Fear on Four Paws

by Clea Simon

  There were no easy answers. Any relocation was largely guesswork, and I trusted Greg to know his field. And while there was an off-chance that my sensitivity might help the creature, once he was uncaged, to find his footing, so to speak, that wasn’t why I was so eager to tag along. No, I had my own questions, and I was hoping that before he lumbered off into the trees, the black bear would be willing to answer them.

  “Pru!” I saw Greg by the side of the road, leaning against his truck, before I heard him. He waved and I pulled onto the shoulder. “Climb aboard.”

  Leaving my GTO, I joined him in the cab. I didn’t like leaving my car by the side of the highway—the engine alone constituted most of my savings—but the racing suspension wasn’t made for the forest track I could make out under the spreading green. And as we bumped and rolled over the roots and rocks, I began to sense that I wasn’t the only one with concerns.

  “He’s awake?” I turned to peer into the back. A tarp covered the cage, but I could sense the beast within waking and struggling to get to his feet in the enclosed space.

  “Somewhat.” Greg kept his eyes on the pitted track. “I didn’t want him to be too out of it to take care of himself once we let him go. But, for the ride…”

  I got it. A wide-awake and frightened bear could hurt himself. Plus, we had to take care that we could leave the scene of the release unharmed, too.

  After another half hour of bouncing, Greg pulled up. I didn’t question his choice of site. Greg’s occupation involves knowing at least roughly where bears have denned in previous years and where older animals have died or been removed. The clearing looked pretty good to me. Old-growth trees, a few that had fallen in the winter storms, made for interesting topography—or at least some good back-scratching posts. I vaguely recalled that a stream ran through close to here, too. All in all, a perfect place to be a young bear—even if just as a starting point for his rambles.

  It was a good thing the bear had been sedated. Greg’s truck had a power lift, but we still had to do some shoving and pulling to get it set up, and the mechanical whine of the machinery had the forest on alert. To Greg—to any normal human—it probably sounded peaceful. The birds, in particular, had dropped their incessant—and often inane—chatter while they figured out what was going on. But there were other creatures besides the avian kind out there, and I was getting a constant barrage of questions—a kind of cosmic what? What? What?—as we maneuvered the cage and its sleeping occupant into place. Considering what we were doing, and what we were about to release, I did my best to stay open to the signals I was getting. I wasn’t sure what I could do if I picked up another male bear in the area, but it couldn’t hurt to be on guard.

  “Earth to Pru.”

  I turned, blinking. Greg was smiling, even as he pushed his dark hair back to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  “Sorry.” I smiled back. Greg’s the polar opposite of Creighton. Dark where my regular squeeze is sandy, with the hair at his collar line suggesting a pelt not unlike the sleeping bruin, Greg is barely taller than me, with the kind of build that could appear fat if he were wearing a suit. In t-shirt and jeans, though, his muscle showed, under a sheen of sweat.

  I made myself turn away. I don’t owe anyone anything, but Beauville is a small town. Besides, we were out here for a reason.

  “You ready?” Greg had already told me how this would work. He wanted me well back, near the truck if not in it, before he lifted the cage gate. He’d be behind the cage himself, ready to bang on the metal backing in case the creature was slow to move. I knew the rifle by his side was loaded with bean bags, rather than shot, in case the bruin came toward us, but I didn’t like it. More to the point was the emergency kit by his feet, complete with a heating pad, bandages, and more of the heavy-duty drugs that had been used to tranquilize the animal. If the bear had any trouble—if he got tangled up or was in medical distress—Greg would be ready to handle it.

  What he didn’t know, and what I couldn’t tell him, was that I needed to be close to the drowsy beast, too. Not that I’d be of much help if there were trouble. My sensitivity doesn’t work that well on truly wild beasts, and I suspect any attempts I made at calming the bear would simply feel invasive or, worse, threatening. I didn’t even have my knife, in case he got caught up in the ropes. But I was hoping the bear could tell me—show me, rather, in his memories—just what had happened the other day, I was going to have to get close to him. He was going to be freed, one way or another. But a man was dead, and another man—for lack of a better word—was going to face the consequences.

  “Let her rip.” I had stepped back toward the truck, but as Greg began to pull on the release that would lift the door, I came forward. Quietly so as not to alert the man, I reached out with my mind, trying to phrase my questions in as basic a way as possible.

  “What did you see? What happened? Show me?” It was no use. The hum and worry of the surrounding creatures was overwhelming me, filling me with their confusion and concern. “What did you see when the net fell on you?”

  Clang! I jumped. But it was no memory. Greg was glaring at me from the other side of the cage.

  “Pru, what the hell?” The bear, who’d begun to wake, appeared as startled as I was by the slamming gate.

  “Sorry.” I considered my own outstretched hands. For all the world, it must appear as if I’d wanted to touch the bear, which now struggled to its feet. “I guess I got carried away.”

  His dark brows lowered, Greg stared at me until I retreated once more to stand by the open cab door.

  “Cave…” The word, more an image, really, came to me, and I realized I was seeing the world as the bear did. The idea of a trap was foreign to him. But a camouflaged net, covered in leaves and debris…

  “How did you get here?” I muttered the query, all the while staring at the bear’s black hide.

  “Rock—rock fall?”

  I didn’t know if he was hearing me, or simply working to make sense of his drugged hours in captivity.

  “Them?”

  I blinked as it hit me: a wave of fear, as unexpected as a thunderclap. I struggled to stay upright as the blackness around me slowly gave up a sense of smell and then, yes, color and shape. This was it, I understood as my pulse began to slow, the bear’s experience in what must have been a traumatic moment as the net came slamming down, pinning him to the ground. The shapes were vague, colors distorted from what you or I would see. But three things—vertical and bright—stood out.

  They were people, I realized with a start, their clothes and coloring setting them off from the woods beyond. Three figures, which meant that Albert had not been alone with Paul—not at this point. I strained to differentiate them. It was hard: to the bear, they all stank like Albert. But then I caught their outlines. Albert, with his beard; his buddy Ronnie, nearly as fat but pink-cheeked; and one figure—taller and lighter—the ill-fated Paul. All three stood there, staring, as the net came down, and then a sudden dull pain in his hindquarters before sleep made the scene go dark.

  “There he goes.” The image broke, as I looked up to see Greg staring in wonder as the bear made his way into the woods. Ungainly, at first, he seemed to shake off the tranquilizer with each step, until he was loping into the shadows. “Beautiful creature.”

  Greg turned to me, and although he still affected a scowl, I could see his good humor had been restored.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I said, feeling my face grow warm. “Truly.”

  “I get it,” he responded, a slight huskiness coming into his voice. “The attraction.”

  I could only nod and turned away. That’s when it hit me. The bear’s memory. He had seen the three men—our local layabouts, Albert, Ronnie, and Paul—before the tranquilizer dart hit. He hadn’t had time to peer behind him as the drug kicked in. To see whoever had shot him—a fourth person, whoever it was, must have set the trap.

>   Chapter Thirteen

  “So what are you up to, Pru?” Greg asked as we bounced back toward the highway. He had been all business as we packed up the cage, rifle, and emergency supplies that, luckily, we’d not had to use. I’d been so preoccupied with the riddles that the bear had presented, I’d been lost in thought.

  I’d suspected Ronnie had been out there. He and Albert were two peas. Fat, soused peas. But although Ronnie was no saint, it’s a far cry from being lazy and a bit of a sleaze to being a killer. Then again, that had been my automatic defense of Albert, too. And while I didn’t know what had gotten Paul killed or even how, being inept wasn’t much of a defense.

  I was sorry then that I hadn’t had more time with the bear. That one memory—the moment of realizing he was trapped—was etched in his mind. If I’d been able to focus, I might have seen more. Might have seen what had happened next. Or even—and this was the question I kept coming back to—who that fourth man was.

  I stared at the greenery around me, hoping to read the answers there. But all I got was the frantic housekeeping of some jays and squirrels. And as the tree cover thinned, Greg’s question brought me back to my day ahead—and to the hunk beside me.

  “The usual.” That was no answer, and I knew it. Whatever my interest in Greg, he was a friend and a valuable professional contact. “I’ve got cat-care appointments, and a dog that I’d like to follow up on. She got lost yesterday, and her owner didn’t want to bring her for a checkup.” I stole a glance at Greg as he drove.

  He nodded. He knew how I made my living. “But in the larger sense. I mean, down the road?”

  “Am I going to get my degree, you mean?” Until I figured out how I felt, it made sense to assume his curiosity was professional. Besides, Greg knew that I’d come this close to finishing my master’s, the next big step in being certified as an animal behaviorist. “I don’t know.”

  “You could get certified in wildlife rehab.” He glanced over briefly, correcting as the truck hit a rock. “Come work with me, at least part-time.”

  “And poach on your territory?” I chose the word intentionally, hoping to raise a smile, but the man beside me was serious.

  “I’ve got more than enough to do, and the district could use someone like you. We’re going to be posting an opening soon. Officially, it’s for an assistant warden, but…” Another look, this one a little longer. “You’ve got the best natural rapport with animals I’ve ever seen. They don’t seem to be frightened of you.”

  I swallowed. This was getting a little close to home. When my sensitivity first manifested itself, I’d thought I was going nuts and had ended up checking myself into a psych ward. After my three-day stay was over, I swore I was never going back, and a large part of that was pretending to be as normal as the next girl. Problem was, I was as susceptible to a good-looking man as the next girl, too, and Creighton had already picked up on something unusual between me and Wallis. If Greg did too, that meant I was less good about covering it than I’d thought—or growing more lax with time.

  I knew I was never going to voluntarily check myself back into a psych ward again. I really didn’t want to have to worry about anyone else making that decision for me.

  “There I am.” As I struggled to find the right words, we broke through the trees to where my ride sat waiting. I couldn’t help a chuckle of relief. Saved by the car. “And there she is.”

  His eyebrows went up at that, but he pulled up beside the GTO without further comment.

  “Thanks, Greg.” I was out of the cab almost before he’d come to a full stop. “I appreciate you letting me ride along. And…I’ll think about what you said.”

  With that, I slapped the door behind me and nearly ran to my car. I could see him in my rearview, staring after me, as I gunned the engine and headed back toward town.

  The talk about my future had one effect. I’d been thinking of dropping by Ernest Luge’s place and checking on his Chihuahua. Animals are great at hiding their hurts—an injured animal is a vulnerable one, so it’s a self-protective mechanism—and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the little dog was showing delayed reactions to her misadventure. But I also had to admit I wanted the older man as a client. He had an active animal and, seemingly, the money to pay for her care. If he needed anything from a dog walker to some informal training to keep the little gal from running off, I could do us all some good.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised to see a familiar battered pickup turning into the same development. The pine tree logo on its side belonged to a slightly older—and less ritzy—condo development further down the hill. Ronnie called himself the development’s manager, but his duties there were largely custodial. They also gave him access to the mower and other equipment bouncing around the truckbed, which I was sure were intended for use only on the condo grounds.

  “Hey, Ronnie.” Once he’d parked, in front of a McMansion with a lawn like a golf course, I pulled a U-turn and glided up beside him. “Doing a little freelance?”

  “What?” The chubby janitor nearly jumped out of his skin, and I realized then that he’d been wearing earbuds. “Pru, I didn’t see you.”

  “I gather.” I leaned out my window. Sure enough, the same pine tree logo emblazoned on the truck had been stenciled on the mower. “The condo association know you’re here?”

  “You going to report us?” The voice at my passenger window caught me unaware.

  “Larry Greeley.” I showed my teeth. I don’t like being frightened, and the lanky man—Larry had to be six-four—leaning over my car would scare anyone. “I should have known that Ronnie here lacked the initiative to hustle for extra work.”

  “Like you belong here?” His sneer revealed his bad tooth, chipped and gray. “What’d you come back to this town for, anyway?”

  I should explain, Larry and I have a history. Growing up here, I was as bad as either of these two jokers. Even before my dad left for good, I began to take after the old man. As soon as I’d hit my teens, I was going full out—and all my mother’s attempts at discipline only made me wilder. Larry had been close to my ex, Mack, one of the crew picked up for joyriding back in the day, and I knew he thought I got off light. Granted, the boys were probably roughed up more than I was, but then, they didn’t have my mother waiting at home. And while Mack and I shared some good memories, Larry clearly harbored a grudge.

  My return had only added to it, with a healthy dose of small-town resentment. I’d escaped—I’d thought I was “better” than Beauville, as he’d put it—while he’d been stuck here, labeled a loser from the get-go. His smirk, damaged as it was, showed exactly what he thought of me, begging for scraps on the rich side of town, same as he was.

  I felt as vulnerable as that Chihuahua, only I knew to hide it.

  “I’ve got a trade, Larry.” I kept my voice calm as I looked up at that crooked grin. “A profession. You know, something other than mowing lawns? Who you working for, anyway?”

  He scowled. At least it obscured the tooth. “You think you’re so smart. But I’ve got something going on, too.”

  That was interesting. “Yeah?” I let him hear my doubt. A man like Larry wouldn’t be able to resist showing off.

  “Uh, Larry?” Before he could respond, we were interrupted. “Uh, help?” It was the thunk of metal, more than the plea that prompted him to turn. Ronnie was behind the truck, wrestling with the mower. With a sneer at me—and enough hesitation to make his point—Larry went to help his shorter, rounder colleague. Something else going on? I’d have to warn Luge to lock his doors, with these two around.

  “Larry?” Ronnie is big, but not with muscle. “I think this is stuck.”

  “Hang on.” With a glare that wasn’t nearly as scary as that tooth, Larry stepped back, banging on the roof of my car for good measure. I waited to see that he really had climbed into the truckbed before driving away. I’d tell Luge to warn hi
s neighbors, too.

  “Miss Marlowe, good to see you.” I hadn’t thought to call first, but Ernest Luge was home. From the excited barking I heard from behind him—“Who? Who? Who?”—so was the dog he called Sage. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Thank you.” For a city person, Luge was very trusting. Then again, many of our vacationers mistake Beauville for Eden, only with mosquitoes. “I should have called to explain why I wanted to come by.”

  He nodded, and—I hoped—took the hint. “It’s about Sage, isn’t it?”

  “Is she okay?” I caught my breath. That bark had sounded happy and welcoming, but the little dog could have been masking. “Are you noticing any ill effects?”

  “No, none at all.” A grin split the lined face. “But you were worried about her, I could tell.”

  “I was,” I admitted. Either I was slipping or the men in my life were a lot more perceptive than I’d given any of them credit for. “You see, after an incident, an animal may have a delayed reaction...” As I followed his slow progress into his frosty house, I outlined the basics. “And so when you said you didn’t want Sage to be checked out...” I left it open, as he motioned me toward an overstuffed sofa.

  “Of course.” He nodded as he carefully settled into a velvet recliner. As soon as he’d put his cane aside, the little dog rounded the corner with a scrabble of claws and leaped to his lap. “That’s what Sage told me.”

  “Sage told you?” I was turning into a parrot. I turned from his face to his pet’s. Sage was panting from the run, but her big eyes seemed clear. Joyful even, matching the waves of contentment emanating from her small frame. “Is he right?” I formed the question in my mind, just to be sure. “Are you healthy? Are you well?”