Skin of the Wolf

by Sam Cabot

  “Yes.” Bonnard ran his hand over his head. “Those masks. There were never many. Twelve at any one time, throughout the Eastern nations. At war or at peace. The masks were beyond all that. Four eagles, four deer, and four wolves. A new one was only made if one was damaged and couldn’t be used.”

  “Used?” Spencer seemed to get it at the same time Thomas did. “These masks are for the Shifting ceremony?”

  Bonnard nodded. “That was centuries ago, though. They were all thought to have been destroyed. The French, the Jesuits, they ignored them or incorporated them into Christian teachings, the way they did a lot of our stories. But the English burned them. Two were said to have been buried when the tribes that held them were on the verge of extermination, but none of the stories can pinpoint a location. Besides, they’re wood, so after hundreds of years in the earth, they’d be pulp by now. The idea that one had survived . . . That’s why I went to see it. Edward must have come for the same reason.”

  “Michael, if they were destroyed long ago, what did your great-uncle—forgive me, your grandfather—use for your ceremony?”

  “You don’t need a mask per se. The music, the dancing, the objects—as I said, the point is to create a specific emotional state. Different objects can do it in different combinations, using different songs, different dances. It’s not . . . The objects aren’t alive. They have power, but it’s not as straightforward—as cheap—as people imagine when they say that.”

  “White people.”

  “These days, some Indians, too. There’s a lot of tin-pot mysticism going around. Those masks”—Bonnard frowned, seemed to be looking for the words—“they were said to work better than other objects. Our stories say masks make the spirit world visible. If for ‘spirit world’ you read ‘any phenomena beyond our current knowledge’ and if ‘visible’ means ‘something we can understand,’ it makes sense even in terms of hard science. I told you, the Shift is more difficult for me than for Edward? It took me longer to learn, too. Grandfather always said it would have been easier if he’d had one of the masks, though of course he’d never had one, never even seen one. But that’s the lore.”

  “Why do they work better?”

  “They’re . . . perfect. Within the context of what the artist was trying to accomplish, there were no missteps. If you understood the context, as anyone from any Eastern tribe would have, the mask would have . . . transported you. By the power of its artistic perfection. In a different context, with a different combination of prayers and dances, Beethoven’s late quartets or a Ming dynasty peach vase might be able to do the same thing.”

  “Neuroaesthetics.” Livia spoke in a voice of soft wonder. “The brain’s response to art. The physical response, the neurological one. It’s a new field. The work is fascinating. In that context, what you’re saying makes sense. The mask—it’s a face. The cerebral cortex devotes more space, more physical space, to reading faces than to anything else. So more of the brain would be activated by a mask than by other objects. That must be part of what’s going on.”

  Thomas thought about what she’d told him, how her own muscles twitched, her nerves fired, as she studied a work of art. It occurred to him that that might always have been true for her, might also be true for others, and that what her Noantri senses had given her was not that response, but the ability to perceive it.

  Michael regarded Livia with a look that Thomas understood perfectly. He could tell how much he wanted to hear more, how urgently interested he was—and how an even more critical problem precluded the conversation he desperately wished they could have. Thomas had felt like that himself half the time, in Rome.

  “I don’t understand,” Spencer said. “If this mask is fake, how could it have provoked your brother’s Shift? And how do you know it’s fake, by the way?”

  “Edward doesn’t need the mask to Shift. He doesn’t need anything external. Neither do I. We’ve been taught and we’ve practiced. We can both bring it about. You saw me do it, Spencer.”

  “So I did. But then—”

  “Because it was fake. Any of the ritual objects should provoke a strong reaction in a Shifter. You vibrate with them, in a way.”

  “And because you and your brother can become wolves—”

  “No. Any Shifter will respond to any of the objects. It doesn’t have to be your animal-self, your clan, even your tribe. Even if you don’t know about yourself, don’t know what it is that compels you. A hundred times, I’ve gone to tribal museums. Hopi, or Navajo. Cree. Just to see who comes and stands in front of certain cases, how long they stay, if they seem to react. Hoping to find someone else like me. I can’t tell, though. I can’t.”

  “That was how you knew the Ohtahyohnee wasn’t real.”

  “It was beautiful,” Michael said sadly. “But I didn’t respond to it. I didn’t feel anything.”

  “And your brother went to see the mask, and when it turned out to be inauthentic, he went mad with rage?”

  “I don’t think that’s exactly what happened. If he’d just wanted to see it he could have walked in the front door, like I did. He keeps his hair long, he wears his medicine bag around his neck—my God, Sotheby’s would have fallen all over him. I don’t think he wanted to see it. I think he wanted to steal it.”

  “But why?” Spencer asked. “For the value? I suppose seven million dollars could buy back a lot of Native land.”

  “No. Edward doesn’t think like that. If he had it he’d hide it, keep it in Indian hands. He wouldn’t sell it to someone who’d put it on display for the world to gawk at. I think he came down for that reason—to take it back—but if all he wanted was to keep it away from white people he’d have had a big laugh when he found out it wasn’t real. He’d think it was just hysterical that people would be making a label for the wall and getting all solemn about a replica. But if I’m right, he came to take it for a much bigger reason. He needed it.”

  “For?”

  “I think he must have found someone who can perform the Ceremony, or could, if he had the objects.”

  “But you say Edward no longer needs the Ceremony.”

  “An unawakened Shifter would, though. I think Edward’s been doing what I’ve been doing. Only he’s been successful. I think he’s identified another Shifter.”

  22

  In the electric silence that filled the parlor, Spencer assessed his own strength. Though a good night’s sleep would be optimal, he judged himself capable of activity, and if ever a situation called for uncommon effort, this was the one.

  “Very well,” he said. “Michael, come with me, we’ll find you something to wear. Livia, you’ll go to your friend?”

  “Yes. Maybe when we find out what really happened it’ll turn out to have nothing to do with Edward.”

  Michael responded with a small smile but said nothing.

  “I’ll come, if I may,” Thomas said. “Maybe there’s something I can do. Some comfort I can offer.”

  Spencer had his own ideas about the nature of the comfort found in the words of a priest, but this was not the time. The goodbyes were fast, Livia and Thomas out the door in moments. Up in the dressing room Spencer located a Norwegian ski sweater large enough for Michael. (“From the days before parkas,” he said. “One would wear a thermal-knit union suit and two additional wool sweaters under this. It’s considerably older than you are.”) Socks were simple, and a wool cap, and since Michael’s pants, shoes, and coat had been hastily donned in the park and had made it home with them he was garbed and ready to leave within minutes of Livia and Thomas.

  “Spencer, what are you doing?” Michael asked as Spencer reached for his raincoat on a hanger in the front closet.

  “I can hardly go out in my winter coat. It’s drenched in blood.”

  “You’re not going out at all.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I told you, I have certain capabilities that could
make me useful to you.”

  “An hour ago you were unconscious on the couch. Edward’s a dangerous man. This isn’t your problem.”

  “You’re not focusing, Michael. There is very little your dangerous brother can do to me that cannot be undone.”

  “He turns into a wolf, Spencer! He’s tasted your blood.”

  “Yes.” Spencer smiled, shooing Michael out the front door and locking it behind them. “I wonder if he liked it?”

  23

  For the second time that night Livia hurried to a door, leaving Thomas to pay the cab. The no-standing zone at the curb held a police van and two dark cars. Estelle Warner stood in Sotheby’s lobby, Katherine Cochran beside her.

  “Oh, Livia, thank you for coming!” Katherine hugged her as soon as she and Thomas had stepped in from the cold. “This is so horrible.”

  Livia gave Estelle a brief hug, also. She hardly knew the woman, but Estelle had lost a colleague, maybe a friend. Estelle, so effortlessly elegant just a few hours before, now looked harried and drained. She wore no makeup and strands of gray hair floated about her face from a loosely pinned twist. “I’m so sorry,” Livia told her.

  “Thank you, my dear. You really didn’t have to come, though. Katherine and I will be here quite some time, I’m afraid, evaluating the pieces, as soon as the police”—her voice wavered—“release the crime scene.”

  “I thought I might be able to offer moral support. And make the coffee. Estelle Warner, Katherine Cochran, this is Father Thomas Kelly, a dear friend of mine. My dinner date, Katherine. He wanted to come, too, to see if he could help.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Katherine said. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “I’m not sure what I can do,” Thomas said. “Besides offer a prayer for the poor girl’s soul. And help make the coffee.”

  “A prayer might be in order,” Estelle said. “I admit to feeling ghoulish heading upstairs to examine the treasures so soon after what happened to her.”

  “You have to do that,” Katherine said stoutly. “Time will matter. If blood gets a chance to dry on a piece— Oh, my God, that does sound awful. Estelle, could this really have been someone who works here? Someone she knew?”

  “It’s a horrible thought. But it’s hard to imagine how anyone without a key card could have gotten in after hours, and Security performs quite a sweep at the end of the day to make sure no stragglers are trying to stay behind. And the police did another sweep as soon as they got here. They’ve been in every room, every closet. One of the detectives does think someone could have come in from the café, the rooftop terrace. Maybe snuck in when the door was propped open when the staff was clearing up out there after we closed. The café doesn’t use the terrace in the winter but they keep it swept.”

  “Could that have happened? How could someone have gotten onto the terrace?”

  “I don’t know. The next closest building is across the street and their roof is much higher. The other detective rolled her eyes when that one insisted—and I quote—‘Someone, or something, could have made that jump.’”

  “What did he mean?”

  “Spiderman? I have no idea, but she certainly seemed to dismiss it.”

  “Well, if it was someone with a key card, they’ll be able to find out who, won’t they? And even if it was an employee who came in during working hours so he didn’t have to use his card, it’s still a limited pool.”

  Livia said nothing and carefully avoided looking at Thomas. Katherine seemed to be trying to contain the horror of what had happened, to make it a kind of puzzle, a tragic one to be sure, but one that could be solved. Katherine asked, “Was she seeing anyone at work?”

  Estelle pursed her lips. “She’s dated in-house, yes. Though I don’t really know who. The police asked if anyone stood out, but they don’t, to me. I think partly I have trouble imagining that anyone I actually know might have done something like this.”

  “I— This is all just so awful,” Katherine said. “Father, could you lead us in a prayer? It might help.” Katherine smiled weakly. “I mean, I know it will help me, and I hope it will help her.”

  They bowed their heads and Thomas began. “Eternal rest, oh Father, grant your daughter . . .” The guard, seeing them, removed his hat and bowed his head, also. The prayer was a short one. When it was over, the silence echoed.

  Then the elevator door opened, an oddly mundane event. A tall woman in jeans, leather jacket, and boots strode into the lobby, followed by a smaller, wiry man whose bright eyes threw curious glances everywhere. “Dr. Warner?” The woman spoke to Estelle. “Crime Scene’s done. They’ll be coming down in a minute. The room’s yours.”

  “Thank you, Detective Hamilton. Detectives Hamilton and Framingham, this is Dr. Cochran, Dr. Pietro, and Father Kelly. They’re going to help me with the evaluations.”

  Detective Hamilton, the woman, surveyed the three of them. “Did any of you know the victim?”

  Before anyone could speak the other detective said, “Hey!” Without thinking they turned to him. He snapped their photos on his cell phone and grinned.

  “Thank you,” Detective Hamilton said calmly to the group. “Those will help in the investigation. Now, about the victim?”

  Katherine frowned, then answered, “I met her. With Livia—Dr. Pietro. This afternoon. I don’t know anything about her, though.”

  “Dr. Pietro?”

  “Just that one time.”

  “Father? Did you know her?”

  “No.”

  Detective Framingham nodded happily, as though some suspicion had just been confirmed.

  Hamilton turned to Estelle. “Dr. Warner, let me ask you this. The mask in the box—it’s the most valuable piece up there, am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the first ever to come to market. Masks like that were rumored to exist but no one’s seen one in hundreds of years. Why do you ask?”

  “Everything else that’s damaged seems to be as a result of the struggle, but it looked to me like that box was opened on purpose and set carefully down. As though someone—either the victim or the killer—was examining it.”

  “Brittany may have been looking at it, giving it a final cleaning before . . . we’re supposed to install it tomorrow.” She paused, then said, “Detective, I feel duty-bound to tell you there’s been some dispute at the conference about the mask’s authenticity.”

  “Is that a fact? It’s a fake?”

  “Absolutely not. Its provenance—its history—is inarguable. But because it’s so rare . . . I don’t know what that could possibly have to do with this but I thought you should know.”

  Hamilton nodded. “All right. We might be calling you. Any of you. No one was planning to leave town anytime soon, right?” She swept her gaze over each of them in turn. Livia met her sharp dark eyes, and was surprised to see within them an acuity she recognized. Although rare, the heightened sensitivity commonplace to Noantri did appear occasionally among the Unchanged. In reality it was the senses responding to air currents, to odors, to the way light fell; but in the Unchanged it was most often both incomplete and unexplained. Generally they either considered it some mystical gift of intuition, or shook off its messages because nothing it told them made sense. She saw it now in this detective, and wondered, what did she make of it?

  “Good,” Hamilton said, though none of them had spoken. “Matt, you want to get their contact info?”

  Framingham collected phone numbers while Hamilton walked through the high-ceilinged lobby, looking up and around. Without a glance at her partner—but perfectly timed with the completion of his task—Hamilton reached the door. Before the guard could come open it for her she’d pushed out, her long black braid swinging down her back. Framingham followed.

  Everyone was silent, watching the pair get into their car and peel aw
ay, Hamilton at the wheel.

  “I suppose delicacy isn’t necessarily a job requirement for a detective,” Katherine offered.

  “You should have been here earlier. She’s Lenape, she announced as soon as she walked in. Given this case to demonstrate the NYPD’s cultural sensitivity. She found that funny.”

  “Well, it’s not very color-blind of them.”

  “The opposite. They’re afraid what—what happened here, was politically motivated. An attempt by one or another of the tribes to stop the auctions.”

  “Oh, my God! Is that possible?”

  Estelle paused. “A sale like this always gets a lot of attention. You know the Hopis sued to remove their items, and now they’re in court with the individual owners. There weren’t any other lawsuits, and as I told you, many of these pieces are orphaned, but all it would take is one unhinged militant, I suppose.”

  “But you don’t sound like you think so.”

  “There’s still the question of how he’d have gotten in. And wouldn’t he have taken as much as he could carry, if the point was to return the objects to the tribes? There were no threats, nothing seems gone, and no one’s taken responsibility. I think it’s doubtful.”

  “Do the detectives agree?”

  “She does. She thinks the idea’s laughable. She asked a few questions about the pieces, and I had to give them the owners’ names in case any of them have enemies. But she seems to be going with the stalker/spurned lover theory.” Estelle paused. “Now, the other detective, he’s a little odd. He thinks a political killing’s still on the table, and ties in with someone getting in through the terrace. They were both very focused, though, when they got upstairs. And she, Detective Hamilton, she’s the one who told me I didn’t have to identify Brittany because Harold already had, and they’ll have forensics—fingerprints, dental records, that sort of thing. So I’m grateful. They’d . . . moved the body by the time they asked me to come up and see if anything was missing.”