Fear on Four Paws

by Clea Simon

  I licked my lips and eyed the storage room door. Doc Sharpe had already hinted that he’d seen something unusual in me. I didn’t need him to know any more. Still, locking the door would be suspicious.

  I was stalling. Afraid of—I wasn’t sure what. And that’s not who I am. And so I took a breath and reached out, grabbing the leather of the muzzle with both hands.

  Move! It hit me right away, that nightmare feeling of panic, when you want to run but you can’t. It was physical, as much confusion as fear, and it dawned on me. The bear had been drugged when Greg put this muzzle on. Half-awake at best, and unable to process what was happening. Well, so much the better, then. The panic I had gotten at first would be muted—softened by the soporific effects of the tranquilizer.

  What I needed was something deeper. Access to the bear’s memory, some trace of what had happened left in the saliva. Gripping the leather tighter, I closed my eyes and asked, as I would the animal himself: “What happened? What did you see?”

  Black. I got nothing. The drugs, I thought. Or maybe too much time had passed. And then—noise? Yes, noise. A roar of unfamiliar sound adding to the bear’s disorientation. Greg’s truck? Albert’s? No, another vehicle, its engine well maintained. But over that sound were voices. Talking normally and then, yes, dropping lower. One wheedling, almost a whine. Asking for what, I couldn’t tell. Only the other wasn’t having it, and they both grew louder until one silenced the other—a command? A fight? Was one hunter directing the others, or was I eavesdropping on Paul Lanouette’s last moments? It was all too distant, too foreign to the bear. And he was growing so sleepy. The voices too faint and far away.

  “Pru?” I jumped, but it was only Doc Sharpe, standing in the open doorway.

  “I’m sorry.” I could feel my cheeks flame as I dropped the muzzle back onto the counter. “I was just heading out.”

  “I’m glad I caught you, then.” He looked over to where my cell phone lay blinking beside the folders. “Mrs. Felicidad was trying to reach you. She says you don’t have to come over. Someone’s already found her cat.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “These people are certainly careless with their pets.” The words were out of my mouth before I had a chance to process. The expression on Doc Sharpe’s face reminded me that they were, perhaps, inappropriate.

  “I’m sorry.” Doc Sharpe was a good guy—and always on my side. “It’s just that I seem to be getting a lot of calls for pet rescues that turn out not to be necessary, and all from the other side of the cobble.”

  “Really?” Brushy white eyebrows bunched together like duelling woolly caterpillars.

  “I didn’t mean that they were negligent…” That was exactly what I meant, actually. But no way did I want the good vet to think I was badmouthing clients.

  “No, I’m…concerned.” He chose the word with care. “So many of those residents are new to the area, and it must be very different from what they know.”

  His brow cleared as he looked up at me. “This might be an opportunity for you, Pru. You lived in the city. You might be able to talk to these people. Perhaps offer a seminar, here, after hours.” He cleared his throat, usually a sign of embarrassment or discomfort. “I’ll find financing for it, of course. Maybe you could sound out the community? Gauge what interest there might be?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t see it, not really. But I did want an excuse to head back over to the new development. Something odd was going on—and, besides, I wanted to see Sage again, as well as Reina.

  But Doc Sharpe’s requirements weren’t all busywork, and once the urgency had been removed, I made myself useful. Before I took off, I gave the vet a hand with a squirmy puppy. It helped that I could commiserate with the poor pup’s discomfort. Passing the toy truck—eaten in haste the day before—was necessary, but not fun. I also picked up some of Pammy’s duties, grooming new arrivals with a flea comb. With high summer coming on, an infestation could spread fast. I also sat with the new couple, ostensibly guiding them through the care and feeding of the tabby littermates they’d be taking home. But while I had, in fact, led them through Feline 101—gently explaining the benefits of keeping their new pets inside, both for the cats and for the area wildlife—I was also doing my best to sell the couple to the tabbies.

  “They mean well,” I’d said. “But they may need some training.” Cats don’t mind condescending, as long as they’re asked politely.

  All the while I was in the back, I kept my eyes open for that father and his son. I was pretty sure Doc Sharpe would pick up on the dynamic between them, even once that bruise had faded, and he was in a good position to notify children’s services if he thought there was abuse. Physical, that is. I had no doubt that poor child was not being loved or appreciated the way he should be. But when they didn’t come back—as they would have to if, in fact, they were surrendering the dog, I dared to hope. Maybe I’d scared the father. Maybe the boy would be able to keep his pet—his ally. Maybe I wouldn’t have to drag that man in for the punishment he deserved.

  By the time I was finished with my duties and had washed up, Pammy was ready to go. The waiting room was empty. Even if it hadn’t been, her posture—back to the door, phone at her ear—signaled that County was closed.

  “We’re open till five.” I breezed over to her desk. She looked over her shoulder, her usual pout puckering further as I reached for the papers on her desk. “In case you forgot.”

  “Can I help you?” Her tone did not invite an answer.

  Not that I cared. “Yeah, there was a man here with his son. They were supposed to leave their phone number and address for me?”

  A snort, which must have sounded worse to whoever was on the other end of that phone call, and she retrieved a pink Post-it. I was too busy deciphering the childish scrawl to catch what she said next. But when I looked up, she was mouthing something to me. “Good luck,” it might have been, though as I walked away, I realized she was more likely to be saying, “he’s mine.”

  “Charming,” I said to nobody in particular, once I was out in the fresh air. The grackles had their own family drama going on. Someone was really ready to fend for himself, and his parents were squabbling over how to give him the proper push. They must have sensed the fox lurking nearby. Nobody wants their offspring to be in danger—at least, nobody besides us humans—but at some point, we all have to go solo.

  That boy, though—he wasn’t ready. Even as I drove, the wind bringing a multitude of voices in with the breeze, I found myself thinking of his haunted face, his shadowed eyes. Creighton had hinted at marriage and a family, back when he thought we might settle down. I’ve never been keen on the idea. There are too many of us on this planet as it is, and I can think of a dozen species that deserve our space. That didn’t mean I wanted the children already born to suffer. I’d do what I could for him, much as I would for any kit or pup endangered by some brute of a man.

  I’m not good at compartmentalizing. That’s one reason Wallis can read me so easily. I made the effort, though, as I pulled once more into the new development. Susan Felicidad might not think she needed my assistance any more, now that her cat had been found. But there were just too many pets going missing over here on this side of the cobble. I wanted to find out why.

  “Ms. Felicidad?” I parked at the curb, where the starter trees were already high enough for the robins to have nested, and greeted the dark-haired woman kneeling by a flower bed. I could already hear the demanding mew of her pet—“do your job!”—coming from inside the screened front door. “I’m Pru Marlowe.”

  “Miss Marlowe.” The woman turned and rose with ease. A sprigged poplin shirt, with the folds still fresh from the package, and jeans with a crease on a muscular body nearly as tall as mine. But when I extended my hand, I saw that hers were gloved. In one, she held a small spade, in the other what might have been a dandelion. I’m not good with plants. “How nice.” She remo
ved one glove and extended a hand free of rings. Her manicure, I noticed, was short and workmanlike, and her voice was calm. “But—you got my message?”

  “I did.” I nodded toward the house. “And I hear that someone is home safe.”

  “Of course, safe. Safe!” A loud near-caterwaul. The unseen feline might have been echoing me, but I thought it more likely that he was also alerting me that this was his territory—the feline equivalent of “don’t come near here, there’s a guard cat on duty.”

  “Yes, Spot seems to be angry with me.” The brunette deposited the weed in a bag I hadn’t noticed, and brushed off her knees. “Usually, I’d let him out while I work.”

  “Ah, maybe that’s the problem?” I scanned the profusion of foliage and flowers, all things that my mother would have been able to identify—and would have sweat over, during her days off. The result looked like a landscaping portfolio, but it was still only yards away from the woods. When I turned back toward my new acquaintance, I saw her eyeing me curiously. “Not that it’s not a gorgeous garden.” I’d get to cat care later.

  “Thank you.” She turned to survey the plants once more. “This is why I moved here. Now that I’m retired, I wanted to be able to get my hands dirty again.”

  I smiled. My mother would have liked that. What I didn’t say was how rare that was—especially in this neighborhood. Though as I followed her up to the house, I couldn’t help wondering. She seemed young for retirement, and also fit, but still… “Do you ever hire anyone to help? I mean, with the heavier work?”

  “What heavy work?” She turned to scan the yard, as if the idea were new to her. “Well, maybe I will in winter, if we get the snow we’re promised. I’m a widow, you see.”

  “Good idea.” I didn’t comment on her marital status. I doubted any of the husbands in this section of town would shovel their own snow. It didn’t matter. I’d find a good service to recommend. Not Ronnie and his buddies.

  “So, who do we have here?” The cat waiting inside the screen door stared up at me expectantly, his serious mien accentuated by the black spots ringing the base of his white ears.

  “Yes?” He lashed his black tail once in acknowledgment, but as I crouched beside him he bristled slightly. Most people must immediately reach out to stroke the big, black patches on his creamy back, but I knew better, and he relented when, instead, I presented my palm.

  “Pru Marlow.” I muttered under my breath. He sniffed, cataloguing the animals at County—and the scent of Wallis beneath them all.

  “Bunbury Bandersnatch.” The answer came back with all the dignity a feline can muster. “At your service.”

  “Bun—” I caught myself. “Spot looks to be in good shape.”

  “Bun?” This woman was sharp. I would have to be careful. Luckily, she chuckled, rather than waiting for an answer. Up close, I could see the lines around her dark eyes, but Susan Felicidad wasn’t much older than I was. “I like it. I might have to start calling him Bun. Short for Bunny, of course.”

  I nodded, forcing my own smile while silently apologizing to the feline at our feet. Spot was a stupid name, despite his cow-like markings. But what kind of pet person changes her animal’s name once it is grown? Sure, pets accrue names throughout their lives—but, as T.S. Eliot once remarked, the naming of cats is a serious matter.

  “It matters not.” Bunbury dismissed the affront with another flick of his tail. “All part of the gig.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. “You know, it might not be the best idea to let a house cat out around here.” I considered the placid feline face. “Of course, some cats can be taught to walk on a leash.”

  I got a flicker of interest from the cat. Part of the gig? I wondered if Wallis saw me as more of a responsibility than a companion.

  “Well, I don’t know.” Susan Felicidad regarded us, a touch of humor playing around her lips. “I do like having him around me, but it seems sort of unnatural. I mean, isn’t it?”

  “Depends on the cat.” I watched as the serious feline turned to take in his person. “But then you wouldn’t have to worry about him getting lost.”

  “I was worried,” she echoed back at me, the fear obviously past. “But it all worked out.”

  “Would you tell me what happened?” My query was to the cat as much as his person. But the stately feline wasn’t giving me much more than the woman. “Please?”

  “Inspecting the perimeter.” That’s not what Bunbury said, of course, but that was the intent. I smelled the perfume of freshly turned earth, and the small burrowing creatures who had been in it, at the yard’s edge. “Doing my job.”

  “And you—he—got lost?” I modified my question to appease the woman standing above me.

  “Please!” I had offended. I reached forward, both to make my amends with a friendly rubbing of the ears and to strengthen the connection. “No!” The cat reared up slightly, lifting a white forepaw as if he would strike me. “Hands! Stranger!”

  “I’m sorry.” It didn’t take my gift to know that it was time to back off, and so I did, taking a step back to stand by Bunbury’s person.

  “And I told the young man how grateful I was.” She’d been talking, I realized.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The young man who found him.” She laughed. “I gather Spot ran off—probably thought he was protecting me from something.”

  “Hands!” The cat at my feet grumbled, and I had to wonder. Maybe he was.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Have you gotten to know your neighbors?” We were outside, walking around the block by then. I had snapped a spare lead on Bunbury’s collar and he was taking it rather well. Professionally, almost. “Part of the gig.”

  “Some,” said the woman beside me, her long legs setting a pace that I’d use with an energetic dog. “They seem like nice people, though I was hoping it would be easier to get to know them. You know, outside of the city.”

  “Oh?” I turned toward her, and immediately caught myself. I should have been focusing on the cat. This wasn’t a casual stroll; it was a first training session. And although it is important when leash-training a cat to be aware of his or her human, even when that human is distracted—or being gently interrogated by a total stranger—it is even more essential for the trainer to stay focused on the animal. A cat is more likely than a dog to get tangled up in a leash, for example, and that could lead to trouble.

  As if reading my thoughts, Bunbury leaned forward, mouth open, as he took in the scent of—could it be?—a wild turkey who had crossed the yard. Yes, I got the trace of feathers and leathery feet, as the feline filed away the sensory perception. Turkeys were a new phenomenon for the city cat. But even as he bent again, cataloguing the dinosaur-like creature’s traces, he also picked up a small stick, which wedged itself into his collar and which, with proper feline hauteur, he ignored.

  I made a mental note to tell the dark-haired woman at my side to get a breakaway collar for any future walks. I doubted she would bother. There was something distracted about her. And although that fit with her pet’s custodial air, I silently apologized to the spotted cat, even as I watched to see if his human companion would notice his plight.

  “I don’t mean that in a negative way.” She knelt to pick the twig from the cat’s collar, almost as if she had picked up on my anxiety. Well, preoccupied then, if not distracted. “Just—I thought people might be more open out here. Let their hair down, if that makes sense.”

  “Yes, I think it does.” She was lonely, I figured. Maybe hoping to snag another husband, out here in this moneyed enclave. Well, that’s how some women survive—and she was younger and more fit than many of her neighbors.

  “In fact, if you know of any—” Before she could follow up, I put out my hand to stop her. “Wait,” I said, holding onto her arm.

  The questioning expression on her face matched her cat’s so cl
osely I could have laughed. But this wasn’t only my aversion to setting up my clients. This was work. “Call him,” I said.

  “But he’s…” A nod. She understood. “Spot!”

  “Yes?” Bunbury’s ears pricked up in acknowledgement. And before I could stop her, Susan Felicidad threw the stick. She had a good arm—all that digging in the dirt—and it went flying, end over end, just topping a boxwood hedge that had been sculpted within an inch of its life.

  “Shall I?” The cat watched with curiosity, and then began trotting toward the hedge as Susan played out the lead behind him. Bunbury, looking for all the world as if mimicking a dog’s role was—what was his expression?—all just another “part of the gig” made me laugh. The scenting, the retrieval: I’ve known doggish cats in my day, and even Wallis liked to fetch at times, but this cat could out-canine most of the pups I worked with. I was about to comment—I had a feeling the woman beside me didn’t know what an unusual cat she had—when it hit me.

  “Come on!” I didn’t wait, but took off after the feline. Responsive and responsible. The master of his territory until now—

  “What is it?” Susan called, even as she ran, the extra length of lead dragging behind her. I had no time to come up with an excuse. All I knew was that I had sensed danger—a deadly threat. I tore around the hedge—and I saw it. A tall, older man, blinking wide-eyed in surprise, an expression mirrored in the posture of his dog, a husky whom he held on a tight leash as the spotted cat stared up unafraid into his wide, furry face.

  “Good, Bun—Bunny.” I exhaled, shaking, as I scooped up the unprotesting cat. “Good cat.”

  At that he turned, with a blink that called my judgment into question. “All is well,” I repeated, and his eyes half-closed with satisfaction.

  “Oh! Oh, my.” Susan Felicidad had caught up. She took the scene in quickly and took the spotted tom from me, squeezing him tightly enough to induce a slight huff of protest. “When you took off…”