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better,” Jimmy said. “C’mon, let’s play Nintendo.”

INTERIM
    The man in the Dodge Caravan lit a cigarette and rolled down the mini-van’s window. Night air rushed in. Above, the stars glittered, pinpricks of cold light, barely visible above the bright floodlights of the hospital parking lot.
    Another ambulance raced past him on the approach to the Emergency Room,  followed by a car driven wildly by a distraught woman.
    A few minutes later, another racing car.
    Then another ambulance.
    The man finished his cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray. He rolled up the window, started the engine, and he left the parking lot, then the town.
    He smiled. His work was done here. And it was good.

FRIDAY
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    Early Friday morning a huge van followed by three cars arrived in Tyler from the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, rolling into town like a miniature, very antiseptic rock tour.
    â€œMusta driven all night,” Billy said to Jess as they stumbled into the town hall for the emergency meeting called by the mayor. “Pretty damn quick.”
    Billy was right, Jess thought—and why was the response that fast? The CDC didn’t investigate infections unless invited by local governments. Somebody must know somebody, and one of the somebodies was in a tearing hurry.
    Jess wished he felt that energetic. He and Billy had gotten maybe three hours sleep each. The frantic dog bite reports had poured in all day yesterday, then fallen off by evening as the word spread and people isolated their dogs in basements, garages, and laundry rooms. Throughout the deserted streets of Tyler echoed a background howl and barking. School had been canceled for the day, and many businesses had not opened. Tyler was a ghost town populated only by trapped dogs.
    But not all pets had been inside when their owners heard about what whole neighborhoods were now calling “the dog plague.” A few dogs roamed the street, and Billy and Jess had spent the night following up on reports of vicious strays, reports of attacks, and at least one more death. There had even been a dog killed by an infected dog; a Malamute had killed a Jack Russell Terrier, sixty pounds lighter, that had been valiantly trying to defend its yard. Animal control officers had been recruited from nearby towns. All sheriff’s deputies were on the streets.
    And so far nobody had any answers. Maybe this meeting would provide some.
    The Tyler Town Hall was an historic brick building housing the town court, tax office, county clerk, and various miscellaneous municipal offices, none of them large. The building’s utilitarian interior didn’t match its lovely neo-Georgian exterior. Mayor Hafner held his meeting in the empty court, a bleak space with Congoleum floors, folding chairs, and a raised dais for the twice-weekly court sessions, most of which featured traffic tickets. Anything serious was handled at the county seat.
    Except that this was serious.
    â€œI’d like to welcome our guests from the CDC,” said Lou Hafner, who owned Hafner Lumber. A big, rumpled, genial man, he and Jess occasionally went fishing together. Jess liked him but didn’t have a high opinion of his intelligence or administrative skills. Those weren’t what got you elected small-town mayor.
    â€œLet me take a minute to introduce everybody,” Hafner continued. “Dr. Joseph Latkin from the CDC, an epimed…epidemiologist and his, uh, team. Jess Langstrom and Billy Davis, our animal control off—”
    â€œWe’re not really here,” Billy said, “just stopping by on our way to another call.”
    â€œWell, uh—” the mayor began, but the CDC doctor cut in.
    â€œI’d like at least one of the animal control officers to stay. They’re the ones with the most direct information on the dogs’ behavior, and we’ll need to ask them questions.”
    Jess said to Billy, “You go on.