3 Panthers Play for Keeps (5 page)

Chapter Nine

If I didn’t know better, I’d have said that Spot had just given me motive. She got in her way. That sounded like jealousy to me. The disposal of a rival, in a particularly permanent way. That didn’t fit, however, with anything else that I knew. Even in my blackest mood, for example, I doubted I could tear Laurel Kroft’s sleek coif half off and let her smooth throat bleed out on the leaves. And if I couldn’t, well, no matter what the handsome Creighton might believe, it did look to be the work of an animal.

There was something wrong here, though. Something I wasn’t getting. And as Spot went back to sniffing, I worked at phrasing my question correctly.

“What did this, Spot?” I didn’t want to picture a cougar. The tawny fur, the broad muzzle. The fangs. That would be the animal equivalent of leading the witness. I didn’t want to think any more about Laurel Kroft, either. No matter what was going on between us—or between the pretty doctor and Creighton—she was Spot’s caregiver, at least for now. No, I tried to blank my mind out, and when that failed, I recalled what I could of the victim’s wounds.

I’m not squeamish. Never was, and living with Wallis has weaned me even further from it. But I hadn’t taken a really good look at the body we’d found. Now I closed my eyes and took a breath. That blouse, that was a good starting point. A gold pattern—interlocking chains? Maybe—I could picture them running down her arms, bright against the deep green background. Quite lovely, really, if it hadn’t been for the dark staining on the front. No wonder I hadn’t noted that she wore no coat. Maybe that’s what had been bothering me. I couldn’t tell, yet I had to make myself try.

It wasn’t fun, but with my eyes closed, I made my memory move up her arms to her chest. To her throat. At first, I saw black—the darkness of terror. The dark hair and the raw flesh beside it, dark with clotting. That one eye. Dried blood staining what remained of her shirt. A touch of gold, where a shred of her shirt had not been soaked through. Where a claw—

“No!” I couldn’t help it. I’d felt it. That moment—the panic, the realization. The giant paw. The jaws. I yelled out loud, jumping back in terror at the image that had leaped into my head.

“Master?”
Spot was looking up, worried.

“No.” I forced my voice down, into its normal register. “Everything is fine. We are good.”

A tilt of the head. “Good boy.” I wanted to give him what reassurance I could. In response, he gave his flag of a tail a half a wag. More acknowledgment of what I was trying to communicate than true happiness.

“Good boy!” I put some heart into it. After all, as far as I could tell, Spot really had done everything I’d asked of him. By sharing his impressions—the scent of blood left on leaves and his acute canine interpretation of it—he had fleshed out my memory. I didn’t know if he had smelled a killer, or if some chemicals in that spilled blood—adrenaline, maybe, or something stronger—had triggered my own reaction. But he’d allowed me to see what might have happened. How this killing might have gone down.

I should go for more. I still had no sense of what exactly had torn that poor woman’s throat out. And I had no idea how jealousy or ambition—how “getting in her way”—might figure into it. But I didn’t know how much else he could give me. We had come back here. Spot had done his best with the scene. Truth was, I didn’t have the heart for more.

I liked to think it did Spot some good. Revisiting a scene might not give a dog “closure,” as Creighton had called it. Not in the human sense. But I’d pulled him away yesterday before he’d had a chance to really explore. That unsatisfied curiosity might be what had caused his dreams the night before. I really didn’t know. But Spot came willingly when I told him we were going, and I believe both our moods picked up as we approached the clearing where I had parked.

“Heel.” Once I could see the brightness of the sun ahead, I realized I should really use the time as I was paid to. “Good boy,” I said as he responded instantly.

“Walk me.” I shortened the lead and watched him step up so it was just taut. “Let’s go,” I said, and he began leading me. Not too fast and very careful, coming back to my side to halt me with his body when we came up to a large branch in our path.

“Good boy.”

I turned and began walking again. This time, I had my eyes half-shut, just as an experiment, but I could clearly see the brush ahead of me. Out from under the trees, at the lot’s edge, it had grown thick and brambly. And I walked toward it as if those thorns would mean nothing to me.

“No!”
Spot was in front of me, leaning his considerable weight against my legs.
“Stop!”

“Good.” Spot was perhaps a tad premature, but his reaction was basically correct. Besides, I was ready to go home. “My turn now.” Letting out more of the leash, I signaled that I would take the lead. “Walk,” I said out loud.

“No!”
Ignoring my lead, he stepped in front of me.
“Get back
.”
He flicked his ear away from me and turned slightly. Body still blocking me, he turned toward the hedge-like undergrowth.

“I’ve got it, Spot.” I reached down to get his attention and to remind him I was in charge. As soon as I touched his head, however, I realized there was more involved than canine overexuberance. Something was going on here. Something that countermanded his training, and I needed to find out what it was. “Are we a little excited?”

Wallis hates it when I use first-person plural. She finds it infantilizing, or, in her words, “treating me like some foul-bottomed kitten.” Spot was upset, though, and I wanted him to know I was with him. We were together.

“Did we do too much today?”

“Danger!”
As I’ve said, this can mean many things to a dog. This time, however, Spot’s body language made his meaning clear. His back was stiff, his muzzle pointed at the dense undergrowth, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

“What is it, Spot?” I was still talking out loud, I was pretty sure. But my voice had dropped, as if in fear of being overheard. “What’s in there?”

Maybe it been my moment of panic in the woods, an emotional reaction so strong it had been communicated in human form to another creature. Maybe Spot was still processing that. Protecting me.

Or maybe I was fooling myself. Maybe I just didn’t want to believe that whatever had attacked that young woman was still out there. Maybe between us and my car. It was high noon. A crisp and beautiful spring day, but I was shivering. All I could think of was the body we had found less than twenty-four hours before. The shock of raw fear—that secondhand terror—still chilled me. I didn’t know what had torn her like a papier-mâché doll, but something had. And I had a horrible feeling that whatever had done that was now waiting, watching us, from the shadows.

Chapter Ten

We stood there for what seemed like an eternity, although I could have calculated the time by the audible beating of my heart. Spot stayed on alert, and I stared for all I was worth, trying to decipher the mass of shadows in the brambles, to distinguish the shape of a potential predator from last year’s leaf fall, while we both stood as still as statues. It was the sensible response, one young animals know by instinct. Movement gets noticed, and getting noticed—if you’re prey—gets you dead.

Unfortunately, I’m not a bunny. I’m a human, and as the seconds—or maybe they really were minutes—ticked past, I became aware of two distinct urges. The first was for a bathroom. And while I’m not above squatting in the woods, I know enough to not make myself look smaller—more vulnerable—to a predator. If I’m going to be jumped, I sure as hell don’t want it to be with my jeans down. The second urge was to strike out—or at least to talk back to whatever it was that was out there. I’m not saying humans are superior creatures. I’ve learned that much in my time with this supposed gift. What I am saying is that I was getting angry. Here I was, acting on another’s trauma reflexively, when the one thing I had going for me was my brain. Not that I could out-argue an alpha predator. But if I couldn’t find a way to think my way free of this situation, well, I deserved to die wetting myself.

It was time to act.

“Spot.” I kept my voice level but low. The command firm. “Come here, Spot. Heel.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, more something I sensed than saw. He didn’t want to step beside me, where he couldn’t protect me. I got it. “Heel,” I reiterated, putting a touch more steel into my voice. He came and stood beside me but not willingly. Every fiber—every hair on his coat—was on alert. If I didn’t already feel alarmed, his resistance now would have clued me in.

“Watch out
.” It was a warning, the equivalent of a whisper. I got it, and reached down to lay my fingers in what I hoped was a comforting fashion on Spot’s head. But I was focused on the bush. Somewhere in there was something that had raised Spot’s hackles and should have raised mine. Something in there had attacked the woman we found. Something that was, most likely, an animal. And here I was, the animal psychic. Wasn’t it possible that I could reach out and make some kind of contact with it? That I could, if not communicate, at least eavesdrop on whatever it—he, she—wanted? Shouldn’t I be getting something?

I tried to focus on what a predator would feel. What would make a large animal attack?
“Fear?”
Not for oneself, maybe, but for one’s cubs or kits. I mulled this one over, trying to envision little ones—a den of some kind. Not my scene; I couldn’t get a handle on it.

“Hunger…
” That was easier, and I did my best to envision my own appetite growing, wild and ravenous. I got so far as to feel my belly grumbling before the silliness of the situation got to me. The absurdity—my fear, my other impulses. Nothing from the brush, though. If Spot hadn’t been on alert, I’d have been tempted to believe that it—whatever it was—had gone. Slunk off while I was doing my best to throw mind darts in its direction.

This was crazy. My temper started to rise, and I tried to ride that:
“Anger, rage?”
That one wasn’t hard: I don’t like being scared.
“Grrr…
” I rumbled out a growl, loud enough to cause a slight twitch in Spot’s ear.
“Challenge…
” I pushed it further. This was getting a bit crazy. I was sick of being stuck here. I could see the parking area, my car. I wanted to go home.

“Home
.” There! It was so faint, I could have missed it. Thought I did, for a moment, until I sensed Spot looking up at me, as if waiting for a command.

“Home? Spot?” I had to check, but no, the word—that slight echo—had not come from the dog by my side.

“Home.” I said the word out loud now, trying to conjure up all the images the word provoked. Warmth, a soft chair. A fireplace.

“No!”
I stepped back, the force of that monosyllable was so strong. Beside me, Spot shuffled backward a bit too, the slightest whimper barely breaking the air.

Was there something about a fireplace—about fire? It was true that wild animals had no reason to love flame. More often than not, fire meant destruction, rather than warmth. But that didn’t have to be: I thought of the coziness of my own living room, especially when the rest of the house was set to an economical chill. I thought of the warmth on my feet. How the logs smelled, and how Wallis would stretch out by the hearth, her paws outstretched at her most cat-like.

“Cat?”
There it was again. Strong and…could it be? Curious? For a moment, my stomach clenched in panic. Of course, a house cat like Wallis would be of interest to something big and wild and in the woods. My little tabby might fancy herself worldly, wise, and tough as nails. In reality, she’d be at best a tender morsel to a creature big enough to take down a woman. To a…

“What
are
you?”
It was useless, and I knew it. We humans are cursed with self-awareness. A few of our domestic animals have it. I thought of Growler, who had battled with his person’s interpretation of his gruff nature from Day One. Most animals, though, are blissfully unselfconscious. They eat, they mate. They do what instinct and training urge them to do to continue to exist in a harsh and thankless world. They do not ruminate on their very natures, or on the relative gifts and liberties granted to other species. At least, not often. Growler had made his own kind of rough peace with our kind, with our domination of him and his world. Wallis, on the other hand…

“Cat!”
There it was again, only this time I was ready.

“No!” I yelled back. I didn’t care that Wallis was at home, miles away, and theoretically safe inside our old house. I didn’t care that I had provoked this reaction, calling up some primal urge with my own mental image of my soft and warm pet. Maybe it came from being a certain age still childless. Maybe from my uncommon bond with my longtime tabby companion. Maybe it was the simple orneriness of my nature, a trait that has gotten me in trouble many times before and was now compounded by fear, by stiffness, and the growing pressure in my bladder. I’d had enough. “No! No cat.” I yelled, waving my arms as if in a shooing gesture. The thought in my mind went out as loud and as hard as I could send it. “No cat, no. Not for you.”

I got something—a flash, a feeling. A connection. I’d been heard, if not understood. And then suddenly, nothing. I’d been staring at the underbrush for so long, I didn’t trust my eyes, but surely there was a motion, a rustling of the old, dead leaves, a swaying of the overhung branches. I should have been afraid—riling a wild animal is not generally smart policy. Maybe it was my anger that was keeping me afloat, maybe it was instinct. I felt…okay. And then the rustling stopped. The branches settled back into stillness, and I knew, even before Spot leaned his warm presence up against my leg, that whatever had been in there had gone away. Either my outburst had scared it off, or my denial—no cat—had sent the message. We were not prey. Not today. It was gone.

Chapter Eleven

I couldn’t wait to get home. No matter what my rational mind was saying, my animal brain was urging me home, to Wallis, in the most urgent tones. Spot seemed to acquiesce: I had the strangest feeling that he was puzzling things over as I raced us both back to my house. And when I left him in the car, promising to be quick, he barely responded.

“Cat?”
I thought I heard.

“Yes.” I slammed the door behind me and ran up to my own front door.

“Watch it!”
Wallis pressed both white front paws against my chest and pushed as I hugged her close.
“I am not a…
”

“Toy, I know.” I said, nuzzling into the thick ruff of fur around her neck. “It’s just that…you don’t know what I’m dealing with, Wallis.”

I wasn’t sure how much to go into. After all, as much as I wanted Wallis to be wary, I didn’t need to frighten her with an image of a killer who would never come within miles of our front yard.

“Oh, don’t I?”
That’s when I got it: the flash image of jaws, clamping down on the back of the neck. In Wallis’ case, it was a mouse’s neck, the tiny spine firm against her teeth, but I could feel it as if they were my own. She held on—
I
held on—until the pressure had suffocated the smaller beast. In my heart, I knew joy, my only frustration being that I hadn’t managed to crack the mouse’s spine, or even its skull, with that first bite.

“That’s how it’s done
.”
The image receded, and I found myself staring at Wallis, her eyes glittering with the thrill of the memory she had just shared.

“Thanks, Wallis.” I pulled back and looked at her, my heart swelling. Only Wallis would compare herself to a killer and be proud of it. I thought of that mouse and did my best to block the other image—the woman, half her head laid bare.

“What?”
Her green eyes stared into mine, cool and calm.
“You think we’re that different?”
There was a mocking tone in her voice, and for once I couldn’t tell—not for sure—if she was teasing me or having a laugh at my human frailty.
“Go back to that…dog
.”
Now the voice dripped contempt.

It did, however, remind me of whom I had left in the car. “Okay, then.” I released her small body. “But I won’t be out late. And I could use a consult.” It wasn’t simply flattery. Maybe she sensed it, because she drew herself up, wrapping her tail around her front paws, and didn’t complain when I reached to stroke her smooth striped head.

Spot was staring out the window when I got back to the car.

“Sorry about that.” It hadn’t gotten that cold, but I still felt bad about leaving him for what must have been close to fifteen minutes.

“Cat
.”
One syllable, that was it. I turned toward him, but he was staring out the window, at my house. Some things never change, I thought, and put my baby-blue baby in gear.

I got any additional proof I needed as I glided up Laurel Kroft’s drive. There, parked right in front, was Creighton’s unmarked car. It wasn’t a surprise, or shouldn’t have been. And I reminded myself that I had made my choice as I parked and walked around the car to open Spot’s door.

“Hunt?”
The query was more a general question than a specific request. I read it as the dog’s way of asking what was going on.

“No need.” I reached to stroke that broad head. I needed the comfort, even if he didn’t, and with that I walked Spot up to my rival’s front door.

“Dr. Kroft.” I nodded as she opened the door and handed her the lead. Spot stayed by my side even as she took it, and I tried not to think of the symbolism of that.

“Pru!” I didn’t need the extra emphasis in her voice to let me know she was gloating. But before I could turn to leave, I heard another voice say my name.

“Glad you made it,” said Creighton, stepping out from behind her. “I wanted to speak with you both.”

I bit the inside of my lip, nodding at him as Laurel held the door open. As she led the way into the living room, I allowed myself to imagine what Wallis would have done with that nubby cream sofa.

Spot, however, was a very different animal. Without any cue that I could catch, he trotted over to a small brown rug by the window and sat. Whoever ended up with him was getting a well-trained companion.

Which I wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination. Then again, that wasn’t a job I wanted. “So, what’s shaking?” I stared at my onetime beau. “Jim?”

Creighton hadn’t sat either, though he motioned for me to take my place by the lovely Laurel on the couch. She had sat, crossing those long legs. I didn’t, and he nodded, as if in confirmation.

“Hey, if you’re not going to tell me why you want me here, I’ve got clients to take care of.” That nod had pissed me off.

“Maybe one less than you thought, Pru.” That stopped me. “We’re not sure how this is going to shake out yet.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. Laurel, by my side, was staring at him with an intensity that demanded an answer.

Still, he could have kept us waiting.

“The dog,” he said, after only a short pause, “the one you’re training?” I nodded. He turned toward Laurel. “You own him?”

“I’m
fostering
him.” Laurel’s voice retained its control and warmth even as she corrected him.

“But you both know that he’s going to Richard Haigen, right?”

“I don’t think that’s been determined.” It was my turn to speak up. “I’ve begun to work with him, to see if he’s a good fit. Just because he could use a service dog doesn’t guarantee that he’ll get one.” I paused, thought about who Haigen was—or had been. “Or not this one.”

Creighton nodded, as if he’d heard what I’d left unsaid. “I don’t imagine Haigen misses out on a lot that he wants. Certainly, his wife doesn’t seem to think so.”

That was an eyebrow-raiser, and I waited for more. Laurel, however, was getting impatient.

“You may be making an invalid assumption, Detective.” I liked her for that, even if the formality seemed a little strained. “True, Mr. Haigen has more resources than many of us. However, that kind of bounty can make his growing disability feel even more unfair. As if he were being forced to pay some kind of karmic tax.”

“Oh?” Creighton looked faintly amused.

Laurel took the bait. “Yes, he’s rich. And, I gather, he can be difficult. But he’s dealing with a lot of change right now. Not just with his eyesight, but with the decision to relocate and disperse his staff. And, really, the routines formed between him and his wife were established ages ago. I’m not going to comment more on this, although I gather you observed something of an unhealthy dynamic. All I ask is that you keep in mind that he’s in pain.”

“His eyes?” Creighton started to speak, but Laurel waved him off.

“Psychically. For a man like Haigen, a man who has had everything—and who has surrounded himself with great beauty—to lose his eyesight is devastating.”

“Yeah, it’s not like he’s a working stiff.” I couldn’t resist. “Like a truck driver or someone who actually needs to see to make a living.”

“Pru?” There was a lift in his tone now. Creighton was enjoying this. Lucky for him, I had the bit in my teeth now.

“Richard Haigen is a spoiled brat. I’m sorry he doesn’t have anyone else around to yell at anymore, but he treats his wife like crap, and she takes it. I don’t know if it’s because he’s richer than Croesus, or because she likes it. Some women do. What I do know is that she’s devoted to him. And if she could put herself in a dog suit and follow him around all day, he wouldn’t need Spot here. But he does—or he’s going to, soon. And whether or not Spot ends up being that dog, he’s going to make someone a hell of a service companion.”

It was as long a speech as I’d made before either of them in quite a while. Laurel looked surprised, but Creighton was smiling. Which didn’t improve my mood.

“And so why, Detective, are you asking us about Haigen? And don’t tell me they’ve passed laws against rich guys being obnoxious. Not in this country, they haven’t.” I paused. “I’d have heard.” I didn’t really have an ending.

At least that made Creighton’s grin bigger. When he smiles really wide, he gets a dimple. I scowled, but that only made it more pronounced.

“What?” I was pissed now and striking out. “Are you going to tell us that a half-blind guy killed that woman, then drove her out to the woods to dump her body and try to make it look like an animal attack? Or was this supposed to be some kinky final exam to see if Spot is up to being his dog?”

“I don’t know, Pru, but we’re looking at the possibilities.” The smile was gone now, but the softness of his voice stopped me cold. “Because we’ve identified our Jane Doe, and she is someone you’ve both come in contact with. Certainly through your work with the dog, maybe somewhere else. That’s what I’d like to talk with you both about.”

I don’t know when it happened, but I could feel it. All three sets of eyes were on him now. Spot as focused as Laurel and I.

“The deceased has been identified as Mariela Gomez.” He paused, and I knew he was watching both Laurel and me for any reaction. Spot, on his rug, was eyeing him just as intently. “And we were all partially right about how she died. She was moved, and there is evidence of human involvement. However, the wounds are consistent with a wild animal attack. A large wild cat, to be precise.”