Dogs Read Free Page A

years, and she was always such a sweet…she’s old, too! Nearly eleven! She attacked Jenny and bit her neck and face and…I tried to get her off. Princess just wouldn’t let go. Then Sue tried and I ran out to my car and got my gun from the glove compartment and shot Princess. We called 911 and an ambulance came and—I have to go!”
    â€œOf course you do,” Jess said. “Just three more fast questions, sir. Do you have a license for that gun?”
    â€œYes!”
    â€œWas Princess up-to-date on her rabies vaccinations?”
    â€œYes!”
    â€œAnd where is the dog’s body now?”
    â€œInside!”
    Billy, making Jess’s promised three questions into four, said, “Can we go in? Do we got your permission?”
    â€œYes!”
    Jess and Billy mounted the steps. Jess could get the rest of the information he needed from 911, county records, and Tyler Community Hospital.
    The kitchen matched the outside of the house: tasteful, ersatz Early American. Copper pans hanging overhead, farmhouse table, pie safe in distressed oak. Princess lay on the kitchen floor, a hole in her side, blood and tissue spattered over the faux plank floor. Jess could imagine how the scene had looked last night, everybody screaming, the little girl’s head in the dog’s jaws. He pushed the picture away.
    Billy said, “Funny.”
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œFemale golden retriever, nearly eleven years old, spayed, no sign of foam on the mouth, winter months…she don’t fit the profile for a biter.”
    This was true. Male dogs were six times more likely to bite than females, unneutered more likely than neutered. Among serious bites, over half were inflicted by pit bulls, Rottweilers, and German shepherds. Even the season was unusual; most bites happened between April and September. The only thing that fit the profile was that fifty percent of all dog attacks were on kids.
    Jess said, “What do you make of it?”
    â€œDon’t make nothin’ of it,” Billy said cheerfully. “I’m no vet. Let’s get a tarp and get this ol’ girl out of here. Doc Venters is gonna want a look at this one.”
    They went back outside. Daniel Kingwell had not left for the hospital after all. He stood slumped by his car, his cell phone in his hand, the tears freezing on his face in the morning winter air.

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    If you are an FBI agent, you cannot marry an Arab.
    This was not official policy. No one at the Bureau would publicly endorse it, advocate it, or admit it. Cowards , Tessa thought as she parked downtown in an overpriced, nearly full commercial lot. She’d lost her parking privilages at the Bureau, of course, when she quit.
    She’d lost a lot of things in the last three months.
    In December, Salah had been killed by a drunk driver who failed to navigate DuPont Circle at midnight. No covert international plot to terrorize agents by knocking off their spouses: the scared and achingly remorseful drunk had been a seventeen-year-old celebrating his high school’s basketball win. His blood alcohol level was 0.12. Nonetheless, the Bureau had investigated, and had come up empty. Tessa believed it. Salah had not even been Muslim. He was a lackadaisical Catholic, a convert during the long, expensive Parisian education provided by an old and rich Tunisian family who had cooperated with the West since the French ruled North Africa.
    They’d met while Tessa was on vacation in Greece, a ten-day tour sponsored by the Smithsonian. He’d spotted her in a taverna, asked her to dance, and made off with her heart. This was something no one had done in thirty-five years. Tessa usually went very slow with men, postponing the inevitable, messy end so as to savor the sweet beginning. It was different with Salah; everything was different with Salah. She danced with him, made love with him, and ran every possible deep-background check on him, his family, and