in an instant I was on the ground. Next thing I knew, I was handcuffed and there was something over my head so I couldn’t see. I’m surprised I didn’t have a stroke or a heart attack, because my heart was pounding like it was going to jump out of my chest. I had no idea who kidnapped me or where we were going. And then there was the dirt smell. When you’re handcuffed and have a bag over your head, dirt smells like death. I was sort of relieved when I found out it was Hatchet, until he insisted on doing knife demonstrations.”
Diesel pulled to the curb and cut the engine. We all got out and Diesel stopped us at the door.
“Someone’s been here,” he said, opening the door, going in first. “I locked the door when we left, and it wasn’t locked just now.”
I followed him in and my first thought was of Cat. Everything I owned could be stolen or destroyed as long as Cat was okay. Diesel flipped the light on, and I looked down and saw drops of blood on the floor. My breath caught in my chest for a beat, until Cat strolled in from the kitchen. I scooped Cat up and inspected him, relieved that he wasn’t bleeding.
“The plaque is gone,” Diesel said. “It was on the coffee table. Check on the other empowered objects to see if they’ve been stolen as well.”
I went to the laundry, and then I ran upstairs and looked under my bed. Diesel and Glo were in the kitchen when I came down.
“Everything else is here,” I said.
Diesel was at the cookie jar. “Someone broke one of the windowpanes and unlocked the back door.”
“So we know it wasn’t Hatchet, because he was with Glo. And we know it wasn’t Wulf, because, like you, he can unlock doors.”
“Yeah,” Diesel said. “That leaves Deirdre Early. I should have known the instant I stepped in and smelled smoke.”
“And the blood on the floor…” I said.
We all turned to Cat, who was sitting, calmly grooming. Ninja Cat strikes again.
“He deserves a steak dinner,” Diesel said.
Cat looked over at him and blinked. And I’m pretty sure Cat was smiling.
I sent Glo and Carl into the living room with the cookie jar, and put Glo in charge of the channel changer. I scrubbed the blood off the floor, and Diesel tacked a board over the broken window.
“We need to get an early start for Dartmouth tomorrow,” Diesel said. “Fortunately, you have the day off. Maybe Glo will stay here with Carl.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Diesel’s idea of an early start is sometime before noon. I made French toast and a gallon of coffee for everyone, and asked Clara if she would please retrieve my license plate when she returned to the bakery. I’d deal with the rest of the car carcass when I got back. I expected that would be sometime before dark. I had no idea what we’d find when we got to the Sphinx, but I couldn’t imagine there would be much left. I was sure Wulf had a good head start on us.
It takes about two and a half hours to drive to Hanover, New Hampshire. The beginning of the trip is almost as enjoyable as the drive to Boston. Which is to say, it sucks. Little towns, lots of traffic, annoying ways to get lost. Once you hit Route 89, it all changes, and the closer you get to Hanover, the more jaw-droppingly beautiful it becomes. Forested foothill mountains with granite cliffs and long vistas, an occasional marshy bog, beautifully maintained roads with little traffic.
We took Route 91 from 89, got off at the exit for Norwich, Vermont, crossed the Connecticut River, and rolled into Hanover. The first impression is that this is a movie set for a small Ivy League, New England college town. Autumn was in the air and leaves were dropping from trees. Students were everywhere in hooded sweatshirts, jeans, and trail shoes. Everyone looked healthy, and you could imagine them eating sprouted wheat bread and drinking lots of stale beer out of plastic party cups.
The college was to the left, with domes and spires and classroom buildings that date back as far as the late 1700s and early 1800s.
Main Street, with shops and pubs, shot off to the right. It was lined with redbrick buildings, benches and trees, and parking meters.
The Hanover Inn occupied the corner of Main and East Wheelock. It’s a big, blocky, redbrick structure with rocking chairs on its wide porch. And opposite the Inn is the Dartmouth Green.
We were on East Wheelock Street, and there were dorms to the left and right of me. I was thinking this was incredibly appealing, and maybe I would want to live here some day. Open a bakery of my own and make healthy treats and homemade granola for the college faculty. And then I saw the Sphinx, and I had second thoughts about Hanover.
The building was a temple, a tomb, a forbidding gray stone bunker. It could have been a bomb shelter. It was nicely proportioned but cold and unwelcoming. And it looked forgotten, sitting forlorn in a scraggly copse of undernourished trees, perched on hardscrabble grass without a single azalea bush to soften its appearance. A hundred years ago, it had no doubt been the pride of a secret society when secret societies flourished. But that time had come and gone, and the Sphinx now looked like a beautifully designed but lone monument in an unattended boneyard.
Diesel found parking a block away, and we walked back to take a closer look. No sign of Wulf or Hatchet. No sign of Deirdre Early. No sign that anyone ever used the building. The heavy wood door looked completely unused. Diesel ran his hand over it and wasn’t able to find a lock he could open. There was no give when he pushed against it.
We circled the building and found a simple, unassuming door on the east side. It had a five-button security lock that had been pretty well bashed in and what appeared to be the tip of a sword wedged between door and jamb.
“Looks like Hatchet’s been here,” Diesel said.
“Can you open it?”
He put his hand to it. “It’s jammed.”
We circled the building several times but couldn’t find a way to get in. I had the scrap of paper with the hieroglyphics and scrambled letters on it. We compared the hieroglyphics on my paper to the markings on the tomb’s cornerstone and they were exactly the same.
“Do you get any vibes when you touch the building?” Diesel asked me.
I put my hand to the stone. “Nope. Nothing.”
I heard sirens and I turned to see a police car race down Wheelock, moving toward Main Street. It was followed by a fire truck and another police car. We left the Sphinx and went to the sidewalk. It was impossible to see exactly what was going on, but smoke billowed into the sky from somewhere on campus.
Diesel and I walked toward the smoke and saw that it was coming from a building on the far side of the Green. We crossed the Green and joined the crowd of students watching the building burn.
I was standing next to a guy with a two-day beard and hair that was in worse shape than Diesel’s.
“What building is this?” I asked him. “How did the fire start?”
“This is Parkhurst,” he said. “It’s an admin building. The Office of Student Life is in here. Don’t know how the fire started.”
An older woman who looked like she might work in the building leaned toward us. “I was told some crazy woman came in demanding a list of Sphinx members. And when she didn’t get it, she torched the office and ran away.”
“The gang’s all here,” Diesel said to me.
“Now what?” I asked him.
“Lunch,” Diesel said. “I’m starving.”
We crossed Wheelock, bypassed The Hanover Inn, thinking it looked too classy for us, and settled on Lou’s. My rule of thumb is always go with the diner that has a pastry counter right up front. Especially if the pastries are homemade and look like the ones in Lou’s case.
