3 Panthers Play for Keeps (4 page)

Chapter Seven

Maybe it didn’t matter who she was. The woman in the silk shirt was still dead. Now that she’d been moved from the preservation land to a hospital morgue, someone would identify her. Make the necessary preparations for her. Mourn her.

I’d done my part, or Spot had. It was time for me to get back to work. Of course, those two things weren’t mutually exclusive. Especially, I thought as I eased my baby-blue GTO out of the parking lot, if one pursuit helped further another.

Service dogs are new to me and that made the job more interesting. The training itself is pretty basic, in that it involves accenting—and cementing, in a way—the basic role of the domestic canine. Dogs tend to be human-centered; we’ve bred them that way and, as Wallis would be quick to point out, they’ve accepted that. It’s what they want now, believe me. Most times I get called in to help with a “problem” pup it’s not that he’s consciously misbehaving. It’s that he can’t figure out what his person expects of him. He’s getting mixed signals, often positive feedback for negative behavior. Or, less often, he’s bored. A dog, unlike a cat, needs a job.

So basically what I’m doing is an extension of regular dog training. I’m teaching the animal to recognize and respond to the slightest clue: The small gesture that a wheelchair-bound person may be able to make with one finger. The hesitation a blind owner may feel approaching a street corner. On the flip side, I’m also teaching the animal to tune out any outside influence. Squirrel? Doesn’t matter. Cat? Forget it. Even the friendly advances of well-meaning bystanders should not be acknowledged by a well-trained service animal. The dog must become an extension of his person—his eyes, his legs. At times, his physical representative in the world. People with disabilities might as well be invisible, I was learning. A large dog, though? When one of those pushes against you, you make way for the human who follows.

What was new for me was the extent of it—the total immersion. Some of that is because of my so-called gift. When you can hear what another creature is thinking—sense its needs, its fears and desires—then you care less about wanting to inflict your will on that creature. I mean, it’s just too much fun knowing
why
Fluffy is scratching at that one chair. Of course, that’s partly me. I’ve never been what you might call leash-trained, so I’ve never felt a particularly strong drive to inflict that discipline on others. But with service dogs, total obedience is a must. And the dogs who are best at it are the ones who
want
to lose themselves in their person. No wonder Wallis scoffed at the whole idea. Then again, it paid. More to the point, it kept Doc Sharpe from fussing too much about me, and that meant I had a little more freedom.

Not that all collars are visible, I reminded myself as I turned onto one Beauville’s nicer streets. Laurel Kroft lived here, her renovated Victorian a direct reflection of what my tumbledown old house could be, if I ever had the money to fix it up. I’d only been inside the first floor of her home, but I recognized the care and labor that went into refinishing those old, wide-board floors. I wondered, of course, how much nicer the rooms upstairs were. But as I pulled into her neatly paved driveway I tried to block the images that came to mind. I didn’t want to be tied down, and that meant giving up the right to tie down anyone else. But, hey, like dogs, some men want the leash. Nothing I could do about that. In that way, I was like my father, who had taught me more about playing cards than he did about familial responsibility. Before he took off, that is—leaving me to bear the brunt of my mother’s resentment.

We were simply different types of animal, my mother and me. And there were a lot more like her in the world, I thought, as I pulled up in front of the glossy green door. Laurel Kroft opened it and stepped out as I emerged from my car, giving me one more reason to be grateful for my poker face.

“Hello, Pru.” Whatever kind of animal she was, her coat was sure sleek, and her long, lean legs spoke of breeding, as well as the gym. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Oh?” I tried to keep my voice light. I was here because I had a contract to work with the dog, not as any special favor to her. She needed to understand that, and I needed to understand what was bothering her.

“It’s probably nothing.” She tossed her hair, shedding any trouble that would dare cling to those dark blonde tresses. “A little stress.”

“Is Spot acting out?” I’d get more from the dog himself about what was bothering him. I didn’t often get an entrée into the woman, though. “Would you like to talk?”

“I don’t really have time right now. I’m scheduled for a session.” She retreated back inside the house, and I followed into a glorified foyer painted the kind of dark green you see in magazines. She was as tall as I am, which is rare. Her height all in those legs.

“A session?” I was imagining a designer. Maybe a colorist. All those city affectations were making their way back here.

“At LiveWell.” Her tone said she’d guessed my thoughts. “I run socialization workshops aimed at keeping the residents integrated into the larger community. It’s quite rewarding. In fact, I have been trying to engage Spot’s…” She hesitated, and I wondered which word she’d chose. “Spot’s charge.” That was good. Neutral. It meant she felt some reluctance about giving the dog up. It meant she was capable of bonding, which had both good and bad points.

“It’s too easy for those with disabilities to become isolated,” she said as I followed her into the living room, waiting while she rummaged through a drawer. “Perhaps especially those who have other resources.”

Rich people, I translated. Because, of course, those were the ones who could afford her services.

“Richard Haigen undoubtedly has friends.” I tried to keep my voice neutral as she pulled out a small box—it looked like a deck of cards—and put them in her bag.

“Oh, I know.” We were playing one-up on each other. “In fact, I believe I’ve engaged at least one of them for our session today.”

She won, if ingratiating herself into Beauville’s elite was winning.

“This will be important for Spot, too.” She must have seen something on my face. “With a happier, healthier person, he’ll be a happier dog, won’t he?” She didn’t pause for an answer. “I want him to go to a good home, you see.”

I did, though I wasn’t sure why this was her concern. “People underestimate service animals,” she went on. “They see a dog and think, ‘oh, it’s a pet.’ They see a cat and they think…”

She gave a dismissive wave of one manicured hand, and I bit my tongue. This was all new to her, and she was an enthusiast. That wasn’t a bad thing, really, but I was beginning to tune her out when what she said next made me focus. “People underestimate the range of a living creature,” she was saying, and I turned to look at her. She couldn’t know, could she? Laurel Kroft was an intelligent woman. She’d observed me working with Spot. And she was spending time with Jim Creighton. I didn’t know what he knew—or what he suspected. And I didn’t think he’d betray me. But people let things slip. Especially in moments of intimacy.

I felt my eyes narrowing, and could imagine how Wallis would respond, the fur along her spine beginning to rise. Maybe Laurel sensed it too, because she then went off on a tangent, nattering on about money or something. “What these animals do is priceless, and if I’m ever in a position to really help them, that’s what I’d do.”

Maybe she’d been talking about making a donation all along. Bully for her. I had work to do. “Shall we?” I wanted her to do the signaling, for several reasons.

She had turned from me, though, so I couldn’t see her face. “Spot.” She cast her voice low, but fairly loud. “Come.” I heard the clicking of nails on the hardwood floor, and resisted the urge to kneel down to greet the dog. “Leash.”

“Very good.” I was watching her, but I wasn’t thinking simply of the commands. Spot was going to have to learn to obey whoever was in charge, and that meant people who didn’t have any special connection. What I was hoping for, as the dog approached, was some insight into the woman before me. She seemed off-balance, for her, and I was still waiting for an explanation.

“He was restless last night.” She said finally, after clipping on the leash and handing it to me. “Whining in his sleep and kicking. I think he was having nightmares.”

“You let him sleep with you?” This was information. I tried to separate it from thoughts of Creighton, and how he’d fit in bed with the hundred-pound dog. I’m good at keeping my face blank. I know I am. But Laurel Kroft wasn’t one of the barflies at Happy’s, and she was trained to read people like I did animals. I thought I saw a smile, but I couldn’t be sure as she reached once more for the door.

“Sometimes,” she said. And that was all.

Chapter Eight

“Great.” I let Spot into my car and hit the gas, a little harder than was probably wise. Often, I begin a session with Spot at his home. Today, I couldn’t wait to get gone, and since the pretty shrink was heading out, too, it was easy enough to act like today’s regimen had to involve the great outdoors. I’d focused on the dog, so I couldn’t tell if Laurel was smirking. I really didn’t want to know.

“Where to?” I turned toward Spot, wanting to clear my head. Wanting to make contact. I honestly did have a job to do, and once again I was reminded of why I prefer animals. They’re direct. Honest. If they have an agenda, they let you know right away. Even if that involves eating you for lunch. Once they pounce, they don’t try to make small talk.

Spot turned toward me, his big ears pricking, and I realized that he was catching some of this. Maybe all of it. Like the other service animals I’d met, he was so focused, I sometimes forgot how smart he was. How aware of his surroundings, and those included me.

“What?” I couldn’t help smiling at those big, dark eyes. His tail thumped on my leather seat. “Aren’t you ever territorial?”

At that, he turned and pressed his nose to the window, and I sensed a moment of regret. No, he couldn’t be, could he? Not with what I was training him for. He was a working animal, born for it. But was this asking too much?

“What you said
.” The voice was quiet, but I heard it. Spot was staring out the window as the thought came to me.
“Not the scent, not the…
” I got that feeling of frustration again, like tugging on a leash to go another way.
“Listen
.”

That’s what I got for anthropomorphizing. Spot was reminding me of what I already knew. I was the one who wanted freedom. He’d be happier as a service dog than a lone wolf. Or—I couldn’t help a bitter smile—as someone’s pampered pet.

Blocking the thought of Laurel Kroft and her glossy grooming, I homed in on what she and I had planned. Spot was almost ready to be tried out. Two weeks ago, Laurel had told me about a potential client: one Richard Haigen. Haigen wasn’t that old, she’d explained, but he had severe macular degeneration that hadn’t responded to treatment. He’d be blind within the year.

I’d gone to meet him after that, to get a feel for where he was—and what Spot would need to do. I hadn’t known Haigen before. He was one of the new crowd: moneymakers who move here once they’ve sucked their native playground dry. They’re predators, same as any raptor, and I don’t blame them for past crimes. Besides, the estate—there was no other word for it—might have become a housing development otherwise, situated as it was on a gentle hill abutting the state preservation land. This way, the big old farm had been preserved, more or less, the open land turned into landscaped gardens.

The first time I’d visited, I’d felt bad for Haigen, despite an introduction that bordered on hostile. I knew the type, from my city days. Tall, broad rather than fat, and with a booming voice that demanded to be heard, he was a former master of the universe now exiting the known galaxy. His coke-bottle glasses were the obvious indicator of his changing status, despite boxy frames just a little too hip for his jowled face. Whatever crimes he’d left behind, he was trying for a new start: country gentleman in a bucolic setting refurbished with all the mod cons. That faded as I watched him barking at a wife, who clearly was in over her head, and grumbling at the pretty maid when she startled him with a tray.

He had a lot to hold together, and I’d bet his command had ranged over significantly larger turf back in town. But the two women he’d growled at? Not their fault, and since both were considerably younger, I guessed he’d chosen them for reasons other than their efficiency. And he wasn’t that miserable. I didn’t see any staff, none of the usual factotums you’d expect around the rich and powerful. But he’d had a buddy with him when I’d visited, a superannuated good old boy who’d probably served as his wingman back in the day. Nick, I thought he’d called him. Nick Draper. “Here’s Nicky,” he’d said, propelling him toward me with a wave. Like I might find the dark-haired lunk more attractive with a boyish name. I didn’t, and I worried for that little maid, but I was glad the man had a friend.

At least Haigen had perked up when I started talking about Spot. Partly, I figured, that was because he needed a project. Partly, I hoped, it was because he liked animals. That could have been wishful thinking; I wanted the best for Spot, if not this rich guy. Still, getting him used to working with a service dog would be good training for both of them, not that it would soften the blow as his world went dark.

“Caught in a box…
” It was a wisp of a thought, accompanied by a faint scent of trees and leaf mold. Too faint. I cranked down the window a crack. I’d been driving aimlessly, enjoying the ride. For Spot, however, the enclosed car must have been dull as—well, a dog could find something of interest even in the plainest dirt. The air that came streaming in was cold, frosty even. But the thaw had held, and the air had to be rich with information and intrigue for an animal like Spot. Sight was the least of it.

“You must think we’re so limited.” I knew Wallis did. “But because of that, your new person will need you.”

That’s when it hit me. All the answers I couldn’t get from Creighton, maybe I could get from Spot, now that he was making the effort, communicating with me telepathically in phrases I could understand. It was a rare opportunity, and even as I warned myself that this kind of communication tended to be limited—even as I reminded myself that I had to be careful against misinterpreting, against
over
interpreting the canine’s half-phrased thoughts—I made my decision. I had to try. I hung a hard left and headed toward the highway.

Spot’s ears pricked up as we cruised along the edge of the preservation land. And when I pulled into the service road we’d driven up the day before, I could feel his other senses on alert. Yes, he was all dog, made to work. But revisiting a trail like this one had to be a challenge.

Unless…I paused. What with the tension between me and Dr. Laurel, I’d never followed up on what she’d said about Spot. Dream chases and nighttime whimpering could be a sign of distress. They could also signal involvement, unfinished business—much as human dreams may. As we pulled into the parking area, I reached out to place one hand on Spot’s broad back.

“Is this okay?” I wasn’t sure how to translate my concern, and hoped that the physical contact would help. “Is it too much?”

“Out!”
He didn’t pull away exactly, but even without any special connection I would have been able to tell what he wanted. I walked around the front of the car and opened the passenger side, taking the lead in my hand.

“Heel.” I was being paid for this, I might as well do it. Besides, I needed to exert some control over what happened.

Spot’s training was good, and he waited, body still. His mind was racing, though, shooting off a rapid-fire series of images, chronicling the woods and its inhabitants. After about forty-five seconds, I gave him the go-ahead signal and he started toward the woods, pausing at the edge of the pavement for one backward glance.

“Follow?”

“Yes,” I said, not knowing if I had agreed to tag along or if he was asking permission to seek out that rich, strange scent once again. “Follow.”

With that he was off, and even as I let out the lead, I had to trot to keep up. All around us, I could hear the sounds of the awakening woods—a litany of chirps and chatter that fell into muted silence as Spot and I approached. Spring was coming, after another hard winter, and everyone was ready to get down to business. To eat, to find a mate. To do what one could before some terrible jaws came clamping down.

“Wait!”
It was a command, so clear I stopped short without thinking. Spot, about twenty feet ahead of me, was frozen.

“What is it?” I didn’t dare speak the words out loud, but my question must have been clear.

“Careful…
” I saw his black nose twitch, but I relaxed. It takes a discerning creature like Wallis—who knows me well—to separate out the signals I’m sending from the ones she—or he—wants me to hear. Spot had picked up that I was listening to the birds and squirrels, and these had been startled by our arrival. He was echoing back. Interpreting. Nothing more.

Either he got that too, or he reached the conclusion by himself, because he started on again, going a little more slowly as we went deeper into the woods. The silence was almost complete here; the deep leaf cover, damp and soft, muting any sounds our feet would make. Even some of the larger animals—I got a sense of a possum and at least three nesting raccoons—seemed to be holding their breath. It was a little too much for one human and one good-sized dog to have provoked, and I felt the hairs along the back of my neck go up.

“Spot?” I voiced the question this time, even though my mouth had gone dry. “What is it, Spot?”

How could I have been so careless? We weren’t the largest predator in these woods. Creighton might have his doubts, but something had savaged that woman.

Spot had stopped, and I came up to him. Better that we should stay close together: one big creature instead of two smaller ones. Me standing and tall with Spot by my side made a less appealing target for a hungry predator.

“Gone
.”
The one word had me breathing again. Of course, he had never forgotten what we were dealing with here.
“This way
.”

I let him lead me a few hundred feet farther, and then waited as he sniffed some leaves. They could have been the ones cradling the body we’d found. To be honest, with the changing light and the sameness of the brown leaf bed, I wouldn’t vouch for it.

“She was here?” I reached tentatively for Spot’s head. I wanted the contact, but I also didn’t want to kneel down, to make myself look lower or smaller, just in case he was wrong.

“Here, I found her
.”
Of course, the scent remained. The body, however, had been removed only after we’d gone.

With that confirmation, it was easier to see the signs of Creighton and his crew. Some of the leaves seemed to have been raked; they were probably taken for further analysis. One of the trees seemed to have had some bark scraped away, although whether that was done intentionally by the cops or by some photographer backing into a damp oak was anyone’s guess. But while Creighton’s people would have taken anything that a human would consider a clue, I had another tool at my disposal. Now that we weren’t facing a dead body—or an angry detective—I could give Spot his head.

He didn’t need a prompt, and as soon as I let the lead out again, he began investigating, nose to the ground, ears pitched forward as if to capture more of the scents and the scene.

“What is it, Spot? What do you get?”

More sniffing. Leaf mold. Something warm, with charcoal fur. A mole? A squirrel? Then—bingo!—he was on it. Blood, fresh enough, and suddenly the images started pouring forth. Fear, acrid as smoke. Pain just as sharp. More pain. Blinding pain and sounds—not human. Or, well, not that of a rational human anymore. Then the rip and tear of teeth. Huge teeth. The warmth of blood and then…cold silence.

When the images faded, I realized I was leaning back on that oak, panting as if I’d just been chased. So this is how Spot saw the world? I looked down, a little dazed, to see the shepherd mix looking up at me.

“I smelled that here
.” Yes, I’d gotten that. But there was something more.
“In the blood, here
.”

And I remembered. Yes, those emotions—the fear, the pain—they might well remain in the blood when it was spilled. It didn’t mean the attack, for there was no other word for it, had happened here. Had it?

Spot looked at me and tilted his head. It was a complex question, one I wasn’t sure how to phrase. I thought of a woman, here in the woods, her hands outstretched in a useless last-ditch attempt. I pictured her falling in the shadows of these trees. It was horrible.

What I got was sunlight. Warmth. An echo of the calm that had preceded the attack. Did that mean the woman had been killed on a brighter day—or closer to high noon? The morning shadows were leaving us now, but in an hour or two, this leafless bit of forest might be fairly bright. Or was I just picking up an emotional state as interpreted by a dog: the last bit of peace before the kill?

“The blood is silent
.”
Yes, I knew it was, now. Spot seemed to be trying to tell me something, but I was stuck on my own memories now. Those images had been so vibrant, so harsh.

“Run away, quick, quick…
” I sensed a bit of a struggle. Spot was a well-trained dog, a domestic animal. Still, he called it as he saw it.
“Trapped
.”

She might have been happy, out here for a walk. Not that she was dressed for it. And again, I wondered, how did she get out here? Who was she? I pressed as hard as I dared, concentrating on the depths of those dark eyes.

“Who isn’t important
.”
I got it, finally. Not that I understood.
“Who didn’t do it. She was in the way. In
her
way.
That’s how she got killed
.”