Skin of the Wolf

by Sam Cabot

  “I’m investigating two homicides and grand theft,” Charlotte said. “I need to question everyone here but I have no warrant for your premises. I do have warrants for some of these people and I can get others.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! Did you just threaten to arrest me if I don’t let you into my house? People have been stampeding through all day. Why don’t you just ask?”

  The seven people around the fire got to their feet. Lane leaned on the arm of the heavy woman, George and the young Asian-looking man supported Bonnard, and Livia Pietro helped the long-haired man with the drum to stand. At gunpoint that none of them seemed to notice, they were shepherded into the steamy heat of Bradford Lane’s conservatory.

  74

  Where are the priests? And who was the woman and where is she?” Charlotte demanded again. The suspects—every damn one of these people were suspects, in her mind—were seated in the conservatory now, though Bonnard, Spencer George, and the young man had to make do with the steps to the living room. Petersen took up a position at the door to the yard, Klein at the steps. She and Framingham stood in the middle of the floor. They’d searched everyone for weapons and had only found one, a handgun carried by the heavy woman, who claimed to have a permit. Maybe she did; Charlotte’s head swirled with a million questions but she was having trouble concentrating. Anger and sorrow pounded her in alternating waves. Framingham eyed her oddly. The vision of the wolf lying on the icy ground kept interfering with the sight of the people and plants and tile floor in front of her.

  “Before we get into that, Detective,” Bradford Lane spoke up, “I think I have a right to ask who’s here. I have no idea what priests you’re talking about, but I can tell my house is crawling with people I haven’t met. Livia Pietro I do know, and Peter van Vliet, of course. I don’t care about the names of any of you police—there are four of you all told, correct?—but that leaves three others, all men, so Hilda tells me. Gentlemen? Who are you?”

  The young man, wary but alert, spoke first. “I’m Lou Higbee.” He looked Charlotte over and to her added, “Potawatomi.” Ah, thought Charlotte. Someone in his background was clearly Asian, but the other kind of Indian made more sense, in this crowd.

  “And I’m Spencer George,” the Englishman said. He stood from the steps and crossed the room to shake Lane’s hand. Petersen moved to stop him but Charlotte waved him back. “And also here is Dr. Michael Bonnard, though I rather fear he’s indisposed.”

  At Bonnard’s name, the long-haired man—by process of elimination, Peter van Vliet—lifted his head slowly. He, like Bonnard, had been in some kind of daze, but now he seemed to be coming around.

  “That doesn’t tell me much,” Lane retorted. “Who does that make you?”

  Charlotte could feel Framingham watching her, expecting her to shut them all down and go on; but she waited.

  “A friend of Michael’s,” Higbee said.

  “Friends of Livia’s,” Spencer George offered.

  “And the brother of Tahkwehso.” Van Vliet’s voice rattled. “Where is Tahkwehso?”

  No one answered. Now Charlotte heard her own voice, with a catch in it she couldn’t suppress. “The wolf is dead.”

  Van Vliet stared at her. He melted slowly back against his chair, as though his strength were draining away.

  Now Bonnard straightened, though Charlotte could see that it cost him. “The wolf?” he whispered. “Dead?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  What reserves Bonnard called upon, Charlotte didn’t know, but he pushed to his feet. “I’ll go to him.”

  “I will also.” Van Vliet stood.

  “No!” Bonnard spun. He looked like ten miles of bad road but van Vliet sank back as Bonnard spoke in a voice filled with quiet menace. “All this is your fault. You’re not welcome. Stay here.”

  “Damn right he’ll stay,” Framingham said. “You will, too. No one leaves.”

  “No, it’s all right,” Charlotte said. “Petersen, go with him. But keep back. Give him room. He wants to say goodbye.”

  “Charlotte?” Framingham whispered. “He thinks he’s that wolf’s brother. It looks like they all do. And how did you know its name?”

  “He can hardly walk,” Charlotte said. “He’s not going anywhere. Back off, Matt. It’s an Indian thing.” And it was, though not in the way she was implying. Charlotte was seized with an almost irresistible urge to laugh. The knife-edge of hysterics, she knew, and she forced herself calm; but really, what could be funnier? Poor Framingham lived his life waiting for one of his nutsoid theories to be proved right, and here under his nose this man’s brother had turned into a wolf—and he’d missed it.

  Spencer George had gotten to his feet when Bonnard did, but he didn’t follow him to the door. He touched Bonnard’s arm and spoke low. Bonnard met his eyes, and surprised Charlotte with a small, weary smile. He nodded, turned, and pushed out the door. Charlotte watched him disappear around the house, Petersen trailing behind.

  She turned back to the others. “Now. What the—” A stirring among them made her whip her head around. By the light of the dying fire she could see a dark shape making its way up the hill from the edge of the woods. “Matt.” Framingham dashed out, weapon drawn. The figure stopped and she watched Framingham approach it slowly; but when he neared it he holstered the gun. He threw a supporting arm around the figure, which Charlotte could now see was a man carrying a burden. Framingham helped him to the solarium door and opened it. Father Thomas Kelly entered with the limp, coat-wrapped form of Katherine Cochran in his arms.

  75

  Katherine!” Livia was on her feet and across the room before the detectives could stop her. Katherine was swathed in Thomas’s coat; her legs and her head were bare. Deep scratches tracked her face. “Katherine! Thomas, what happened?”

  Thomas shook his head. He carried Katherine to the love seat where Livia had been sitting and laid her gently down. Livia knelt by her friend. She stroked Katherine’s hair, though she knew before she touched her that all life was gone. Charlotte Hamilton crouched, putting her fingers to Katherine’s throat to search for a pulse. She leaned to Katherine’s lips to see if she could feel breath, lifted Katherine’s lids on blank, staring eyes.

  “What the hell happened to her?” the detective demanded of Thomas. “Where are her clothes?”

  “She fell,” Thomas said.

  “And her clothes are in my study,” Bradford Lane announced.

  Livia, and everyone else, turned to Lane. Hilda had narrated Thomas’s entrance in whispers. Now Lane answered Hamilton’s question, and repeated, “Her clothes are in the study, Detective. Hilda can show you. She left them there and wrapped herself in a blanket for the ceremony we were doing. The ceremony,” he said, “with the drum.”

  “Drum?”

  “I’ve known Katherine for years. Peter has also, haven’t you? Haven’t you, Peter?”

  “Yes.” Van Vliet found his voice, though it was weak. “Years.”

  “Katherine occasionally brings me pieces she thinks might interest me. Tonight, she brought a drum. Ojibwe, she said, deer hide, with bear tracks and a rising sun. I had to take her word for the bear tracks and the sun but Hilda says they’re there. We were trying it out.”

  “This was the woman?” Hamilton turned to Klein. “The one who brought the bundle?”

  “Might have been. Didn’t get a good look but—”

  “She’s the one I saw,” Lou Higbee said. “She was carrying something big. Could have been a drum.”

  “Where’s the drum?”

  “Peter was using it,” Lane answered.

  “It’s still by the fire,” said Framingham. He went to get it.

  “You were using it?” Hamilton said. “You were doing some kind of ceremony?”

  “Of course, it was bogus. We were making it up as we went along. But it was a nice night for a f
ire. Katherine was always a little crazy, I have to tell you. This time she really got into it. Came out wrapped in nothing but a blanket. Then Peter’s yelping and whooping and suddenly she jumps up and runs downhill. I don’t know what happened after that.”

  “I found her,” Thomas Kelly said. “On the rocks by the river.”

  “You said she fell,” Hamilton said.

  “She was—moving fast. Then she just dropped. I kept running after her through the woods and finally there she was. She was dead when I got to her.”

  “What were you doing here?”

  “Father Kelly’s a new acquaintance,” Lane said. “I met him this morning, with Dr. Pietro. Is he one of the priests you meant?”

  A blast of cold air entered when Framingham did. He brought the drum to Hamilton. “Could this be it?” he said low, though Livia had no trouble making out his words. “What was in the box? Not a mask, this? What do you think—worth killing for?”

  Hamilton shook her head, but in her eyes Livia saw a dark, complex doubt.

  “The scratches,” Framingham whispered. “The skin under the dead priest’s nails.” He turned to Lane and in a louder voice asked, “How did her face get scratched?”

  “I didn’t know it was. I can’t see, you know. Maybe when she fell?”

  “No, Mr. Lane,” Hilda put in. “She had the scratches when she arrived.”

  “And where’s the other priest?” Hamilton said. “Carbonariis, where’s he?”

  “Father Carbonariis”—Spencer spoke from the steps—“dislikes large gatherings. He came with us under protest and left the moment Detective Framingham discharged his weapon. For which I mustn’t fail to thank you, young man. I really believe that wolf would have devoured me entire.”

  A shadow crossed van Vliet’s face at that, but he didn’t speak.

  “Carbonariis didn’t look like he was leaving,” Hamilton said. “He looked like he was heading back here, toward the fire.”

  “Nevertheless,” Spencer said. “He’s no longer here, is he?”

  And neither, Livia thought, was the Ohtahyohnee. Katherine. Her childhood, secretly watching the Seminoles; her lifelong love of Native art; her sense, like Livia’s, that the mask at Sotheby’s wasn’t real. The ritual objects . . . you vibrate with them, in a way. Michael had said that. He’d also said, about Shifting, It’s a spectacular feeling—like a cocaine high times ten. Once you’ve felt it, you want it again. As Livia looked at the torn, still face of her friend, she also remembered this: Without teaching and practice, you can’t sustain it.

  76

  Thomas and Livia sat in Spencer’s parlor sharing the soothing silence of friendship. Livia’s sadness over Katherine’s death was nothing Thomas could dispel; but when he asked if she’d like to be alone, she smiled softly and said, “No, stay with me.” The only other thing she’d said, some time later, was, “She must have been so lonely. All her life, so lonely.”

  Midafternoon sunlight slipped through the windows to brighten the patterned carpet. Last night’s wind had swept the sky clear and the morning had dawned fierce and bright. Not that either Thomas or Livia had seen the dawn. They, along with Lou Higbee and Spencer, had passed the night at the Midtown South precinct Detectives Hamilton and Framingham called home. They’d been shuffled in and out of interview rooms and questioned many times; later they found that their stories hadn’t quite matched, but according to Lou, who seemed to speak from experience, it was better that way. “Give them the same details, they figure it’s b.s. everyone memorized. In real life, most people get most stuff wrong.”

  Michael had been bundled into an ambulance from where he’d been kneeling by the body of the wolf. Peter van Vliet was taken off with him. The medical examiner sent a van for Katherine Cochran. Thomas led one of the new detectives, an Asian man named Sun (who’d raised his eyebrows at Lou Higbee and gotten a steady stare in return), down the hill to the place where he’d found her.

  In the middle of the morning, one by one, they were released. Spencer’s jailhouse phone call to a Noantri contact had resulted in a defense attorney from the firm of Quijano and Ennis showing up at Michael’s hospital bedside and a whole phalanx of attorneys at the precinct. They hadn’t been needed. The detectives didn’t seem happy about it but test results showed the skin under Father Maxwell’s nails was Katherine Cochran’s and her fingerprints were everywhere in the room where Brittany Williams was killed. They speculated she’d returned that evening, possibly ushered in by Brittany herself. They even had motive, or something resembling it, supplied by Bradford Lane, who, as police swarmed around his conservatory and yard, had embroidered bountifully on his account of Katherine as “always a little crazy.” Thomas could see that Livia was upset by Lane’s characterization but she didn’t contradict it.

  Thomas heard the front door open, and he stood. From the precinct Spencer had gone directly to NYU hospital to wait while the detectives questioned Michael. Finally Michael had been released by both the law and medical science. Now he stepped into the hallway wearing a crisp new sling. Spencer followed, arms wrapped around bulging plastic bags.

  “Greetings,” Spencer said, looking almost buoyant. “I hope you’re hungry. The café around the corner offers a creditable beef bourguignon.” Thomas relieved Spencer of his burdens and Spencer helped Michael out of his coat.

  “Michael?” Livia said. “I’m so sorry about your brother.”

  Michael, thought Thomas, did not look buoyant; but though he seemed beyond exhausted, some of the dark lines on his face had smoothed away.

  “I declare a moratorium on conversation,” Spencer announced, “until we’re seated around the table.” He bustled the bags in the direction of the kitchen. Livia went with him. Michael gave Thomas a small smile.

  “That’s for you and me, right?” Michael said. “They don’t really care?”

  “They don’t need food as we do, no,” Thomas said. “Though I’ve noticed about both of them that they certainly can put it away.”

  Dishes clattered, silverware clinked, a cork was pulled from a bottle of Pinot Noir. Either Thomas hadn’t realized how hungry he was, or the café’s beef bourguignon went far beyond creditable; in any case, no words were spoken for the first few minutes after it was ladled out.

  Spencer, pouring wine, broke the silence to say to Michael, “If you’re concerned about your friend Lou, he’ll be along later. I asked him to give us some time alone first. He came under considerable scrutiny, because of his past encounters with the law, but in the end they could find no more reason to hold him than any of us. I must say, under the circumstances he’s displaying an impressive degree of equanimity.”

  Now Michael smiled again. “He’s an Indian. Let me ask, though—does he know about you?”

  “No. We’ve told him nothing about the Noantri.”

  “And you’d appreciate it if I didn’t either, and I appreciate that you didn’t say that. Don’t worry.”

  “I was in no way worried.”

  Livia said, “Bradford Lane called. He’s had . . . your brother’s body wrapped in blankets and he’s offering to bury him in the woods on his property.”

  Michael paused, then shook his head. “I’ll take him home. He’d want to be at Akwesasne.” After another pause: “That man Lane. Did he see the Shift?”

  “See? No,” said Livia. “But he knows. He heard it, he felt it. Hilda described it. But not Edward. Katherine Cochran.”

  “She was the one they were doing the Ceremony for?”

  “She became an eagle,” Thomas said, marveling at his own matter-of-fact tone. “I saw it, too. But she couldn’t—I don’t know. Something went wrong.”

  “My brother’s vision was powerful,” Michael said quietly. “So strong it created a paradox. It blinded him. He refused the wisdom he was trying to restore.”

  Spencer reached across the table and t
ouched Michael’s hand. “You’re feeling a loss only time can soften,” he said. “But if you’ll allow me, I believe I can relieve your mind of other anxieties. I don’t think you need concern yourself about Bradford Lane and his companion. I spoke with Lane. He’s absolutely cackling with joy, to have a secret he can take to his grave. Which, as he delightedly points out, will be yawning to receive him soon. It is also his contention that he would instantly be labeled a senile old coot—his words—if he were to advertise what he saw, and further, that of course, he didn’t see it. Personally, I believe the part of the whole episode that most astonished him is that Peter van Vliet actually knew what he was doing.” Spencer buttered a piece of baguette and went on. “Now Hilda, for her part, is a very devout woman. As far as she’s concerned what happened to Katherine Cochran was a miracle from the Lord. Father Kelly has had a long conversation with her and promises others. And she’s pleased to see Bradford Lane so happy. I think she suspects the Lord arranged the whole thing to cheer him up.”

  Michael nodded. “The police,” he asked. “The detectives, and the other two?”

  “I was sure Detective Hamilton had seen your brother’s Shift,” Spencer said, “but apparently she didn’t. When I left the precinct house she and her partner were discussing the pros and cons of citing Bradford Lane for harboring wild animals within the city limits. Your only real difficulty, I think, will be with Peter van Vliet.”

  “No. I saw him before I left the hospital. He’s aged twenty years. He didn’t know what to say to me. So I talked. In the end I told him to go back home and keep the people calm until I get there. He won’t be a problem now.” Michael toyed with the stew on his plate, and then looked up. “Where is the mask?”

  The others exchanged glances. It was Thomas who spoke. “Father Carbonariis has it. We don’t know where he is. But he’s passed along a message for you.”