“The history of Tichy persuades when innocence prevails,” Diesel said.
“What does that mean? What history is it referring to?”
“Don’t know. He had a variety of interests.”
I reached out and touched the statue. “I’m not feeling it. No trapped energy.”
“Moving on,” Diesel said. “The Tichy House is a block from here. We can walk.”
Diesel is a big guy with a long stride, and you cover a lot of ground fast when you walk with him. I imagine when he’s barefoot on a beach he slows down, but today he wasn’t wasting time. We stopped at the front stoop to the house and read the plaque. Again, nothing fancy.
The house is on the fringe of Harvard’s campus in a neighborhood that I suspect is, to a large extent, faculty housing, just as it was in the 1800s. The homes are modest but sturdy. Not many are as old as Tichy House.
I turned just before going through the house’s front door and caught a glimpse of a car as it drove past. It was a beat-up junker, and Hatchet was behind the wheel. He was focused on the road ahead and didn’t notice us. Probably running down all the Tichy leads, like we were doing.
The two front rooms of the house held displays of Tichy memorabilia. Framed awards and diplomas, bound professional papers, photographs of Tichy and his family, some personal treasures. Threadbare Oriental rugs covered the wide plank floor. A woman who looked as old as the rugs sat behind a spindle-legged writing desk.
“May I help you?” she asked. “Feel free to look around.”
“Is the rest of the house open to the public?” I asked her.
“Yes, but it’s not historically interesting. The upstairs rooms are empty. The kitchen and bathroom were renovated in 1957. The last Tichy to live in the house moved out in 1962, and the house was turned over to the Trust.”
Diesel and I walked through the house, studied the mementos in the downstairs rooms, left a donation, and returned to our car.
“Next stop is Tichy Street,” Diesel said.
“I think that little museum was our best shot at finding a clue, but I touched everything in there, and nothing registered.”
Diesel headed back to Massachusetts Avenue. “I saw Hatchet drive down the street just as we were going into the Tichy House. He could have gone through ahead of us and taken something.”
“That’s a depressing thought.”
We traveled the length of Tichy Street and briefly got out and looked at the Tichasaurus Armatus. It was a fun replica, but it wasn’t enchanted, and I couldn’t find any hidden messages.
“I have one more stop,” Diesel said. “Mount Auburn Cemetery. Tichy’s buried there.”
“I’m trying to forget I was threatened with death today. Visiting a cemetery isn’t going to contribute to my mental health.”
“Just think of a cemetery as a history book with grass.”
“What about the ghouls and ghosts who live there?”
“No different from anyplace else.”
“And your opinion on death?”
“I think it’s to be avoided. Beyond that I have no opinion.”
“How about life? Do you have an opinion on life? What do you value?”
“Honor, duty, sex, and the NFL. Not necessarily in that order.”
“What about love and friendship?”
“Girl stuff.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeesh.”
Diesel gave a bark of laughter. “I don’t know how you’ve survived this long, considering how transparent and gullible you are,” he said.
I punched him in the arm. “Jerk.”
Diesel followed his GPS southwest, skirting Harvard Square, hooking up with Mount Auburn Street. Mount Auburn Cemetery is for the most part located in Watertown, but its granite Egyptian Revival entrance is in neighboring Cambridge. It’s bordered by other cemeteries and by densely populated neighborhoods of the living.
The cemetery was founded in 1831 and was the first garden cemetery in this country. Its 174 acres of rolling hills are heavily forested in parts with native trees and bushes. The graves and monuments are scattered throughout, accessible by a system of roads and meandering footpaths.
Diesel drove into the heart of the cemetery, following instructions from his assistant. He parked on the side of the paved road, and we took a footpath to the Tichy family plot.
Peder Tichy was buried in 1862 on a grassy hillside now shaded by mature oak trees. The granite monuments around Tichy were worn by age and weather, but the inscriptions were still clear, and we went headstone by headstone, reading names, looking for Tichy.
“I found him,” Diesel said, squatting in front of a headstone with a cross carved into the top. “Peder Tichy, survived by his wife, Mary, and his children, Catherine and Monroe.”
I joined Diesel and looked at the headstone.
“No message,” I said.
“None that I can see.”
“This is getting old. At the risk of being a whiner, I’d rather be home taking a nap.”
A flash of silver caught my eye, and I looked beyond Diesel to a heavily shrubbed area toward the top of the hill.
“I see feet,” I said. “In running shoes. They’re sticking out of the bushes, and they aren’t moving.”
Diesel walked up the hill, reached the feet, and stepped into the rhododendron thicket.
“It’s Hatchet,” he called down to me.
“Is he dead?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
I scrambled up to Diesel and watched him pull Hatchet out of the bushes.
“Are you sure you should drag him out by his feet like that?” I asked. “What if he has a broken back or something?”
“His problem, not mine.”
I looked down at Hatchet and a wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. Hatchet had a handprint burned into his neck.
“Oh boy,” I said. “Why would Wulf do this to his own minion?”
“It wasn’t Wulf,” Diesel said. “The print is too small.”
“I thought Wulf was the only one who could burn people.”
“Apparently not.”
Diesel prodded Hatchet with his foot. “Hatchet! Wake up.”
“Unh,” Hatchet said, eyes closed.
Diesel kicked him in the leg.
“Thank you, sire,” Hatchet said.
Diesel shook his head. “That’s sick.”
Hatchet’s eyes opened and took a moment to focus. “What?” he said.
Diesel grabbed Hatchet by the front of his tunic and hoisted him to his feet. “That’s my question. What happened?”
“I know not. I was investigating the grave site, and that’s all I remember.” He touched his neck. “Ow!”
“It’s burned,” Diesel said. “In the shape of a hand.”
Hatchet looked confused. “Why?”
“Did you remove anything from the Tichy House?” I asked him.
“Nay. ’Twas junk and not worth taking.”
“That burn’s going to blister,” I told him. “You need to put some aloe on it.” I looked more closely at his face. He had a huge red splotch on his nose and another on his forehead. He scratched the one on his forehead.
