Dogs Chapter Two THURSDAY             Tessa Sanderson was awakened by the phone.  She glanced at the clock: 6:30 a.m.  Well, the alarm would have gone off in half an hour anyway.  Sleepily she groped for the receiver.  Probably it was Ellen, her sister often called too early, Ellen’s infant son got her up at some God-awful hour…but maybe Tessa had better check the caller I.D. anyway.  There were so many people she did not want to talk to.             Caller I.D. said the call was from the Hoover Building.             Immediately Tessa snatched her hand off the receiver.  No way.  No more condolences calls, no more re-hashes about why she quit, no more arguments with Maddox, her former boss.  No more.             Now she was irreversibly awake.  Minette, the world’s most spoiled toy poodle, was curled tight against Tessa’s thigh and growled as Tessa pushed aside the blankets.  Minette was supposed to stay on her own dog pillow at the foot end of the bed, but she never did.  When Salah had been alive…             None of that.  No self-pity.             Tessa padded into the kitchen of her new house and put on the water for coffee.  It was important, she had decided, to stick to a routine as much as possible.  A routine filled the days, accomplished worth-while goals, kept her from firing her Smith & Wesson into her left temple.  A routine, as Ellen pointed out every morning, was vital to a regulated life.  Ellen was big on regulation.  Tessa was big on getting through the day in one piece.             The phone rang again.  The FBI once more, but this time Bernini’s direct line.  Ellen stared at Caller I.D.  The Assistant Director himself, at 6:30 in the morning?  Didn’t seem likely.  Bernini had already made his condolence call, lacking either the courage or the foolhardiness, or maybe just the grace, to show up at Salah’s memorial service.  Of all the FBI personnel Tessa had worked with until her resignation, only two field agents and the secretaries had attended the funeral.             Tessa let the phone ring until the answering machine picked up.  “This is 240-555-6289,” her own voice said.  “Please leave a message.”             “Tessa, this is John Maddox.  I very much need to talk to you.  It’s not about any of the things you think it’s about.  Please pick up.”  Pause.  “Tessa, pick up.”  Longer pause.  “I’m going to keep trying, so please call me this morning.  It may be urgent.”             And if that wasn’t a typical Maddox message, Tessa would eat her new living room rug, which sat still rolled on her new hardwood floors.  As she prepared her coffee, Tessa dissected the message, getting angrier with each mental point.             Point one: “It’s not about any of the things you think it’s about.”  How the hell did Maddox know what she thought his message was about?  Did he think that she assumed the message was about her resignation from the Bureau three weeks ago, after she’d been passed over yet again for promotion despite a sterling record in counter-terrorism?             Damn right she assumed that.             Or did Maddox think she assumed her non-promotion was due to her late husband’s ethnicity?  Salah Mohammed Mahjoub, citizen of Tunisia until she’d met and married him in Paris.              Damn right she assumed that, too.             Point two: “Tessa, I’ll keep trying.”  He’d have his secretary keep trying, long-suffering Mrs. Jellison, the Rosemary Woods of her generation.  Maddox would sit in his office and go on with his work until Mrs. Jellison said, “Mr. Maddox, I’ve got Agent Sanderson on the line.”  By then he might even have forgotten that he’d wanted Tessa.             And for what?  Point three: That “It may be urgent.”  What a weasel word, “may.”  Anything may be urgent under the right circumstances.  A lemon drop may be urgent if it’s stuck in your trachea.  Tessa was no longer interested in Maddox’s lemon drops.             She sipped the last of her coffee, put the cup in the sink, and opened a living room window.  Cold February air rushed in, bracing and sweet.  Tessa liked winter if it wasn’t too cold, and Maryland had been having a mild run of sunny days in the 40’s.  The window looked out on a small back yard, the first Tessa had ever owned, edged with what the realtor had promised would be lilacs.  Now, however, they were just more bare bushes, looking curiously naked and vulnerable.  There were also what the realtor promised would be lilies-of-the-valley, but Tessa planned on digging those up.  They could poison a small dog.  Tessa, who’d never before lived outside a city, had carefully researched all floral threats to Minette. Beyond her yard and the little town of Tyler rose the Appalachian foothills, dull green with pine, crowned with snow.  Somewhere up there Maryland turned into West Virginia.             In T-shirt and panties, Tessa got down on her meditation mat on the hardwood floor, assumed the lotus position, and faced the brass statue that was the first thing she’d unpacked.             The phone rang again.             Breathe in, breathe out…             “This is 240-555-6289.  Please leave a message.”             Breathe in, breathe out…             “Tessa, John Maddox again.  Listen, I need you to pick up.  Now.  We just received a second classified report.  There’s a lot of intelligence chatter, and it’s very specific.”             Breathe…             “It includes your name, and your late husband’s.”             Slowly Tessa turned her head toward the phone.             “If you don’t pick up, I’m sending two agents out there to bring you in immediately.”             Tessa got up off her meditation mat and picked up the phone.

Copyright ©2008 Nancy Kress