Skin of the Wolf by Sam Cabot Page A

Botanical prints added color to the white-glazed walls, and pots and pans showing evidence of serious use hung beside the stove. Thomas watched Bonnard, a tall, broad-shouldered man whose graceful movements radiated a tight-coiled strength, like a spring—or an animal ready to spring. Bonnard seemed to know his way around this room. Thomas wondered how long he and Spencer had been together.
    Bonnard turned to face him. “Abenaki,” he said.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Your eyes were drilling holes in my back. Usually that means someone’s trying to figure out whether I’m an Indian. Abenaki tribe. Upstate New York. You?”
    “I—I’m not—” Thomas caught on and grinned. “Oh. I see. Jesuit. Society of Jesus. From Boston, myself.”
    Bonnard nodded. “Jesuits were good to us. I was baptized by a Jesuit. You came to convert the savages, like all the missionaries, but a lot of you took on our ways, and you brought us a Jesus we could use. We called you ‘Blackrobes.’”
    “To the extent that that’s true, I’m grateful.”
    Bonnard took two porcelain mugs from a cabinet. “You take milk?” Thomas admitted he did and Bonnard retrieved a glass bottle from the refrigerator. He poured the coffee and sat.
    Thomas said, “Maybe Livia should have a look at your shoulder, too.”
    “I’m a doctor.”
    “You can’t dress your own wound, even so.”
    Bonnard didn’t answer and retreated into silence, drinking coffee. Something was obviously worrying him. Spencer’s condition? The priest in Thomas wanted to offer reassurance—the one thing he did know was that Spencer George, being Noantri, would make a complete recovery—but this was complicated ground.
    “I think he’ll be all right,” he ventured. “He’s very strong.”
    Bonnard snapped his head up. His eyes showed confusion at first. Then he relaxed. “Spencer? Yes.”
    Something occurred to Thomas. “Did you call the police? About the mugging?”
    “No, or an ambulance, either. He wouldn’t let me. Just told me to bring him back here.”
    “But that’s a dangerous man, whoever did this. Violent. He needs to be stopped.”
    Bonnard nodded slowly. “Oh, yes, he’s dangerous.”
    “Then why . . .” Thomas let the question trail off. Of course. Calling attention to himself and especially in the face of injury would be the last thing Spencer George would want. Thomas hadonce seen Spencer’s Noantri body react to a serious wound, had watched it begin to heal itself in seconds. That was something you wouldn’t want a doctor to see.
    Even a doctor you were close to.
    Thomas and Bonnard regarded each other wordlessly. As though reaching a decision, Bonnard put his coffee down. “All right. If she’s an old friend and a nurse, he’s in good hands. I wanted to talk to him, but I’d better go. I’m sorry we didn’t meet under better circumstances, Father.” He stood.
    That wasn’t what Thomas had been expecting. “Wait, you’re leaving? He won’t—”
    “No, he won’t, which is why I’m not saying goodbye. Tell him I hope—”
    The kitchen door opened. “Gentlemen.” Livia stood in the doorway. “I apologize if I seemed rude. It couldn’t be helped. Will you please join us?”
    Bonnard said to Thomas, “Well. I guess I’ll get to say goodbye after all.”
    Livia threw Thomas a questioning glance. Thomas rose and the three made their way back across the hall.

14
    A h.” Spencer watched the group enter the room where he now sat comfortably on the sofa, dressed and shod, a snifter at his elbow. “Please, everyone, have a seat. Michael, Father Kelly, would either of you care for a brandy?”
    Both the priest and Michael stopped and stared. Really, thought Spencer, Thomas Kelly, who’d been all but initiated as a Noantri—would have been, if he’d requested it—should have known better. Spencer supposed that understanding something was possible and seeing it happen were two different things, but the priest had seen Noantri