Dogs

by Nancy Kress

  The woman smiled at him, the first time he’d seen her do that. Five foot-six, maybe 140 pounds, a lot of muscle. She wore jeans, an open jacket, and a wedding ring. Jess would bet she was packing. Somehow she had that look.

  Latkin said, frowning, “I don’t think—”

  “No, it’s fine,” Joanne Flaherty said briskly. “Local law enforcement often recruits other branches of law enforcement during crises. The aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, for instance.” She seemed pleased, which disappointed Jess. It puzzled him, too. She seemed to want as big a show as possible—why?

  Jess turned to his brand new deputy. “Sheriff just pulled in. He can run your creds. Why are you ex-FBI?”

  “Quit. Personal reasons.”

  “You have to sign a liability waiver.”

  “Of course.”

  “You have any experience with dogs?”

  “Some.”

  That could mean anything. But she wouldn’t have to do much except help lift cages and take reports, riding with Jess or Billy. He looked at her again. Not a raving beauty, but pretty enough. She better not ride with Billy.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tessa Sanderson,” she said.

  INTERIM

  Deputy Chief of Staff Terence Porter looked up irritably from his desk in the West Wing of the White House. It was eight P.M. and he would have liked to go home, but the president was still working in the Oval and that meant everybody was working late. "Yes, Kathy?"

  “Joanne Flaherty is still waiting to see you,” his secretary said.

  “Who?”

  “Joanne Flaherty. You sent her out to Tyler this afternoon.”

  “Oh, right. Well…all right, show her in.”

  Flaherty bustled in. The deputy rose. “I’m sorry you had to wait, Joanne. We’re right in the middle of—well, it’s always something. You know,” he said, including her among those who knew, smiling wryly. The deputy was known for his charm.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she said cozily, and he remembered why he disliked her. “But I think you’ll want to hear what’s going on in Tyler. There’s a real opportunity here, Terry.”

  It was not her place to tell him what was an opportunity, and he had not asked her to use his first name. He folded his arms across his chest and waited. Oblivious, she told her story. When she finished, he said, “Well, that’s interesting. Thank you, Joanne, I appreciate your effort.” He smiled and sat down, busying himself with papers on his desk.

  “But…shall I go back to Tyler tomorrow?”

  “No, that’s all right. Good night, and thanks again.”

  Flustered and angry, she left. The deputy picked up the phone and asked to see the Chief of Staff. Ten minutes later he was shown into Hugh Martin’s office. “Hugh, something I think we should pay attention to. An opportunity.”

  “What’s that?” Hugh Martin, the president’s long-time friend and former campaign manager, had one of the best political minds of his generation. He could, the Washington whispers went, have gotten a chicken sandwich elected president if he’d really wanted to. The president’s detractors said that he already had.

  The deputy repeated Joanne Flaherty’s report on Tyler, adding, “This is a chance for FEMA to redeem its reputation a bit, after that piss-poor performance with…well, you know. Send Scott Lurie down there, protect citizens proactively, better safe than sorry. The locals themselves are recommending quarantine, I checked on that, and some are being deputized, which really lends credence to their wanting help. And if there is any terrorist involvement—"

  Hugh said sharply, “Any indication of that?”

  “Not that I know of. But I can check with the intelligence director.”

  “Do that. And check with the intel agencies separately, too—communication inter-agency still isn’t what it should be.” Martin rose. “You come with me.”

  “Now?”

  “He’s wrapping up in there. We’ll just take three minutes to brief him on Tyler, then I’ll make the calls.”

  The deputy straightened his tie, ran his hand over his hair, and followed Hugh Martin into the Oval Office.

  SATURDAY

  » 17

  When Cami Johnson woke early Saturday morning, having slept eleven hours straight, everything had changed.

  She turned on KJV-TV on the small television on her dresser. The station was doing a weather report. She switched to CNN, not expecting much, and saw with a shock that Janet Belville stood in the lobby of Tyler Community Hospital. Cami, near-sighted without her contacts, rushed to the screen and practically pressed her nose against it. Yes, that was the hospital lobby, the gift shop behind Janet, the reception desk, the bright arrows on the walls pointing to the cafeteria, to the lab, to the pharmacy. Two men in uniform took hold of Janet’s elbows and began walking her forward.

  “—forced to leave this emergency situation by FEMA, in control here in Tyler since six A.M. this morning. Although I want to emphasize again—” a camera followed her as she was eased toward the door “—that no one is actually leaving Tyler until the CDC has determined how contagious this pathogen may be, both to animals and to humans. "Nobody out," was the terse statement from FEMA critical-incident manager Scott Lurie. This is the same Lurie who came under heavy fire last year for his handling of—” The uniformed men pushed her through the door.

  Cami put her hand to her mouth. Scott Lurie, she vaguely remembered, was the head of FEMA, or maybe of Homeland Security. Or something. And Janet Belville was one of the CNN reporters who usually covered wars. And ‘Nobody out’? How bad was the situation at the hospital? Cami better get over there right away. This was supposed to be her day off but it sounded as if they were going to need all the ER help they could find. She threw on scrubs, ran a comb through her hair, and opened the bedroom door to go brush her teeth.

  Belle stood in the hallway, snarling.

  For the long moment before she slammed the door, Cami stood still, in shock. Belle! The gentlest dog in the world… Belle, infected and ready to attack!

  The gentlest dog in the world, but also the frailest. And Cami had a job to do.

  She yanked the quilted comforter off her bed, opened the door again, and threw the thick spread over Belle. The dog growled and thrashed, but she was old and arthritic and couldn’t get free. With one strong tug Cami rolled Belle over, hauled the quilt through to the bedroom, and closed Belle in. As she grabbed her car keys and purse, Cami could hear her pet working her way out of the comforter, barking and snapping. Cami ran out of the apartment. Belle had had access to food and water all night; she would be all right in the bedroom until Cami could figure out what to do next about her.

  But in the hallway she stopped at 2-B. Last night she really hadn’t explained the whole situation to Mr. Anselm—well, to be fair, she hadn’t known the whole situation. She still didn’t! But if he tried to go outside, walk to the store or anything… Cami knocked on the door.

  No answer. Had he already gone out? Oh, God, if he had just his cane and Captain…the police were rounding up dogs. They might even be euthanizing them. But it would be worse if Mr. Anselm had gone out with just his cane. He did that sometimes. Then he’d have nothing to warn him of any strays.

  Cami knocked louder. “Mr. Anselm! Are you there?”

  Still no sound from within. They must have both gone out. Maybe there was some clue as to where they’d gone, an empty milk carton in the sink or something. If she knew, she could try to find him before she reported in to work. Cami tried the doorknob; it turned under her hand. She opened the door and went in.

  Captain waited at his usual place just inside the door, his seeing-eye harness buckled on. Briefly he looked past Cami as a door opened somewhere in the corridor behind her and someone shouted. Cami herself barely had time to glimpse Mr. Anselm’s body, the throat torn out, before the German shepherd sprang onto her and she went down.

  » 18

  Tessa stood brushing her teeth in the living room, grimaci
ng around the toothbrush at the stupidity on the TV. Jess Langstrom wasn’t going to pick her up until 7:00 A.M. and it was only 6:00, but she couldn’t sleep. Last night it had taken the local cops two solid hours to clear her credentials, and by that time an exhausted Langstrom had gone home to sleep, which apparently he hadn’t been doing too much of. The delay in a critical situation was enough to make Tessa drastically lower her opinion of locals—not that the FBI hadn’t done the same thing too many times, God knows. In fact, the only people acting decisively seemed to be FEMA, who were erring in the other direction, for once. That idiot Scott Lurie had actually called Tyler “a possible act of terrorism.” Terrorism! Give me a break. There was no evidence of that, none whatsoever, and of the newscasts Tessa had scanned so far, only Janet Belville of CNN seemed to acknowledge and recognize that fact.

  FEMA, of course, was simply exploiting this mutated virus, or whatever it was, to counterbalance their dismal performance in last year’s California earthquake. But Tessa had been watching TV for an hour and had heard no contradictions from the FBI. CIA, Homeland Security, or the White House. Bernini and Maddox must be tearing their eyes out at being muffled like this.

  The problem with working counter-terrorism, Tessa had long since learned, was the tendency to see anything that happened in terrorist terms. An Amtrak train hits a cow and derails—was it a “deliberate disruption of transport”? Was that top adviser’s suicide actually an assassination? She knew of CT agents who suspected that levees breached by a hurricane were the work of al-Qaeda.

  “What do you think, Minette?” Tessa asked the toy poodle, who stared at her disdainfully and walked to the front door to be let out. Tessa scooped her up and carried her, protesting, to the back door. They slipped outside, where Minette piddled and shit before immediately being carried back in.

  Tessa had no fear of Minette’s being infected. Since coming to Tyler three weeks ago, Minette had had zero interaction with any other dogs, not even so much as a friendly butt sniff. Unless this thing were airborne, of course, in which case the entire country was in deep trouble indeed. But nothing Tessa had seen, read, or pried out of Jess Langstrom indicated that.

  She still had nearly an hour until he showed up. Tessa meditated briefly and unsatisfactorily, then checked her email. Still no reply from Salah’s second, unknown correspondent. Maybe she could have his or her original email translated from Arabic. She printed it out, finishing just as Jess’s truck pulled up. Tessa shoved the paper into her jeans pocket and ran outside.

  “Morning,” Jess said grimly. He looked a little better than last night, but not much. Weariness shadowed his eyes and deepened the lines from nose to chin. He hadn’t shaved and his beard, darker than the thick salt-and-pepper hair on his head, gave him the disreputable look of a parka-clad pirate. He had a nice voice, though, deep and calm even when he sounded grim.

  “Good morning,” Tessa said. “What’s on the agenda?”

  “FEMA’s here, setting up a quarantine around the whole town.”

  “So I saw on CNN. Why do you look so disapproving? I thought it was your idea.”

  “It was. But I wasn’t envisioning this kind of circus.” He started the truck. “It’s like they’re deliberately fanning the panic.”

  “They are,” Tessa said. “It’s a political opportunity.” He didn’t know that? “FEMA consistently comes under fire for focusing on terrorism at the expense of natural disasters. Lurie will try to change that perception by playing this dog thing for all it’s worth.”

  Jess shrugged. “If you say so. Today I have new orders. We’re not just answering calls anymore, we’re picking up every single dog in Tyler township and bringing them in. That’s 1,402 dogs, according to the dog licenses issued last year. Here, take the list of addresses, courtesy of our town clerk.”

  “People are just going to hand over their pet dogs?”

  “Some are, some aren’t.”

  “Who else is going to help collect all those dogs? And where are you going to put them all?”

  Jess waved at a passing cop car. “This Scott Lurie has brought in teams of dog handlers, animal control officers, vets, and qualified temporary deputies. We start by taking all the animals to the motel, and then they get them ferried to wherever after that.”

  “You have 1,402 crates?”

  “Well, not on me,” Jess said, but he didn’t smile. “FEMA’s getting them, I guess. They’re getting whatever they want. And now they’re jawing about this being a terrorist attack.” He glanced sideways, as if to see the effect of this on her.

  “I know,” Tessa said.

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  She said quietly, “I was an FBI agent.”

  Maybe he picked up her tone—Don’t ask me any questions—because he said nothing until they turned down a long driveway bordered by trees. Then he changed the subject. “Dr. Latkin told me this morning that there’s a new symptom. The infected dogs are developing a sort of milky film over both eyes. He thinks it means the pathogen might be affecting the endocrine system that affects the tear-duct system, or something like that. I didn’t quite get it all, but we’re supposed to watch out for milky eye films even if the dogs act normally.”

  “Okay,” Tessa said. “Are the dogs actually going blind?”

  “I don’t know. Anyway, the strategy is for the pick-up teams to start at the edges of town and work inward, to keep animals from escaping.”

  The house at the end of the long driveway was impressive: stone and brick, three stories, covered with dormant ivy. Jess said, “Mr. and Mrs. James Gorman. A male Lab and a female Irish setter.”

  Tessa said, “I’ll bet they’re named Brandy and Whiskey. Rich people like to give their dogs alcoholic names.” Jess laughed reluctantly.

  Mr. and Mrs. Gorman were both home and neither was happy. “Are you here about this ridiculous rule that if I go to my office I can’t return to Tyler tonight?” James Gorman demanded. He wore a business suit and carried a briefcase, standing in his black-and-white-marble foyer as if already in his office.

  “No, sir, we’re from Animal Control,” Jess said. “We’re required to take temporary custody of your two dogs until further notice. The animals will be well cared for, unharmed, and returned to you as soon as it’s safe.”

  The Gormans exchanged stupefied looks. Tessa wondered what they’d thought the two wire cages sitting on the porch were for. Mrs. Gorman, a carefully groomed blonde still in her housecoat, said, “Take Schnapps and Applejack?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jess said.

  “Now, see here—” Mr. Gorman began, but Tessa interrupted him.

  “By order of the president of the United States, Mr. Gorman.”

  He stopped protesting, glared at her, and stomped off. Jess shot her an admiring glance: Where did you learn to do that? She said again, “I was an FBI agent,” behind the Gormans’ retreating backs.

  Mrs. Gorman said over her shoulder, “Come this way, please.” Her tone had faded from outraged to distant, as if Jess and Tessa were two more routine workmen, plumbers or refrigerator repairmen.

  The dogs were in a guest room on the first floor. Jess went in with padded gloves and face mask, but neither animal seemed infected. They wagged their well-groomed tails at Jess, and dog biscuits lured them easily into the wire crates. Jess tagged the cages and carried them to the truck while Tessa filled out the paperwork. She would have bet her Smith & Wesson that someone at FEMA had invented this form overnight and run off a few thousand copies on a photocopier someplace. Emergency situations tended to generate paper, like a bonfire throwing off sparks.

  “That was easy enough,” she said to Jess as the truck pulled away, Schnapps and Applejack content in the back.

  “They won’t all be,” he said, his face grim. “You can assist at the next stop but not at the one after that. You stay in the truck on that one, Tessa.”

  In a pig’s eye. She wasn’t here to sit in a truck.

  So why was
she here, other than the purely patriotic desire to help out her country in a time of natural disaster, yadda yadda and so forth?

  “Jess, do you happen to read Arabic?”

  He shot her an incredulous look. “Arabic? No. Why would you ask that?”

  “No reason,” she said.

  » 19

  Allen was good at sneaking into rooms and listening to his parents before they realized he was there. It was the only way he ever learned some important things. Like, when his Aunt Nicole died at college from a drug overdose, Allen’s mother didn’t even tell him for two days and then she said Aunt Nicole was hit by a car. You couldn’t trust grown-ups to tell you the truth about anything.

  So now he stood in the kitchen in his pajamas, hand on the refrigerator door so he could say he just came downstairs for a glass of milk, and listened to his parents in the dining room.

  “Don’t go, Peter,” his mother said. “The office can do without you for one day! If you leave, they won’t let you back into Tyler, and Allen and I will be here all alone!”

  “You’re overreacting again,” Allen’s father said coldly. “You and Allen are in no danger as long as you stay indoors and out of the basement until the authorities come for the dog. I’m needed at the office, even though once again you’re dismissing my importance to the firm…I wish you would stop that, Amy. It’s I who supports this family, after all.”

  “But if—”

  “I can stay overnight at Tim’s if I have to, or find a hotel.”

  “Are you sure it’s Tim you’d be staying with?” Allen’s mother said in her dangerous voice. But the words barely registered on Allen. “Until the authorities come for the dog"! They were going to take Susie away somewhere, maybe kill her like they did to sick dogs at the pound!

  His father said, “That was uncalled for, Amy, and I think you know it. I told you that other thing is all over. If you don’t choose to believe me, that’s your problem.” A moment later, the front door closed.