by Clea Simon
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 opene
d 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.”
Chapter Twelve
If Creighton had wanted to shut us up, and I wouldn’t put it past him, he couldn’t have done much better. Mariela Gomez. No wonder she’d looked familiar. When last I’d seen her, she was wearing a gray uniform that did what it could to play down some significant attributes. Mariela had been the pretty maid, the one who’d been working so hard to bring the Scotch, get more ice, where’s the water, even as her boss sat there, all chummy with his buddy, acting as if his legs were going, along with his eyes.
At the time, I’d felt bad for her. Felt bad for the wife, too, but Mariela was getting a lot less for her services. I’d wondered about the buddy, too. The one who seemed ready to take care of all of Richard Haigen’s rich-man problems. In retrospect, I had to wonder if those problems might have included the wife. Dierdre might not have had much more clout in that household than Mariela the maid, but she had the ring—and some kinds of women are not made to be alone. Mariela was younger than Dierdre. Mariela seemed to be trying harder. Now Mariela was dead.
So was the room. Even Spot seemed to look up with what passed for surprise, though given his sharp nose, surely the quiet canine had surmised the source of those wounds long before.
For me, Creighton’s bombshell was interesting, but only a starting point. I had my questions about the relationships in the Haigen household, but I wasn’t ready to start accusing anyone of homicidal jealousy. Glass houses, and all that. Besides, I was here in a professional capacity.
“Are you sure about the wounds?” I broke the silence first, focusing in on the one area I have some expertise with. “I mean, as the cause of death? Because animals, even large predators, will scavenge. If something found her and was hungry…” With my eyes on Jim, I felt, rather than saw, Laurel cringe. I didn’t even take a moment to gloat: this was too serious.
“You want the whole rigmarole, Pru?” Creighton shook his head. “Coronary failure due to blood loss? Yeah, the woun
ds we saw were the cause of death. The coroner sent some slides over to Tufts,” Creighton said. “He wanted a vet to look at them. Teeth. Teeth and claws is what we’ve heard. Consistent with a moderate-size wild cat.”
“Did the vet say what kind?” I was wondering how much DNA would be left in those wounds. Maybe we had a migrant. That Connecticut cougar had been traced back to the Dakotas.
“She didn’t.” I sat back at that. At least the so-called expert wasn’t jumping to conclusions. Creighton waited a moment, then seemed to make a decision. “We’ll get more in a few days,” he said. “But the vet confirmed what you said, Pru: There’ve been no verified reports of any large wild cats in the state. Not in years. And there’s still the question of how she got there, so we’re still looking at human involvement.”
“Maybe…” Laurel sounded tentative. “Maybe someone was trying to rescue her? To get her away from…something?”
Creighton shook his head.
“But why would someone move her?” Laurel’s voice had gone breathy, and not in a good way. I wondered if this talk of death and killing was too much for her. It was a happy thought. “I mean…after?”
“Sometimes predators will drag their prey.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “They’ll take a body to a safe location, a cache of some sort. To keep it safe from other animals.”
I heard her swallow. “Even some of the smaller omnivores will gnaw at a body.” I was trying to think of examples, just for the fun of it, when Creighton broke in.