Wicked Business

“Everyone dresses their cat.”


We went to the lower level and looked at the dinosaur exhibit. There were several people milling around. One of them was Hatchet, in full Renaissance regalia. He was slowly moving through the room, touching everything, searching for hidden energy.

“Find anything?” I asked him.

He gave a gasp of surprise at seeing Diesel and me, and he looked down at Carl. “What brings thee to this place with your . . .”

“Monkey,” Diesel said, filling in the blank. “And he’s not from my side of the family.”

Hatchet was wearing a large Band-Aid on his neck, a green tunic, brown tights, his hives were gone, and his scabbard was empty.

“Where’s your sword?” I asked him.

“I was requested to check it upon entry. I fear my life as a minion in this century is complicated.”

Carl tugged at my hand. He wanted to keep moving. He had his eye on Triceratops.

“Did you dig up Peder Tichy?” I asked Hatchet.

“I did not. There was no need.”

“Someone thought there was a need.”

“A beast without our unique talent.”

“Beast is a strong word,” I said.

“’Tis a beast. I know this as a certainty. And this beast doth destroy with pleasure.”

“Eeeeep,” Carl said, stomping his feet in his Uggs, pointing to the dinosaur.

“Hey!” I said to Carl. “Chill. I’m having a conversation.”

“Does the beast have a name?” I asked Hatchet.

“It does. My master has warned thee.”

“Anarchy,” Diesel guessed.

“I know nothing more than that,” Hatchet said. “Only that it is fearful.”

Hatchet moved on, continuing to leave his fingerprints on every surface.

“Do you think there really is a beast named Anarchy?” I asked Diesel.

“Do I think there’s a fire-breathing dragon named Anarchy? No. Do I think there’s a dangerous lunatic out there calling himself Anarchy? Good possibility.” Diesel took Carl over to Triceratops. “Personally, I think calling yourself Anarchy is overly dramatic.”

“This from a guy named Diesel.”

“I didn’t choose the name.”

“What name would you choose?”

“Gus.”

“Because it’s short?”

“Because it’s normal, and expectations would be normal. And that would give me an advantage,” Diesel said. “Since I’m not entirely normal.”

“Do you think Hatchet got the burn on his neck from Anarchy?”

“It’s possible. He got it from someone, and it wasn’t Wulf.”

“Here’s a thought. The handprint on Hatchet’s neck was small. So maybe it was a woman’s hand. Anarchy could be a woman. And if I wanted to stretch it farther, I might wonder if Reedy’s mystery date, Ann, is Anarchy.”

“I had the same thought,” Diesel said. “And she could have killed Reedy. I never got a good look at the handprint.”

“Most women aren’t that vicious or that strong,” I said.

“This wouldn’t be an ordinary woman.”

“It could be your aunt!”

“Wulf’s mother?” Diesel gave a bark of laughter. “I can’t see her worshipping anarchy. She’s like Wulf. She likes to keep things tidy and under her control.”

A docent was standing by a colorful, huge, two-story contraption that had balls rolling along tracks, banging into bells, dropping into whirligigs, being carried up on tiny escalators, and released for a clattering, dinging, bonging journey down. It was all held in place by a sturdy metal frame, and it was electrically powered. The sign said it was an Audiokinetic Sculpture.

The docent was back on his heels, looking bored. People were watching the sculpture, but no one was talking to him. I left Carl with Diesel and crossed the room.

“I love this machine with the balls and the bells,” I said to the docent. “Is it new? This is my first time to the museum.”

“Its official name is Archimedean Excogitation,” he said. “It was designed and constructed by George Rhoads and placed here in 1987.”

“I was hoping there might be something here from the original museum on Berkeley and Boylston.”

“There’s a small kinetic sculpture on a pedestal to the back of this room. It’s one of the few remaining exhibits from the old building.”

I turned to look at it and saw that Hatchet had made his way around the room to the sculpture and was standing with his nose pressed to the glass, clearly trying to find a way to get into the display case.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” the docent said. “Sir!” he called out to Hatchet. “Stand back from the display, please.”

Hatchet took a step back and skulked off to another exhibit.

“We get some real weirdos here,” the docent said. “What do you think he’s supposed to be in that costume?”

“A medieval minion,” I said.

“That’s a first for me. I guess it takes all kinds.”

“He seemed really interested in the little sculpture.”

“That’s why they had to put that exhibit behind glass. You have to set it in motion by hand, and people kept wanting to make it work.”