoping that would be the end of the questions. To his relief, the timer went off, and his mother hurried to open the oven door.

“I warmed it,” she announced, holding up the pie for Jeff to admire. “I hope your appetite is perfect, too—perfectly huge.”

Jeff gulped. He wasn't hungry, but he didn't dare admit it. Apple pie was his favorite food. If he said No to apple pie, his mother would probably get back on the telephone and order a whole bottle of that sizzling pink poison. She'd pour it out for him herself and stand over him till he drank it.…

He brushed the thought away. “It looks great,” he said. “I've just got to check on something in the basement for a minute.”

In the dim quiet of the fruit cellar, he crouched and pulled out the jar that held the T S P evidence. With trembling fingers he removed the clippings and thumbed through them till he found what he was searching for.

…
has been fired from her job at Park Valley Hospital because she threatened to put a spell on a fellow employee
.

It was just as he'd thought. Margo Muggin must have been a nurse in Los Angeles. Dr. Palm had probably felt very lucky to find her here in Treverton, when he needed a temporary replacement. And
she
must have felt lucky when she heard Jeff was coming in as a patient. He wondered what horrible poison she'd added to Dr. Palm's energizer … probably some kind of witch's potion that vanished without a trace after it was swallowed.

Jeff crammed the clippings back into the jar and leaned against the stone wall. He doubted that he'd ever feel safe again.

For the next couple of days he hardly stirred out of his room. He didn't turn on the radio. He didn't look out the window. Most of the time he sat at his desk and worked on a model airplane he'd started, and put aside, a couple of years ago.

At mealtimes he went down to the kitchen where his mother watched anxiously to see how much he ate. She fixed all his favorite foods—pizza, pork chops, corn on the cob—and Jeff tried his best to look as if he were enjoying them. The truth was that five minutes after he got back upstairs, he couldn't remember what he'd eaten.

When the airplane was finished at last, it had crooked wings and a lopsided tail. Jeff looked at it in disgust and tossed it up on the top shelf of his closet. Hiding out was boring, boring, boring! He wondered how much longer he could stand it.

Still, when he thought about going outside, his hands grew clammy, and he felt as if he'd swallowed a bucket of tadpoles. Margo Muggin might pop up again at any moment. The ghost of Ernie Barber could be lurking anywhere. Maybe a week wasn't going to be long enough to bring an end to the T S P. He might have to stay in hiding forever.

Jeff stood in front of his mirror and tried to imagine what he'd look like with wrinkles and a long gray beard.
There's Keppel the Hermit
, people would say.
Strange old duffer. Hasn't stirred out of his house for forty years
.

“You are going to church with me,” Mrs. Keppel announced at breakfast Sunday morning. “Rest and relaxation are fine, Jeff, but enough is enough. Go upstairs and get dressed.”

Jeff did as he was told. He needed a change, and church would be the safest place to go. The dangerous part would be getting there and home again.

Maybe a disguise would help.

“You may
not
wear sunglasses and a baseball cap into church,” Mrs. Keppel said as they turned into the parking lot. “What in the world has gotten into you, Jeff?”

“Nothing,” Jeff mumbled. “I'm okay.” He'd considered tying a scarf over the lower half of his face but had settled for holding a handkerchief to his nose instead. “Maybe I'm getting a cold.”

“Well, if you are, I don't think a baseball cap and sunglasses will help.” Mrs. Keppel sounded exasperated. “If you don't get back to normal soon, I am definitely going to call Dr. Palm and ask for some more of whatever he gave you at the clinic.”

Reluctantly, Jeff took off the sunglasses and cap and stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. He peered over his shoulder, half-expecting Margo Muggin to come striding across the parking lot. She was nowhere in sight, but still it was a relief when the heavy wooden doors of the church swung shut behind him.

“Good morning, Jeffrey, old buddy.” Jeff whirled as a heavy hand gripped his shoulder. Someone big, with a round face and a toothy grin, hovered over him. For a moment Jeff was sure it was Ernie Barber himself; then the face blurred and changed, and he recognized Mr. McCarthy, the adviser of the church Youth Club.

“Don't forget our meeting next Wednesday evening, Jeffrey,” Mr. McCarthy said jovially. “I have a top secret project I want you to help me with.”

Jeff broke away without answering and ducked down the aisle of the church. Common sense told him that when Mr. McCarthy said “top secret project,” he didn't mean anything more startling than a Youth Club car wash or a pancake breakfast or a bingo party. He was just trying to make his current money-raising plan—whatever it was—sound more exciting. But at this moment common sense didn't help much. Jeff slumped into a pew and took deep breaths, trying to calm down before his mother joined him.

It was no use. He couldn't shake the certainty that Ernie's ghost would follow him no matter where he went. As the organ music swelled and Pastor Larsen took his place at the pulpit, Jeff was close to despair. Hiding out wasn't going to work. No matter what he did, the Top Secret Project would pursue him.

“You didn't have to run off like that,” Mrs. Keppel whispered crossly as she slid into the pew beside him. “Honestly, Jeff, you're acting like a scared rabbit. Mr. McCarthy says you ran away from him, too.”

Jeff slid farther down in the seat. He didn't want to raise his head for fear he might see another Ernie Barber look-alike, or a Margo Muggin twin, sitting among the congregation. If that happened, he'd probably jump right up and run out of the church. He wouldn't be able to stop himself.

The organ stopped, and Pastor Larsen welcomed them to the service. The organ played again. Mrs. Keppel picked up a hymnbook and held it in front of Jeff.

“Stand up,” she hissed. “Sing!”

Jeff dragged himself to his feet, his eyes on the hymn-book. He wanted to pay attention to the service, but all he could think of was how miserable he was. When church was over, he would have to walk back down the aisle to—what? Ernie, or Margo, or both of them might be waiting.

The hymn ended and the congregation sat down. Mrs. Keppel's elbow dug into Jeff's ribs. “Sit straight,” she whispered. “Put some starch in your spine, young man. Listen to the sermon.”

Jeff looked up at Pastor Larsen and discovered, to his surprise, that the minister was looking back at him. “My message today has a simple title,” the pastor announced. “I call it ‘God Helps.' That's half of the title. The other half is just as important. ‘God Helps—Those Who Help Themselves.'”