“It says this is a historic house designed by William Butterfield in 1880,” I whispered. “Its name is The Key House, after its first occupant, Malcom Key.”
I touched the plaque with my fingertip and felt the trapped energy. “It’s the plaque,” I said, motioning Diesel to come take a look. “I can feel the energy.”
Diesel examined the plaque and felt around the edges. “I can’t just remove it,” he said. “It’s cemented into the brick.”
“I’m hungry,” Morty said. “I had some of them hors d’oeuvres, but I never got my baloney sandwich.”
Diesel looked at his watch. “I’m supposed to hand you over to your son in a half hour. Let’s go back to the car, and I’ll figure this out later.”
We walked to the car, and Diesel drove to Beacon and double-parked in front of a small grocery store. I ran in and got Morty a loaf of worthless white bread, half a pound of baloney, and a bag of chips, and I was back before the police spotted our illegally parked car.
Diesel skirted the Public Garden and pulled in behind the Four Seasons Hotel. Morty’s son was already there.
“He’s not so bad,” Morty said. “I’m sort of looking forward to going home. I got a nice television in my room, and I got my baloney.”
We handed Morty off, and Diesel got back into the stream of traffic, driving away from Beacon Hill.
“Where are we going?” I asked him.
“As long as we’re here, I thought I’d check on Deirdre Early. There are a few things I’d like to talk to her about.”
“Such as?”
“Hitting people in the head, threatening you, Anarchy.”
“All good topics of conversation,” I said. “Maybe you want to take five or six Advil before knocking on her door.”
Diesel turned onto Commonwealth Avenue, and we immediately saw the fire trucks a block away, parked in front of Early’s house. He pulled in behind one of the trucks, and we sat there for a moment looking at the disaster in front of us. Early’s house appeared to be gutted. Windows were blown out. The exterior was soot-stained. The roof was partially collapsed.
“I warned her she was going to self-combust,” I said to Diesel.
His smile was grim. “That would be the hoped-for scenario.”
We left the car and joined two of the firefighters, relaxing by their truck, sipping coffee.
“What happened?” Diesel asked.
“Not sure,” one of the guys said. “Probably some accelerant involved, since it went through the house like lightning. Impossible to know for sure, but it doesn’t look like anyone was home. Lucky we got here fast and kept it from spreading.”
I was thinking probably when the roof went it released all the evil spirits into the air, like the scene in Ghostbusters when the spook containment facility exploded.
Twenty minutes later, we were standing in front of The Key House again, and Diesel had a big screwdriver in his hand.
“So you think that screwdriver is going to do the job?” I asked him.
“I shouldn’t have a problem if it’s just cemented in at the corners.”
“And if the whole thing is cemented?”
“I’ll have a problem. Keep your eye out for company.”
He rammed the screwdriver into the brick and mortar, chipping away chunks of brick.
“You’re making a mess,” I said.
He stopped work and looked at me. “Do you want to try this?”
“No.”
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
“Jeez,” I said. “That’s awfully loud.”
“I’m starting to think I’d be better off with Hatchet,” Diesel said. “At least I could beat him.”
“Just trying to be helpful,” I said. “I thought you’d want to know you were loud.”
Second-floor lights went on in The Key House.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Can you hurry it up?”
Diesel rammed the screwdriver in one last time, wrenched it back, and the plaque popped off. He scooped it up and stepped off the stoop just as the front door opened and a man wearing boxers and a striped pajama top looked out at us.
“What the devil?” the man said.
We turned and ran, and I heard the man whistle and yell for Bruno. Seconds later, Bruno bounded out of The Key House and took off after us.
“Dog,” I said, gasping for air. “BIG DOG!”
The dog was doing a lot better on four legs than I was doing on my two. We were still a block from the car, and Bruno was gaining. Diesel stopped in front of a house with a six-foot privacy fence, grabbed me, and threw me over.
One minute, I was running for all I was worth, and next thing, I was flying through the air, and then—wump—I was flat on my back in someone’s backyard. Diesel followed me over, landing on his feet.
He bent down and looked at me. “Are you okay?”
“Unh.”
Bruno was barking and scratching at the fence.
“He’s going to bring people,” Diesel said, pulling me to my feet. “We have to go.”
We looked around. No place to go. Six-foot fence on all sides. No gates.
“I’m going to alley-oop you into the next yard,” Diesel said.
“No!”
Too late. I was over the fence. Diesel came next. Same deal. No way out.