Saint Peter’s Wolf by Michael Cadnum Page B

heavy for its size. Perhaps because it was, like Zinser’s desk, mahogany. Perhaps because the contents were heavy, as though the box, which fit easily into one hand, contained a weapon of some unimaginable sort.
    â€œThe box is nothing,” said Zinser. “Open it.”
    It opened suddenly, and silently, and I nearly dropped it.
    On red velvet was a set of teeth. They were not human teeth. They were a set of fangs, like the teeth of a very large dog, set into a base of silver, untarnished and gleaming in the light. The fangs themselves were like the finest ivory, bright cream-white, set into what amounted to a gumline of silver alloy.
    â€œA pair of dentures,” I said, a pale joke.
    He grunted. I had hoped he would say something funny, have some salty remark to make about how foolish people were, but he simply stared suspiciously at the teeth in my hand.
    â€œYou know nothing about them?”
    â€œOnly that they don’t fit the rest of the inventory in the trunk. Except for the fact that they are silver, in some alloy I don’t recall ever seeing, and that they are some kind of teeth.”
    â€œWhat sort of teeth, I wonder. They’re very large.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t like them. Don’t like the looks, don’t like anything about them.”
    â€œActually, they’re beautiful.” For some reason I felt that I had to hide my pleasure at seeing them. I added, “In a peculiar way.”
    â€œYeah,” he said, as though he could not disagree more strongly. “Beautiful.”
    â€œThey are made,” I suggested, feeling breathless, nearly afraid to utter what I had begun to say, “to be worn.”
    He reached over and shut the box, leaving it in my hand.
    â€œOver one’s teeth,” I continued. “Like—” I caught my breath, and then added, in a near whisper, “a disguise.”
    â€œYou want them?”
    I must have gaped.
    â€œYou want them, they’re yours. I’m glad to get them out of the house. Hate everything about them.”
    â€œWhat are they valued at?”
    â€œAn indefinite loan. One collector to another.”
    I was embarrassed, and not simply at his generosity. I wanted to buy them, and keep them, and I wanted Zinser to have no further claim upon them. I was more than interested in owning them. They were unquestionably unique, but I felt as I had not felt before, never so strongly: that this was one object in the world which I simply had to possess.
    Finally Zinser agreed. He would loan me the teeth for examination until his researchers discovered the origin and possible value of such an artifact. “I’m glad to get them out of here. Keep them until you’re sick of them in the meantime. When we have some more information we’ll work out a price.”
    This was the civilized arrangement often worked out between collectors who knew each other well, but it was extremely generous of Zinser to make it with me. He refused to hear my thanks. “Forget it,” he said. “It’s a pleasure. I’m glad to get rid of them.”
    I drove with the dark box on the passenger’s seat. I kept putting my hand out to touch it. Was I afraid that it would vanish? Did I expect it to be warm, or to change its shape? Or did I want to reassure myself that it and its contents were in my possession, that they were in truth mine?

Eight
    With the box in my jacket pocket I hurried to my study. I pulled open a drawer at once, and slammed it shut afterward, not sure why I wanted to keep the fangs especially safe. I did not question my feelings, although, of all that was soon to happen, this should have made me wonder most.
    Introspection had always been a mental discipline, and self-questioning had long been a way of life with me. Even in my excitement I found a brief moment to wonder at myself. These fangs were certainly not more precious or unusual than any of the dozens of