Free Saint Peter’s Wolf by Michael Cadnum Page A

of them.”
    â€œWhy? What are they?”
    â€œYou tell me.”
    â€œYou’re usually more forthcoming than this, Stan.”
    â€œThey are some kind of teeth.”
    â€œIn some kind of silver. I see that. But what are they, more specifically?” I plucked the box from the desk, and returned it to my pocket, where the humming seemed to settle into my ribs, into my heart.
    Stan was relieved to have them completely out of his sight. He shook his head and leaned against a filing cabinet. “The teeth of some kind of carnivore,” he said.
    â€œA dog.”
    He shook off the suggestion. “A dog’s teeth aren’t that big.”
    I remembered Belinda’s bared fangs. “A dog’s teeth can be pretty impressive.”
    He ran a finger over his lips.
    â€œI have a better guess,” I said.
    The word I had in mind had a good ring to it. I had a deep vision, for a heartbeat or two, of night, of dark, of the cool ground beneath my feet.
    â€œIt could be,” I said quietly, “a wolf.”
    The word was a musical note in my bones. Wolf. I waited for his response, but he said nothing at all, and simply avoided my eyes.
    â€œAt least we’re both guessing that they belong to some member of the canine family, right?”
    â€œSome very large member,” he said. Then he ran his hand through his shaggy hair and laughed. It was not a hearty laugh. “Get them out of here, Ben. Please. Take them away.”
    â€œI was hoping you could give me some sort of help in finding out.…”
    â€œI’ll do some digging. Let me think for a while. I’ll come up with something.”
    â€œDon’t you want to take a photograph, or have someone do a sketch, or measure or weigh them?” I was a little miffed. I was willing to pay for his professional services. What was wrong with him?
    â€œI don’t have to. I won’t forget what they look like.”
    â€œStan, for all I know they aren’t real teeth at all.”
    â€œThey’re real.”
    â€œYou know something you aren’t telling me.”
    â€œNo, I don’t, Ben. Honestly. It’s just a gut feeling I have. If I were you, I’d get rid of them.”
    â€œTake a picture of them, Stan. Weigh them. Test them. I want to know what they are, what they’re made of, everything you can tell me. I don’t want your first impressions, off the top of your head. I want information. Facts.”
    Stan tried to laugh. “I’ll take some pictures, then, and run a few tests, get out the calipers, that sort of thing.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œYou stay around, though. It’ll just take a few minutes. I can work off the pix and the measurements. I really don’t want to be responsible for them if you leave them here.”
    I smiled, partly to Stan, partly to myself. So Stan did not want to be alone with them. That was fine with me. I did not want to leave them.
    I wanted them with me, always.

Ten
    One of the things Carliss had slipped into the trash can was a yellow plastic baseball bat. The sight of that bat, which was split and permanently bent from a trauma at some point in its history—perhaps an encounter with a real baseball—touched me deeply. Carliss was about to leave my life.
    I found him on the floor of his closet, gathering small plastic figures. They were soldiers, I thought, although outfitted in what looked like spacesuits. I helped him drop these warriors into a grocery bag, and said, “I’ll miss you.”
    His reaction to this was solemn. He did not meet my eyes, but he said, “I know.”
    His words stopped me. When I could speak, I continued, “I’ll come see you some time.” I meant this to be true, and yet I knew that Carliss would quite possibly find a visit from me troublesome. He would suppose that I was trying to win Cherry back by attracting his affection.
    â€œOkay,” he said,