Saint Peter’s Wolf by Michael Cadnum

as though I could run forever. The grass had been wet and fragrant under my feet. Under my four feet. Only the forepaws had been not quite paws, there had been fingers, and I could—
    â€œAre you all right?” asked Porterman.
    â€œYes, thank you.” I coughed. “It’s just—” It’s just what? That I should be talking to a therapist of my own?
    â€œDreams,” I said, “can be very disturbing.”
    And the nightmares which are not dreams, like footprints, or a cat’s head.

Twelve
    Jacob Zinser had a warm, square hand, and his touch gave me confidence.
    â€œI had to talk to you. I didn’t feel like talking over the telephone. This is the sort of matter you really like to talk about in person.”
    I was mystified, and must have shown it.
    â€œIt’s something that I wanted to really sit down next to you and talk about.”
    He was nearly embarrassed about something. I murmured that I would always be pleased to see him under any circumstances, and followed him into the collection room.
    He ordered tea, and suggested making a fire, but he was stalling, and this surprised me. At our first meeting he had been such a direct man, so unaffected.
    The tea service arrived, and then it was clear that he wanted to be completely alone with me, and uninterrupted. When we were alone, he dropped into a leather chair, and gestured with his open hand. He still did not speak, but his gesture was eloquent enough. I don’t know where to begin, it said. Be patient.
    I waited.
    â€œIt’s about those teeth,” he said. He shook his head. “I’ve had some people looking into them.” He worked his lips, as though trying to shape a difficult word. “I’ve found out some bad things.”
    He did not continue at once. “I want you to give them back to me.” He lifted a hand against what I knew were going to be my protests. “I know—I can’t insist on it. But I am really sorry I ever set eyes on those hideous fangs. I am disgusted. Wait until you hear what I found out.”
    I said nothing.
    Zinser continued, “What I found out was straightforward. They drive people mad.”
    I wanted to laugh, or make a joke of some sort, but I could not make a sound.
    â€œI had photographs of those things shown to dealers and scholars all over Europe. Nobody knew anything. It got to the point where so few people knew anything at all that you knew there was something funny going on. It’s like when the cops show a mug shot around and nobody even tries to think if they know who it is. They know nothing—capital N .
    â€œSo I persisted. I had my people digging into libraries and archives and museum files and finally I realized I must be looking in the wrong place. Just because I got them by way of Switzerland doesn’t mean they come from Europe at all, although I had the feeling we were looking at old-world craftsmanship in the silver. Just a feeling. So I had one or two of my contacts in New England open a book or two. Make a phone call. When you’re on the right trail it’s not that hard.
    â€œI was close. I found the scent not in New England but in a little town in Pennsylvania called Harpersboro. They knew all about those teeth. For generations they had been in the area, and every single person who owned them between 1820 and 1860 went mad. I mean, sick, howling madness. Gnawing things, snarling—real mental illness, although even the doctors don’t actually detail what was wrong with the patients. They talk about when the patient was found, and his age, and birthplace, and parents, and when you come to read the symptoms it all gets very vague. Very euphemistic. But it’s documented. I have some files to show you, photocopies of old medical records. Awful stuff. But all documented. After 1860 the teeth vanish, only to show up in a trunk in Zurich. So where were they all this time? I’m still working on