“What if Wulf does the burning claw thing on them?”
“They’d probably get a reality show out of it.”
“The last guy to get the burning claw also got dead,” I told him.
“Wulf won’t kill these guys. Unless he’s in a really bad mood. And even then, he’ll probably just maim one or two of them.”
“Oh great. Now you’re making me an accessory to maiming.”
“It’s not like it’s major maiming,” Diesel said. “It’s only a handprint.”
“That’s horrible.”
“You’re such a girl,” he said, smiling at me, like I was dumb but redeemingly cute. He pulled me the short distance to the Cayenne, opened the door, and motioned me in.
“Where are we going?” I asked him.
“We’re going to stop a potential maiming.”
______
Beacon Hill is a quiet, historic neighborhood in the heart of Boston. Streets are narrow and tree-shaded. Sidewalks are bumpy. Houses are pricey, ranging from shabby chic to totally renovated and opulent. Parking is impossible.
The Spook Patrol had somehow managed to snag the last legal parking place on the hill, and Diesel settled for a space that wasn’t so legal. He parked blocking a driveway one house down and across from the green minivan.
Months ago, when I first came to town, I took a wal
king tour of the area, so I knew we were on one of the more desirable streets. The houses were mostly Federalist style. Some were single-family and some had been converted to expensive multitenant condos and apartments.
Wulf lived in the middle of the block in a single-family, perfectly maintained example of a Greek Revival brownstone. The small, manicured front yard was bordered by a fancy black wrought-iron fence. Curtains were drawn, but a bar of light was visible in a second-floor window. The Spook Patrol was parked smack in front of the house.
“I don’t see Wulf’s car,” I said to Diesel.
“He has parking in the rear.”
“Do you think he’s home?”
“I know he’s home,” Diesel said.
“Do you have an ass cramp?”
“Big-time.”
Beacon Hill streets are lit by gas lamps. Not as efficient as halogens, but bright enough to watch the Spook Patrol guys organizing themselves. There were five of them, including Mel Mensher. There was Richie, a chubby guy I’d heard called Gorp, a Pakistani named Milton, and a skinny little guy no one ever talked to. Richie was on his cell phone. Mensher, Milton, and Gorp shuffled back and forth on the sidewalk, looking at the house through binoculars, taking readings with their ghost-o-meters. The skinny little guy hauled a camp chair out of the minivan, set it up on the sidewalk, and settled in with his computer.
Diesel and I were snug in the Cayenne, in a dark spot on the street between gas lamps and under the shade of an oak tree. After ten minutes of watching the Spook Patrol, Diesel slid an arm around me and nuzzled my neck.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Yes! Stop it.”
“The girls never said that when I was in high school.”
“This isn’t high school. We’re supposed to be stopping a maiming. And besides, the monkey is watching.”
Diesel stared out the window. “There’s no maiming going on.” He flicked a glance at the backseat. “And the monkey is sleeping. So what’s the problem?”