“Oh, um, excuse me,” Rutherford said. “That won’t work. We don’t want all demons banished. Ha-ha. No, no. This man holds the sleeping Prince of Avarice. The sacred demon Mammon is poised to emerge and assume his kingdom.”
“Silly me,” Glo said. “What was I thinking? Let me start over. Undo, undo what’s been done. All spells be cast aside, all demons with the exception of the Prince of Avarice our good friend Mammon be banished.” Glo looked at Rutherford and he nodded his approval. “Lickety lickety down it goes, round and round, step aside, spell be gone.”
Ammon was panting and drooling.
“Now what?” Rutherford said. “Is that it?”
“We have to get him to drink a teaspoon of the potion. And then we have to pour it in a circle around him. And then when he steps out of the circle the spell should be broken.”
“Should be?” Rutherford said.
“Hey,” Glo said. “This isn’t a cake recipe. This is hocus-pocus.”
I thought I heard the trapdoor open and close downstairs. No one else seemed to notice.
Glo poured out a teaspoon and offered it to Ammon. He sniffed it and growled.
“Maybe he needs just a tad more tranq,” Glo said to Rutherford.
“I left the dart gun in the car,” Rutherford said. “Just get on with it.”
“Have you got any rawhide treats with you? Any bacon bits?”
“Is it essential that he drink it?” Rutherford asked.
“Yes! This isn’t cough syrup I’ve got here. This is spider legs and monkey gonads. It’s not like you can get this at Rite Aid. It’s a critical part of the ceremony.”
“Try again.”
Glo held the spoon out to Ammon, and Ammon knocked it out of her hand. He sniffed at her jacket and growled.
“Bad dog,” Glo said to Ammon. “Sit!”
Ammon lunged at Glo and sunk his teeth into the hem of her jacket. Glo grabbed Ripple’s and smacked Ammon on the top of his head with the book. Ammon growled and tugged at the jacket.
“It’s rabbit,” I said to Glo. “Take it off and give it to him before he mauls you.”
Glo shrugged out of the jacket, and Ammon ran to the other side of the room with it. Diesel appeared in the middle of the confusion and grabbed Ammon by the scruff of his neck. Ammon yelped and dropped the jacket.
“Search him,” Diesel said to me.
Two red spots appeared on Rutherford’s cheeks. “Foul! Foul! This wasn’t allowed. This is terrible. I can’t allow this. Oh my goodness.”
I ran my hands over Ammon. “The stone isn’t on him,” I said.
“We feared the stone would interfere with today’s treatment, so we stored it someplace safe,” Rutherford said.
“So then you don’t mind if we search you, too?” Diesel said.
“This is outrageous. I’m appalled. Truly appalled. You people have no honor. We had an agreement.”
“Actually we had no agreement,” I said, running my hands over Rutherford. “We never discussed this.”
“It was understood.”
“He’s clean,” I said.
“You will never get the stone,” Rutherford said. “Never. Mammon is guarding the stone.”
“I thought Mammon was trapped inside Martin Ammon,” I said.
“Yes, technically I suppose that’s true,” Rutherford said. “Still, you won’t be able to steal it away from him. We’ve taken precautions.”
Glo had another spoonful of potion ready for Ammon. “Nice doggy,” she said.
Ammon wriggled away from Diesel and for a moment looked like he was going to lick the spoon, but he leaned forward and licked Glo instead. He woofed, grabbed the jacket off the floor, and bolted for the balcony that surrounded the beacon room. He tripped over Broom when he went through the door, stumbled, and flipped over the wrought iron railing.
Everyone gasped and froze for a beat before rushing out and looking down at Ammon. He was laying spread eagle on his back.
“Holy bejeezus,” Glo said. “Do you think he’s okay?”
Ammon’s eyes fluttered open. “Aaarooo,” he said.
The two men that had been standing guard halfway down the jetty were running toward Ammon.
“Bacon,” Ammon said. “What? Who?”
Rutherford rushed into the beacon room, snatched the jar of potion off the table, hurtled down the stairs, and ran out of the building. We looked over the railing and saw Rutherford pouring the contents of the jar into Ammon’s mouth.
“Whoa,” Glo said. “That’s a lot of gonad he’s giving him. He’s going to get diarrhea.”
People were gawking from the restaurant at the water’s edge and from the ship museum. An EMT truck pulled onto the wharf with lights flashing. A cop hustled down the wharf toward Ammon.
“Time to go,” Diesel said.
We ran down the stairs, crammed ourselves into the electrical closet, and squeezed through the trapdoor.
Clara was waiting for us in the tunnel. “How’d it go?” she asked.
“It was mixed,” I said. “Ammon did a flip off the lighthouse balcony.”
“Is he okay?”
“Okay is relative,” I said. “He’s not dead. And it looked like he might be coming out of the dog thing.”