by Sam Cabot
ALSO BY SAM CABOT
Blood of the Lamb
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014
USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
Copyright © 2014 by Carlos Dews and S. J. Rozan
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Blue Rider Press is a registered trademark and its colophon is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cabot, Sam.
Skin of the wolf / Sam Cabot.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-60729-9
1. Indians of North America—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.A364S55 2014 2014009560
813'.6—dc23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
CONTENTS
ALSO BY SAM CABOT
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
A NOTE ON NATIVE LANGUAGES
DEDICATION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
A NOTE ON NATIVE LANGUAGES
The Native words and phrases in this book have been rendered phonetically, not orthographically. This is the authors’ choice, to help the text read smoothly. Scholars will shudder; we apologize. We thank the experts who gave us their time and attention and we take sole responsibility for any errors.
This book is dedicated to the memory of Pete Seeger, who loved the river.
1
What he could do, only he could do.
As soon as the thought formed he knew it was untrue. It had arisen from his worst, most prideful self. There had always been others, and would be again. Was that not his purpose and his hope?
Even in his own life, though it pained him, there was one more: his twin, his two-hour elder, named Gata, Prepared, but christened Michael in the white church. He whose birth had been easy and whose life had been calm. He had the Power also, had felt it first, but in keeping with his measured nature used it seldom, and always reluctantly.
He himself, christened Edward, had been called Tahkwehso, Twin, by their father, too dispirited at the loss of their mother to give him a name of his own. Edward’s disastrous birth had caused her death, his twisting and flailing, his inability to be comforted even in the womb. The grandmother who received both boys in their blankets as their mother should have passed the peacefully sleeping Michael to their father and held Edward to her, singing softly to him in the ancient language while he squalled and wailed and fought against the world. “He will become a man of consequence. His actions will set great changes in motion,” she told their father. But whether for good or for ill, she could not say.
And Michael? Michael, she said, would come to a crossroads. He would have a decision to make, one of great difficulty and great weight. How would he choose? Though she was a seer, that, also, was something she could not say.
Enough. Edward shook himself in the cold New York night, shedding these dark memories. Why was he dwelling on the past? Because his brother was near? Yes, but not near enough to stop him, and unaware of Edward’s task, unaware even that Edward was in the city.
The task should have been Michael’s. Michael was firstborn, Michael was bigger, stronger: Michael should have led. Edward would have followed, willingly. That would have been the correct beginning. But Michael had made a different choice. He went another way, the white way: university, medical school, research fellowships! Edward found himself snarling at the thought of his brother’s choices. What did those things mean? What could they do for their people?
A cold wind raised the hair on the back of his neck. Not even in this slush-soaked February twilight were the city streets empty. His brother was thriving here but Edward hated this place, its never-ending onrush of sounds and smells, its whirling tumult that would not let him rest and silenced the ghosts of his ancestors.
But not forever.
He loped along, staying in the shadows. The thick fur coat that covered him kept the icy air at bay, although his rising excitement as he contemplated the task ahead provided its own warmth. Once he had the mask, preparations would be complete. The ceremony would be held. Others would be freed, first a few, then many. Natural order would be restored, ancient wrongs would be righted. It would take time; but once it began it could not be stopped any more than a raging fire could be hounded back into lightning in the sky.
When all was accomplished the world would be different and the people free. And he would shed the two names he hated, Tahkwehso and Edward, and take his true name.
Ohtahyohnee.
The t
racker Wolf.
2
Does it seem to you it’s changed much?”
Livia Pietro leaned toward her friend to catch her words, torn away by the wind howling up from the East River. “You mean New York?”
“Since you were last here.”
Livia considered. “New York changes overnight, I think. So different from Rome. It’s been nearly eight years—yes, I see a lot that looks new to me.”
Katherine Cochran laughed. “Oh, so do I. You have to walk down every street in every neighborhood every six months just to keep up. But I meant, the sense of it. With all the building up and tearing down, it always feels like the same place to me. I don’t know how it does that. Maybe the Park, and the rivers, the harbor. The fact that it has borders. And maybe the landmark buildings that don’t change. I suppose they keep it, I don’t know, grounded. Does that make sense?”
“I think so. It’s as though this New York is only the latest, just one of many, and the original New York is still here underneath it all.” Livia tightened her gloved hand on her collar. They were fighting their way east through the end of a February afternoon. Mounds of frozen slush threw purple shadows and the streetlights had long since come on. “Who decided we should walk?”
“You did.”
“Oh. Well, I’d been in those stuffy conference rooms all day, so my judgment was off. I just hope this mask is worth it.”
“Now there’s gratitude for you. Everyone at the conference would trade their grandmother for a private look at this Ohtahyohnee. I include my dear friend Dr. Pietro in my exclusive by-invitation viewing and she complains about a little subzero windchill?”
“Promise me there’ll be hot coffee afterwards.”
“If I know Sotheby’s”—Katherine reached for the handle of the auction house’s heavy glass door—“there’ll be hot coffee here.”
There was hot coffee. There was also the offer of tea if that was preferred, and a multi-pastel plate of macarons, New York’s newest pastry fad. All this, of course, the black-clad gallery assistant diffidently told them, was to be enjoyed only at the end of the conference table that did not have velvet padding set out ready to receive the artwork Dr. Cochran and her guest had come to see.
“Yes, of course.” Katherine brushed her fingers through her cap of short silver hair and smiled at the young woman. The assistant had no sooner drifted out with their coats than another woman bustled in.
“Katherine! So glad to see you! It’s a hideous day, isn’t it?” She embraced Katherine and turned her smile to Livia. Her dark hair was gathered into a tight chignon and her black Armani suit and red silk blouse broadcast taste and affluence. “Dr. Pietro! Katherine speaks so highly of you. Estelle Warner. Delighted you could come. My assistant is fetching our Ohtahyohnee. I thought you might want to thaw out first. Coffee?”
They gathered cups, saucers, and macarons and sat at the non-velvet end of the polished table. “So,” Estelle Warner said, “how’s the conference?”
“I’m learning a lot,” Livia answered, warming her hands on the delicate cup. “Indigenous art isn’t my area, so almost everything I’m hearing is fresh and fascinating.”
“Oh, but the Americas aren’t exactly uncharted waters to you, either.” Katherine turned to Estelle Warner. “Livia’s been doing work lately in representations of the New World in the art of Europe. Mostly it’s purple mountains’ majesty and amber waves of grain, but sometimes our blankets and pots make an appearance.”
“The area’s not been my main focus for years now, but it’s interested me since graduate school,” Livia said. “I thought I’d go back to it for a while. Surprisingly little’s been written about it.” And a lot of what has is by me, though the learned papers have other names on them; graduate school was a long time ago. She didn’t say that aloud, though, nor did she elaborate on the need, deeper than merely an old interest, that had driven her to this work: the sense that for a while she needed to turn away from medieval art, Renaissance art, the art of Europe, art heavily focused on the Catholic Church and Christian symbology. That art—the paintings, the frescoes, the statuary, and the churches—was her true love, and without question she’d return to it; but what had happened last autumn in Rome needed time to become part of her, to re-shape her understanding of the world. Changing the focus of her work would allow her heart to continue that process at its own pace.
And being Noantri, she could give it all the time it required.
“Livia presented a brilliant paper this morning, tracing the earliest images of maize in Europe,” Katherine was saying to Estelle. “Beautiful slides, too. Some frescoes from the Vatican that actually drew gasps. I don’t think anyone in the room had seen them before.” She leaned in and stage-whispered, “They’re in the private apartments.”
“Quite a coup,” Estelle Warner said. “Livia—may I call you Livia? Are you the first to study them? How did you know they were even there?”
Livia sipped coffee to keep herself from laughing. Estelle Warner was Sotheby’s Specialist in Native Art, so the Vatican was of little use to her; but a historian with access at the Holy See could be a valuable chip in a game of Specialists one-upping each other. “I suppose I am the first, for what that’s worth. I’ve been in Rome a long time. I have friends who can sometimes sneak me into places.”
Estelle nodded genially, clearly filing that in some mental database. “Well, I’m very glad Katherine snuck you in here. I think you’ll be happy with what you see. Oh, here’s Brittany now. Put it down here, darling. Would you like to stay? These are very erudite women. Dr. Livia Pietro from Rome, and of course you know Dr. Cochran from the Met. You’ll learn a great deal being a fly on the wall, I’m sure.”
A different young assistant, also dressed in protocol black, had entered pushing a cart that held a large wooden box. She retreated to a seat halfway down the table, while the other three women stood. The box, thirty inches in height and width, four feet in length, was simple and beautifully crafted, though of no great age. Native art might not be Livia’s area, but she knew enough to be sure that an artifact like the one they were about to view would have originally been wrapped in ceremonial blankets, possibly placed in a deer-hide sack. This hard-sided box, no doubt cushioned and fabric-lined, was a collector’s way of protecting his possessions.
Estelle put on a pair of white cotton gloves and unlatched the lid of the box. She reached in to remove a large carved wooden mask and laid it on the center of the velvet pad. For a moment no one spoke.
Then, “Oh, my God,” Katherine breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
Nor had Livia. As Arts of the Americas Curator at the Met, Katherine’s detailed knowledge was much wider than Livia’s, but Livia’s studies had given her a glancing familiarity with indigenous American typologies. This mask was something entirely new to her. And not only to her. At the Indigenous Arts conference she and Katherine were attending, this Ohtahyohnee was the talk of the hallways.
Hoping to leverage the gathering of experts and scholars at the biennial conference, many of New York’s museums were exhibiting their Native art, presenting speakers and programs, dance and music. Because so many collectors came to New York either for the conference or the satellite events, the major auction houses also chose this week for their Native art sales. Christie’s and Bonhams had their own consignments of baskets, blankets, silver and turquoise. The focus, however, was on Sotheby’s, and of all the objects on offer, this mask—known so far only from photographs and descriptive text, not to be displayed until immediately before the sale per the owner’s instructions—was carrying the day.
Gray-painted, touched with fine lines of black, white, and red, the wooden head shared with the masks of the Iroquois False Face Societies an elongated asymmetry that gave it ferocious vigor. But none of the highly secretive Societies had stepped forward to claim this mask. No one had demanded i
ts return or explained its use. The art historians and the ethnographers were stumped and theories abounded. They all agreed on one point, though. This mask’s savage bright teeth, its long, sharp snout, wrinkled as though it had detected a scent, its carved thick fur, its cocked and pointed ears—one forward, one back, so as to miss nothing—and the tremendous muscular power in the jaw and throat left no room for doubt. This was a wolf.
Yet the eyes, Livia thought. Fierce, burning, almost gleeful, the eyes of a predator watching its prey: but in their black-painted depths, in their shape and shading, a shadow of something else. She waited, hoping this sense would become clearer, but felt nothing more.
“It’s true, then,” Katherine said. “The photographs—it’s extraordinary.”
Estelle smiled. “I’ve had time now to get familiar with it, but I have to tell you, it still takes my breath away. You can practically see it sniffing the air, crisscrossing the ground. There’s another Mohawk word for ‘wolf’ but Ohtahyohnee is more active. It means wolf-as-tracker. It’s what the owner insists on calling this and it certainly fits. Livia? What about you? What do you think?”
Livia chose her words carefully. “It’s astounding. And unique, I think? Wolf masks weren’t common in the Northeast?”
“Extremely rare. When this one came to us I was skeptical—I mean, I was knocked over, but still. And I know around the conference there’s a lot of doubt. But the mask’s provenance is impeccable.”
“You can find hints,” Katherine said. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the mask. “References. Faint, and you have to know what to look for and where. Some of the earliest Jesuit missionaries were apparently allowed to see them, and to attend ceremonies, though they were asked not to speak about them. So even their obsessive note-taking doesn’t include much in the way of animal masks. From what I can gather, there were never many, in any case. Even the tribes that used them didn’t always have one. Certain kinds of damage would require one to be ceremonially destroyed, and a new one was only created if someone received instructions in a dream.”
Livia asked, “What were they used for? What was the ceremony?”