“It would be best if Hatchet didn’t get to talk to Wulf,” I said to Glo.
Glo nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.” And she jumped at Hatchet. “Get him!”
Hatchet turned and ran flat-out down the street in the dark, with Glo and me on his heels.
Pfft, pfft, pfft, pfft.
Glo took a flying leap, tagged Hatchet, and they both went down to the ground.
BAROOOOMPH!
Hatchet was kicking and clawing, Glo was holding tight, there was a flash of light, and Wulf appeared.
“Enough,” Wulf said.
Glo and Hatchet went flat on their backs and looked up at Wulf.
“Master,” Hatchet said. “I have critical information.” He went to all fours in an effort to stand, he farted, and I heard Glo squelch a nervous giggle.
Wulf stood still and silent, his attention turned to me. “Tell my cousin he courts anarchy,” Wulf said, his voice soft, as always.
I felt a hot flush creep from deep inside me to the surface of my skin. Adrenaline, I told myself, pushing aside the possibility that it felt a teeny bit sexual.
Wulf and Hatchet slipped into a shadow and disappeared. Moments later, a car engine caught and roared down the street.
“That’s a ten on my Creep-O-Meter,” Glo said, getting to her feet. “How does he just appear and disappear? And what is he?”
“I think he’s a human.”
We walked back to the bakery, carefully got into our cars, locked the doors, and drove off. I reached my house and was relieved when Diesel drove up behind me two beats later.
“I have bad news and bad news,” I said to Diesel when we got inside and flipped the light on. “Which do you want to hear first?”
“Am I going to hate this?” Diesel asked. “Is it necessary to tell me?”
“Hatchet overheard Glo talking about the message on the bell, so we’re no longer the only ones with that information. And I ran into Wulf, and he said you were courting anarchy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I did a palms-up. “He didn’t explain it. He disappeared in a flash of light.”
“No smoke?”
“Didn’t see any, but it was dark.”
Cat 7143 rubbed against my leg. He was hungry. I was hungry, too, and I couldn’t stand the thought of another meat pie.
“I’m going to pull something together for dinner,” I said to Diesel. “I suppose you should do some research.” I handed him the brochure with the two sentences Glo copied off the bell. “You can use my computer.”
I started rice cooking, defrosted a chicken breast, chopped it up, and dumped it into my wok. I listened to the chicken sizzle in the hot oil and felt better. It was good to do something where I felt in control and had some level of competency. I tossed in diced vegetables, added chili pepper and soy sauce for kick. I would have liked to add cashews or peanuts, but my cupboard was bare. I needed to shop. I set the table for three, and yelled to Diesel that dinner was ready.
Carl got to the table first. He climbed onto his booster chair and sat with excited expectancy. I tied a napkin around his neck and brought him his dinner in a wide bowl. No fork. No spoon. No knife.
“Finger food,” I said to Carl.
“Eeeh?”
I picked a piece of chicken out of his bowl and held it out to him. “Eat it with your fingers.”
“That’s a disaster waiting to happen,” Diesel said, taking his seat.
“What do you feed him?”
“Hot dogs, peanut butter sandwiches, Cheerios, and mangoes.”
“No wonder he likes to eat here.”
“Yeah,” Diesel said. “For the same reason I like to eat here.”
I brought bowls of stir-fry for Diesel and me, and I sat down.
Carl looked at me and carefully selected a piece of chicken from his bowl. “Eeh?” Carl asked.
“Exactly,” I said. “Eat it.”
“I’m not cleaning up the mess,” Diesel said.
“There’s no mess. He’s being careful.”
“I bet you were a pushover in high school,” Diesel said. “A guy could probably tell you anything and you believed it.”
“I wasn’t a pushover until culinary school. I was a late bloomer.”
Carl picked out a peapod and ate it. He ate another chunk of chicken. He ate a single grain of rice. He stared into his bowl. He looked at me. He looked at Diesel. He looked back into his bowl. He swiped up a fistful of food and shoved it into his mouth. A few grains of rice fell out of Carl’s mouth onto the table. He fisted more food and lost half of it to the floor. He gave the floor the finger, smushed his face into the bowl, and licked it clean. He looked up at me and smacked his lips. “Cha, cha, cha.”
“You have rice stuck in your fur,” I said.
Carl gave me the finger, jumped off his booster chair, walked into the living room, and turned the television on.
“Does he know that’s rude?” I asked Diesel.
Diesel forked into a piece of chicken. “It’s hard to tell what Carl knows.”