3 Panthers Play for Keeps

by Clea Simon

  I let it lay. “You said you wanted to speak with me?” I had questions of my own, but if I were lucky, his would negate any need to ask.

  “Uh, yeah.” I saw him spell out the word “eggs.” It took a little effort. “You’re working with that special dog program now, right?”

  “Yeah.” This wasn’t what I’d expected, but I waited. I didn’t think the regional service-dog association would have any use for Albert, but I was curious.

  “You think they might, you know, have a dog for me?”

  I felt my eyebrows go up. Albert is not the sharpest tool in the woodshed. Nor the most attractive. He does not have any obvious impairments, however, beyond his personality. And as his presence behind that desk made clear, someone had judged him fit for full-time employment. Granted, Albert was more old school dog catcher than modern animal-control officer, but he served a purpose.

  “What are you thinking about, Albert?” Maybe he had a health issue. Considering his diet and apparent disdain for exercise, it was possible.

  “I was thinking it would be useful to have a dog who could, you know, help with my duties.”

  “Your duties?” Albert’s mandate entailed rounding up unwanted or nuisance animals. After that, I was the one who usually dealt with them—either relocating them, as I had a troublesome raccoon a few months ago, or finding some other way to repair the ruptured human-animal bond. The unloved pets, they were harder to deal with—largely because of the people involved—though Doc Sharpe and I did what we could, which usually meant working to place them in better homes.

  “Yeah, you know. If there’s a wild animal I have to take care of.” He was doodling now, and Frank was eyeing the pencil eraser with a covetous glance. “Like, something I have to track in the woods.”

  “You want a hunting dog, Albert. Not a service dog.” This was my opening. “But what kind of animal are you talking about? Has someone said something to you?”

  He shrugged, but kept hold of the pencil. I didn’t think Creighton would confide in this shaggy bear of a man. For better or worse, though, Albert was part of Beauville’s bureaucracy. Not even my alpha dog lawman could keep him entirely out of the loop.

  “I heard some of the guys talking, over at Happy’s last night.” Of course. Creighton might not hang at our local dive—for at least the part of the night he’d been with me—but some of the crew he’d brought out yesterday did. “Heard there’s something out there. A man-killer.”

  “Woman-killer is more likely.” The words slipped out before I’d thought them through, but when Albert looked up—startled—I realized I might as well take advantage of the moment. “Those guys get any kind of ID off her?”

  I tried to sound nonchalant. Not like I’d just asked the same question of Creighton. I got the same answer: a shake of the head. Considering that it was Albert I was dealing with, I was willing to believe he honestly didn’t know.

  “Kind of funny, isn’t it?” I didn’t want Albert to see my frustration, so I kept talking—and held out another pencil for Frank to play with. Not that I wouldn’t sympathize, but it wouldn’t help matters if the little beast gave up and bit Albert in frustration. “I haven’t seen any wildlife reports of a nuisance animal, have you?” Officially, the state reports are available to all animal welfare professionals. In reality, I have no standing—and no means of getting access to them.

  “Of a mountain lion or whatever it is? Nuh-uh.” He shook his head vigorously. “That’s what’s so spooky. No warning, just…whoosh…like a ghost in the night. Like those lions in Africa? The mankillers? They get a taste for human flesh, you know.”

  “We don’t know that’s what happened.” Now it was my turn to fight frustration. “Very few animals kill humans by choice.” It had been a while since I’d studied the big cats, but basic animal behavior is pretty much the same the world over. “We’ve pushed into their territory. We’re the intruders. But—”

  I stopped, unsure of how much I wanted to share with the shaggy man before me.

  “We don’t even know if that girl was killed by a mountain lion, Albert.” I didn’t tell him she’d been moved. Or that Creighton wouldn’t have been so curious if the death was a simple case of person-meets-panther.

  He was shaking his head. “Deputy Johnson said she was, for sure,” he said. “Joe Carnovy did, too.” He looked up at me. “They had to look for evidence around the body, you know, before the medics took her away? They said it was pretty obvious. She had claw marks all down her front, like from an angry cat. Joe said she looked like this.” He faked a rictus. It wasn’t attractive. “Like it was really bad.”

  “Great.” Whether or not this was true, it wouldn’t make my job any easier. I’m for moving nuisance animals, not killing them, and I had the law behind me. Cougars were protected. However, a lot of contingencies would allow for an animal to be destroyed. If there were a public outcry, the best I could hope for was that the damned cat had moved on.

  “Watch out!” Distracted, I’d quit wiggling the pencil, and Frank had grabbed it. I smiled and pulled on it slightly, the better to give him a bit of a tussle. “This isn’t a game.” Those agile paws clasped the pink rubber of the eraser and his teeth bit down. But the dark button eyes remained on mine. “And big cats aren’t the only killers out there.”

  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 tha
t 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 som
eone’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.