Authors: Sam Cabot
K
atherine felt the moment the rhythm of her heartbeat merged with the cadence of the drum. She didn’t understand the words of the chant and she wasn’t sure the singer did, either, wasn’t sure they even carried meaning in any way she knew. The tones of the song, rising and falling, louder and softer, the changing thumping pulse—these were what rang deep within her, resonating, igniting.
And extinguishing. The Katherine Cochran she had been for four decades began to dissipate, edges blurring, carried away on the music and the wind. She was frightened, afraid of loss; but deep within her a place was being revealed that she had never known, an endless crystalline expanse, as the clouds of who she was shredded and blew apart. Pure, clean, so cold it burned. The chanting continued, the drum picked up speed. The flames blazed higher. When she’d come from the house with the blanket tight around her, she’d shivered in the wind. Now she was still, and the wind meant something else. It pulled her, coaxed her, commanded her presence. The burning ice inside her spread. It filled her chest, seared along her limbs.
Dimly she became aware of dark figures beyond the outer
barrier. She heard voices, commonplace human voices, arguing over something that could not matter. A figure leapt into the circle and the singer moved away. The drum faltered, then took up stronger. It gladdened Katherine’s heart to hear the sound of the drum, but she didn’t need it any longer. The first figure stopped, but another came. Katherine opened her arms and heard her own voice, but it was not hers. A man approached the singer, and they struggled. The drum stopped, but no matter. She threw off her blanket and remained crouched at the fire, knowing her skin was no longer bare before the wind. Then the wind, with a howl, reached down for her, and she spread her mighty wings and answered.
L
ivia climbed to her feet. The woman detective, Charlotte Hamilton, was kneeling by the wolf-body of Edward Bonnard, stroking his unmoving head. Her partner, Framingham, who’d shot him, stood gaping at the inert form. What Livia had heard him say reassured her he hadn’t seen the Shift. Nor, most likely, had the two uniformed officers who’d run up behind him. Had Hamilton? Livia thought she had. What would come of that, they’d find out later.
Spencer leapt up and took off for the fire. As Livia ran after him she heard the drumming stop. Framingham shouted. His running footsteps, and those of the other officers, pounded the earth behind her, but he didn’t shoot. Livia was grateful: she wouldn’t have wanted to have to explain away Noantri healing to police officers, one of whom had just seen a man turn into a wolf.
Spencer reached the fire before she did. He leapt over the outer ring of logs and knelt beside Michael, who lay unmoving. Livia felt a stab of fear before her ears picked up Michael’s breathing, faint but regular. Spencer slipped his arm around Michael’s shoulders and helped him to sit, then pulled him close. He whispered to Michael words Livia could not make out, nor, she knew, was she intended to.
Framingham and the two officers ran up, guns drawn. Hamilton followed, not far behind, looking dazed. The four of them surrounded the group at the fire. Livia took inventory. Sitting with his back to the waning flames, a silver-and-turquoise-draped man, his hair in long gray braids. She hadn’t met Peter van Vliet when they’d gone up to his estate but who else could this be? He appeared exhausted and was leaning on a large drum. Just stumbling into the circle, bleeding from his nose, his right eye swollen, was the Asian-featured man whom Michael had tried to protect from Edward. Outside the outer ring Bradford Lane and the indomitable Hilda sat on chairs. Lane was leaning forward, his face shining with excitement. Hilda spoke to him rapidly but calmly, as though engaged in a simultaneous translation. Beyond Michael and Spencer a blanket lay discarded on the ground.
Thomas was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Carbonariis. And if there had ever been an Ohtahyohnee mask here, it was gone, too.
T
homas ran down the hill toward the river. He fought his way through the trees and brush. What he’d seen by the fire was seared into his mind.
The sound he’d heard, an odd, inhuman cry, had come from Katherine Cochran. She’d shuddered and seemed for a moment to vanish. Solid once more, she’d thrown off the blanket—but the form under it was no longer a woman. As Thomas stood openmouthed, a giant eagle spread its wings and rose into the inky sky.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the huge bird. It turned, swooped, circled. It fought the wind, then rode it, cutting back and forth above. Its screech sliced the night. Higher and higher it swept, until it was small, carried on the wind. Thomas’s heart leapt as the bird spiraled up.
But as he watched he saw it falter. It turned, wheeled, seemed unable to find its way. Its massive wings beat in the emptiness; then they stopped. For a moment the eagle hung motionless against the stars. Then it tumbled out of the sky.
Thomas ran now, judging distance, time, led by hope alone. He reached the railroad tracks and sprinted across them to a stony
clearing between the track bed and the water. A pale shape lay on the dark ground. He bent over it. Not an eagle. A woman again. Naked, broken, still. The wind gusted, pushing, tugging, asking and demanding, but Katherine Cochran, in the end, was bound to the earth.
F
ramingham didn’t know what the hell was wrong with Charlotte. Was it possible she’d been even more freaked out by the wolf than he had? Jesus, the thing almost made him piss his pants, but it was dead now and they had business to do. They were carrying warrants for two of the seven people in front of them and two more warrants for people who weren’t there, meaning somebody’d better start looking for them.
He was used to Charlotte taking charge and he waited another thirty seconds because nobody seemed to be going anyplace, but when Charlotte stayed silent he began to give orders. He told everyone to stay where they were, which might have been redundant, and had Petersen call for an ambulance and more backup.
“More backup?” Petersen repeated, looking around warily, as though for danger he hadn’t noticed. “Why?”
“We need the manpower and the transport,” Charlotte broke in hoarsely, holstering her weapon and stepping up beside him. “We’re taking everyone in. Matt, get Ostrander and Sun down here, too.”
“Welcome back,” Framingham said.
“Where the hell are the priests?”
“Were they here?”
“If you’d moved faster you’d have seen them. They were both over there and they ran in this direction. Where are they? And where’s the woman, and where’s the mask?”
“Excuse me, Detectives.” A woman walked toward them. Livia Pietro, the Italian art historian they’d met at Sotheby’s. Well, if Thomas Kelly, who’d also been at Sotheby’s that night, was tangled up with Spencer George, and George with Michael Bonnard—and the two of them certainly looked tangled up right now—he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised to find Pietro here, too. “It’s cold out here,” Pietro said. “Perhaps some of these people should be indoors?”
Charlotte looked at Pietro, then fixed on the two figures on chairs. “Are you Bradford Lane?”
“If it’s me you’re shouting at, young woman, I certainly am. Who exactly are you?”
“Charlotte Hamilton, detective, NYPD.”
Framingham watched the coat-swaddled old man in the thick dark glasses. The heavy woman beside him kept up a constant stream of whispers even as Charlotte spoke. Description, Framingham realized. The old man could hear the dialogue; she was setting the scene.
“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.
W
here 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.
K
atherine!” 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 fire. 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.