3 Panthers Play for Keeps by Clea Simon

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    “Careful… ” I saw his black nose twitch, but I relaxed. It takes a discerning creature like Wallis—who knows me well—to separate out the signals I’m sending from the ones she—or he—wants me to hear. Spot had picked up that I was listening to the birds and squirrels, and these had been startled by our arrival. He was echoing back. Interpreting. Nothing more.
    Either he got that too, or he reached the conclusion by himself, because he started on again, going a little more slowly as we went deeper into the woods. The silence was almost complete here; the deep leaf cover, damp and soft, muting any sounds our feet would make. Even some of the larger animals—I got a sense of a possum and at least three nesting raccoons—seemed to be holding their breath. It was a little too much for one human and one good-sized dog to have provoked, and I felt the hairs along the back of my neck go up.
    “Spot?” I voiced the question this time, even though my mouth had gone dry. “What is it, Spot?”
    How could I have been so careless? We weren’t the largest predator in these woods. Creighton might have his doubts, but something had savaged that woman.
    Spot had stopped, and I came up to him. Better that we should stay close together: one big creature instead of two smaller ones. Me standing and tall with Spot by my side made a less appealing target for a hungry predator.
    “Gone .”The one word had me breathing again. Of course, he had never forgotten what we were dealing with here. “This way .”
    I let him lead me a few hundred feet farther, and then waited as he sniffed some leaves. They could have been the ones cradling the body we’d found. To be honest, with the changing light and the sameness of the brown leaf bed, I wouldn’t vouch for it.
    “She was here?” I reached tentatively for Spot’s head. I wanted the contact, but I also didn’t want to kneel down, to make myself look lower or smaller, just in case he was wrong.
    “Here, I found her .”Of course, the scent remained. The body, however, had been removed only after we’d gone.
    With that confirmation, it was easier to see the signs of Creighton and his crew. Some of the leaves seemed to have been raked; they were probably taken for further analysis. One of the trees seemed to have had some bark scraped away, although whether that was done intentionally by the cops or by some photographer backing into a damp oak was anyone’s guess. But while Creighton’s people would have taken anything that a human would consider a clue, I had another tool at my disposal. Now that we weren’t facing a dead body—or an angry detective—I could give Spot his head.
    He didn’t need a prompt, and as soon as I let the lead out again, he began investigating, nose to the ground, ears pitched forward as if to capture more of the scents and the scene.
    “What is it, Spot? What do you get?”
    More sniffing. Leaf mold. Something warm, with charcoal fur. A mole? A squirrel? Then—bingo!—he was on it. Blood, fresh enough, and suddenly the images started pouring forth. Fear, acrid as smoke. Pain just as sharp. More pain. Blinding pain and sounds—not human. Or, well, not that of a rational human anymore. Then the rip and tear of teeth. Huge teeth. The warmth of blood and then…cold silence.
    When the images faded, I realized I was leaning back on that oak, panting as if I’d just been chased. So this is how Spot saw the world? I looked down, a little dazed, to see the shepherd mix looking up at me.
    “I smelled that here .” Yes, I’d gotten that. But there was something more. “In the blood, here .”
    And I remembered. Yes, those emotions—the fear, the pain—they might well remain in the blood when it was spilled. It didn’t mean the attack, for there was no other word for it, had happened here. Had it?
    Spot looked at me and tilted his head. It was a complex question, one I wasn’t sure how to phrase. I thought of a woman, here in the woods,