Under the Dome

1

Scarecrow Joe wasn’t up early; he was up late. All night, in fact.

This would be Joseph McClatchey, age thirteen, also known as King of the Geeks and Skeletor, residing at 19 Mill Street. Standing six-two and weighing one-fifty, he was indeed skeletal. And he was a bona fide brain. Joe remained in the eighth grade only because his parents were adamantly opposed to the practice of “skipping forward.”

Joe didn’t mind. His friends (he had a surprising number for a scrawny thirteen-year-old genius) were there. Also, the work was a tit and there were plenty of computers to goof with; in Maine, every middle school kid got one. Some of the better websites were blocked, of course, but it hadn’t taken Joe long to conquer such minor annoyances. He was happy to share the information with his homies, two of whom were those dauntless board-benders Norrie Calvert and Benny Drake. (Benny particularly enjoyed surfing the Blondes in White Panties site during his daily library period.) This sharing no doubt explained some of Joe’s popularity, but not all; kids just thought he was cool. The bumper sticker plastered on his backpack probably came closest to explaining why. It read FIGHT THE POWERS THAT BE.

Joe was a straight-A student, a dependable and sometimes brilliant basketball center on the middle school team (varsity as a seventh-grader!), and a foxy-good soccer player. He could tickle the piano keys, and two years previous had won second prize in the annual Town Christmas Talent Competition with a hilariously laid-back dance routine to Gretchen Wilson’s “Redneck Woman.” It had the adults in attendance applauding and screaming with laughter. Lissa Jamieson, the town’s head librarian, said he could make a living doing that if he wanted to, but growing up to be Napoleon Dynamite was not Joe’s ambition.

“The fix was in,” Sam McClatchey had said, gloomily fingering his son’s second-place medal. It was probably true; the winner that year had been Dougie Twitchell, who happened to be the Third Select-man’s brother. Twitch had juggled half a dozen Indian clubs while singing “Moon River.”

Joe didn’t care if the fix was in or not. He had lost interest in dancing the way he lost interest in most things once he had to some degree mastered them. Even his love of basketball, which as a fifth-grader he had assumed to be eternal, was fading.

Only his passion for the Internet, that electronic galaxy of endless possibilities, did not seem to pall for him.

His ambition, unexpressed even to his parents, was to become President of the United States. Maybe, he sometimes thought, I’ll do the Napoleon Dynamite thing at my inaugural. That shit would be on YouTube for eternity.

Joe spent the entire first night the Dome was in place on the Internet. The McClatcheys had no generator, but Joe’s laptop was juiced and ready to go. Also, he had half a dozen spare batteries. He had urged the other seven or eight kids in his informal computer club to also keep spares on hand, and he knew where there were more if they were needed. They might not be; the school had a kick-ass generator, and he thought he could recharge there with no trouble. Even if Mill Middle went into lockdown, Mr. Allnut, the janitor, would no doubt hook him up; Mr. Allnut was also a fan of blondesinwhitepanties.com. Not to mention country music downloads, which Scarecrow Joe saw he got for free.

Joe all but wore out his Wi-Fi connection that first night, going from blog to blog with the jitter-jive agility of a toad hopping on hot rocks. Each blog was more dire than the last. The facts were thin, the conspiracy theories lush. Joe agreed with his dad and mom, who called the weirder conspiracy theorists who lived on (and for) the Internet “the tinfoil-hat folks,” but he was also a believer in the idea that, if you were seeing a lot of horseshit, there had to be a pony in the vicinity.

As Dome Day became Day Two, all the blogs were suggesting the same thing: the pony in this case was not terrorists, invaders from space, or Great Cthulhu, but the good old military-industrial complex. The specifics varied from site to site, but three basic theories ran through all of them. One was that the Dome was some sort of heartless experiment, with the people of Chester’s Mill serving as guinea pigs. Another was that it was an experiment that had gone wrong and out of control (“Exactly like in that movie The Mist, ” one blogger wrote). A third was that it wasn’t an experiment at all, but a coldly created pretext to justify war with America’s stated enemies. “And WE’LL WIN!” ToldjaSo87 wrote. “Because with this new weapon, WHO CAN STAND AGAINST US? My friends, WE HAVE BECOME THE NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS OF NATIONS!!!!”

Joe didn’t know which if any of these theories was the truth. He didn’t really care. What he cared about was the expressed common denominator, which was the government.

It was time for a demonstration, which he of course would lead. Not in town, either, but out on Route 119, where they could stick it directly to The Man. It might only be Joe’s guys at first, but it would grow. He had no doubt of that. The Man was probably still keeping the press corps away, but even at thirteen, Joe was wise enough to know that didn’t necessarily matter. Because there were people inside those uniforms, and thinking brains behind at least some of those expressionless faces. The military presence as a whole might constitute The Man, but there would be individuals hiding in the whole, and some of them would be secret bloggers. They’d get the word out, and some would probably accompany their reports with camera-phone pictures: Joe McClatchey and his friends carrying signs reading END THE SECRECY, STOP THE EXPERIMENT, FREE CHESTER’S MILL, etc., etc.

“Need to post signs around town, too,” he murmured. But that would be no problem. All of his guys had printers. And bikes.

Scarecrow Joe began sending e-mails by the dawn’s early light. Soon he’d make the rounds on his own bike, and enlist Benny Drake to help him. Maybe Norrie Calvert, too. Ordinarily the members of Joe’s posse were late weekend risers, but Joe thought everyone in town would be up early this morning. No doubt The Man would shut down the Internet soon, as He had the phones, but for now it was Joe’s weapon, the weapon of the people.

It was time to fight the power.

2

“Fellas, raise your hands,” Peter Randolph said. He was tired and baggy-eyed as he stood in front of his new recruits, but he also felt a certain grim happiness. The green Chief’s car was parked in the motor pool parking lot, freshly gassed and ready to go. It was his now.

The new recruits—Randolph intended to call them Special Deputies in his formal report to the Selectmen—obediently raised their hands. There were actually five of them, and one was not a fella but a stocky young woman named Georgia Roux. She was an unemployed hairdresser and Carter Thibodeau’s girlfriend. Junior had suggested to his father that they probably ought to add a female just to keep everybody happy, and Big Jim had concurred at once. Randolph initially resisted the idea, but when Big Jim favored the new Chief with his fiercest smile, Randolph had given in.

And, he had to admit as he administered the oath (with some of his regular force looking on), they certainly looked tough enough. Junior had lost some pounds over the previous summer and was nowhere near his weight as a high school offensive linemen, but he still had to go one-ninety, and the others, even the girl, were authentic bruisers.

They stood repeating the words after him, phrase for phrase: Junior on the far left, next to his friend Frankie DeLesseps; then Thibodeau and the Roux girl; Melvin Searles on the end. Searles was wearing a vacant going-to-the-county-fair grin. Randolph would have wiped that shit off his face in a hurry if he’d had three weeks to train these kids (hell, even one), but he didn’t.

The only thing on which he hadn’t caved to Big Jim was the issue of sidearms. Rennie had argued for them, insisting that these were “levelheaded, Godfearing young people,” and saying he’d be glad to provide them himself, if necessary.

Randolph had shaken his head. “The situation’s too volatile. Let’s see how they do first.”

“If one of them gets hurt while you’re seeing how they do—”

“Nobody’s gonna get hurt, Big Jim,” Randolph said, hoping he was right. “This is Chester’s Mill. If it was New York City, things might be different.”

3

Now Randolph said, “‘And I will, to the best of my ability, protect and serve the people of this town.’”

They gave it back as sweetly as a Sunday School class on Parents’ Day. Even the vacantly grinning Searles got it right. And they looked good. No guns—yet—but at least they had walkie-talkies. Nightsticks, too. Stacey Moggin (who would be pulling a street shift herself) had found uniform shirts for everyone but Carter Thibodeau. They had nothing to fit him because he was too broad in the shoulders, but the plain blue workshirt he’d fetched from home looked okay. Not reg, but it was clean. And the silver badge pinned over the left pocket sent the message that needed sending.

Maybe this was going to work.

“So help me God,” Randolph said.

“So help me God,” they repeated.

From the corner of his eye, Randolph saw the door open. It was Big Jim. He joined Henry Morrison, wheezy George Frederick, Fred Denton, and a dubious-looking Jackie Wettington at the back of the room. Rennie was here to see his son sworn in, Randolph knew. And because he was still uneasy about refusing the new men sidearms (refusing Big Jim anything ran counter to Randolph’s politically attuned nature), the new Chief now extemporized, mostly for the Second Selectman’s benefit.

“And I will take no shit from anybody.”

“And I will take no shit from anybody!” they repeated. With enthusiasm. All smiling now. Eager. Ready to hit the streets.

Big Jim was nodding and giving him a thumbs-up in spite of the cussword. Randolph felt himself expand, unaware the words would come back to haunt him: I will take no shit from anybody.

4

When Julia Shumway came into Sweetbriar Rose that morning, most of the breakfast crowd had departed either for church or impromptu forums on the common. It was nine o’clock. Barbie was on his own; neither Dodee Sanders nor Angie McCain had shown up, which surprised no one. Rose had gone to Food City. Anson went with her. Hopefully they’d come back loaded with groceries, but Barbie wouldn’t let himself believe it until he actually saw the goodies.

“We’re closed until lunch,” he said, “but there’s coffee.”

“And a cinnamon roll?” Julia asked hopefully.

Barbie shook his head. “Rose didn’t make them. Trying to conserve the gennie as much as possible.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “Just coffee, then.”

He had carried the pot with him, and poured. “You look tired.”

“Barbie, everyone looks tired this morning. And scared to death.”

“How’s that paper coming?”

“I was hoping to have it out by ten, but it’s looking more like three this afternoon. The first Democrat extra since the Prestile flooded in oh-three.”

“Production problems?”

“Not as long as my generator stays online. I just want to go down to the grocery store and see if a mob shows up. Get that part of the story, if one does. Pete Freeman’s already there to take pictures.”

Barbie didn’t like that word mob. “Christ, I hope they behave.”

“They will; this is The Mill, after all, not New York City.”

Barbie wasn’t sure there was that much difference between city mice and country mice when they were under stress, but he kept his mouth shut. She knew the locals better than he did.

And Julia, as if reading his mind: “Of course I could be wrong. That’s why I sent Pete.” She looked around. There were still a few people at the counter up front, finishing eggs and coffee, and of course the big table at the back—the “bullshit table” in Yankee parlance—was full of old men chewing over what had happened and discussing what might happen next. The center of the restaurant, however, she and Barbie had to themselves.

“Couple of things to tell you,” she said in a lower voice. “Stop hovering like Willie the Waiter and sit down.”

Barbie did so, and poured his own cup of coffee. It was the bottom of the pot and tasted like diesel… but of course the bottom of the pot was where the caffeine motherlode was.

Julia reached into the pocket of her dress, brought out her cell, and slid it across to him. “Your man Cox called again at seven this morning. Guess he didn’t get much sleep last night, either. Asked me to give you this. Doesn’t know you have one of your own.”

Barbie let the phone stay where it was. “If he expects a report already, he’s seriously overestimated my abilities.”

“He didn’t say that. He said that if he needed to talk to you, he wanted to be able to reach out.”

That decided Barbie. He pushed the cell phone back to her. She took it, not looking surprised. “He also said that if you didn’t hear from him by five this afternoon, you should call him. He’ll have an update. Want the number with the funny area code?”

He sighed. “Sure.”

She wrote it on a napkin: small neat numbers. “I think they’re going to try something.”

“What?”

“He didn’t say; it was just a sense I got that a number of options are on the table.”

“I’ll bet there are. What else is on your mind?”

“Who says there’s anything?”

“It’s just a sense I get,” he said, grinning.

“Okay, the Geiger counter.”

“I was thinking I’d speak to Al Timmons about that.” Al was the Town Hall janitor, and a regular at Sweetbriar Rose. Barbie got on well with him.

Julia shook her head.

“No? Why no?”

“Want to guess who gave Al a personal no-interest loan to send Al’s youngest son to Heritage Christian in Alabama?”

“Would that be Jim Rennie?”

“Right. Now let’s go on to Double Jeopardy, where the scores can really change. Guess who holds the paper on Al’s Fisher plow.”

“I’m thinking that would also be Jim Rennie.”

“Correct. And since you’re the dogshit Selectman Rennie can’t quite scrape off his shoe, reaching out to people who owe him might not be a good idea.” She leaned forward. “But it so happens that I know who had a complete set of the keys to the kingdom: Town Hall, hospital, Health Center, schools, you name it.”

“Who?”

“Our late police chief. And I happen to know his wife—widow—very well. She has no love for James Rennie. Plus, she can keep a secret if someone convinces her it needs keeping.”

“Julia, her husband isn’t even cold yet.”

Julia thought of the grim little Bowie funeral parlor and made a grimace of sorrow and distaste. “Maybe not, but he’s probably down to room temperature. I take your point, though, and applaud your compassion. But…” She grasped his hand. This surprised Barbie but didn’t displease him. “These aren’t ordinary circumstances. And no matter how brokenhearted she is, Brenda Perkins will know that. You have a job to do. I can convince her of that. You’re the inside man.”

“The inside man,” Barbie said, and was suddenly visited by a pair of unwelcome memories: a gymnasium in Fallujah and a weeping Iraqi man, naked save for his unraveling keffiyeh. After that day and that gym, he had stopped wanting to be an inside man. And yet here he was.

“So shall I—”

It was a warm morning for October, and although the door was now locked (people could leave but not reenter), the windows were open. Through those facing Main Street, there now came a hollow metallic bang and a yelp of pain. It was followed by cries of protest.

Barbie and Julia looked at each other across their coffee cups with identical expressions of surprise and apprehension.

It begins right now, Barbie thought. He knew that wasn’t true—it had begun yesterday, when the Dome came down—but at the same time he felt sure it was true.

The people at the counter were running to the door. Barbie got up to join them, and Julia followed.

Down the street, at the north end of the town common, the bell in the steeple of the First Congregational Church began to ring, summoning the faithful to worship.

5

Junior Rennie felt great. He had not so much as a shadow of a headache this morning, and breakfast was sitting easy in his stomach. He thought he might even be able to eat lunch. That was good. He hadn’t had much use for food lately; half the time just looking at it made him feel throw-uppy. Not this morning, though. Flapjacks and bacon, baby.

If this is the apocalypse, he thought, it should have come sooner.

Each Special Deputy had been partnered with a regular full-time officer. Junior drew Freddy Denton, and that was also good. Denton, balding but still trim at fifty, was known as a serious hardass… but there were exceptions. He had been president of the Wildcat Boosters Club during Junior’s high school football years, and it was rumored he had never given a varsity football player a ticket. Junior couldn’t speak for all of them, but he knew that Frankie DeLesseps had been let off by Freddy once, and Junior himself had been given the old “I’m not going to write you up this time but slow down” routine twice. Junior could have been partnered with Wettington, who probably thought a first down was finally letting some guy into her pants. She had a great rack, but can you say loser? Nor had he cared for the cold-eyed look she gave him after the swearing-in, as he and Freddy passed her on their way to the street.

Got a little leftover pantry space for you, if you fuck with me, Jackie, he thought, and laughed. God, the heat and light on his face felt good! How long since it had felt so good?

Freddy looked over. “Something funny, Junes?”

“Nothing in particular,” Junior said. “I’m just on a roll, that’s all.”

Their job—this morning, at least—was to foot-patrol Main Street (“To announce our presence,” Randolph had said), first up one side and down the other. Pleasant enough duty in the warm October sunshine.

They were passing Mill Gas & Grocery when they heard raised voices from inside. One belonged to Johnny Carver, the manager and part owner. The other was too slurry for Junior to make out, but Freddy Denton rolled his eyes.

“Sloppy Sam Verdreaux, as I live and breathe,” he said. “Shit! And not even nine-thirty.”

“Who’s Sam Verdreaux?” Junior asked.

Freddy’s mouth tightened down to a white line Junior recognized from his football days. It was Freddy’s Ah fuck, we’re behind look. Also his Ah fuck, that was a bad call look. “You’ve been missing the better class of Mill society, Junes. But you’re about to get introduced.”

Carver was saying, “I know it’s past nine, Sammy, and I see you’ve got money, but I still can’t sell you any wine. Not this morning, not this afternoon, not tonight. Probably not tomorrow either, unless this mess clears itself up. That’s from Randolph himself. He’s the new Chief.”

“Like fuck he is!” the other voice responded, but it was so slurry it came to Junior’s ears sounding as Li-fuh hizz. “Pete Randolph ain’t but shitlint on Duke Perkins’ asshole.”

“Duke’s dead and Randolph says no booze sales. I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Just one bottle of T-Bird,” Sam whined. Juz one barf T-Burr. “I need it. Annd, I can pay for it. Come on. How long I been tradin here?”

“Well shit.” Although he sounded disgusted with himself, Johnny was turning to look at the wall-long case of beer and vino as Junior and Freddy came up the aisle. He had probably decided a single bottle of Bird would be a small price to get the old rumpot out of his store, especially since a number of shoppers were watching and avidly awaiting further developments.

The hand-printed sign on the case said absolutely NO ALCOHOL SALES UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, but the wussy was reaching for the booze just the same, the stuff in the middle. That was where the cheapass popskull lived. Junior had been on the force less than two hours, but he knew that was a bad idea. If Carver caved in to the straggle-haired wino, other, less disgusting customers would demand the same privilege.

Freddy Denton apparently agreed. “Don’t do that,” he told Johnny Carver. And to Verdreaux, who was looking at him with the red eyes of a mole caught in a brushfire: “I don’t know if you have enough working brain cells left to read the sign, but I know you heard the man: no alcohol today. So get in the breeze. Quit smelling up the place.”

“You can’t do that, Officer,” Sam said, drawing himself up to his full five and a half feet. He was wearing filthy chinos, a Led Zeppelin tee-shirt, and old slippers with busted backs. His hair looked as if it had last been cut while Bush II was riding high in the polls. “I got my rights. Free country. Says so right in the Constitution of Independence.”

“The Constitution’s been canceled in The Mill,” Junior said, with absolutely no idea that he was speaking prophecy. “So put an egg in your shoe and beat it.” God, how fine he felt! In barely a day he had gone from doom and gloom to boom and zoom!

“But…”

Sam stood there for a moment with his lower lip trembling, trying to muster more arguments. Junior observed with disgust and fascination that the old fuck’s eyes were getting wet. Sam held out his hands, which were trembling far worse than his loose mouth. He only had one more argument to make, but it was a hard one to bring out in front of an audience. Because he had to, he did.

“I really need it, Johnny. No joke. Just a little, to stop the shakes. I’ll make it last. And I won’t get up to no dickens. Swear on my mother’s name. I’ll just go home.” Home for Sloppy Sam was a shack sitting in a gruesomely bald dooryard dotted with old auto parts.

“Maybe I ought to—” Johnny Carver began.

Freddy ignored him. “Sloppy, you never made a bottle last in your life.”

“Don’t you call me that!” Sam Verdreaux cried. The tears over-spilled his eyes and slid down his cheeks.

“Your fly’s unzipped, oldtimer,” Junior said, and when Sam looked down at the crotch of his grimy chinos, Junior stroked a finger up the flabby underside of the old man’s chin and then tweaked his beak. A grammar school trick, sure, but it hadn’t lost its charm. Junior even said what they’d said back then: “Dirty clothes, gotcha nose!”

Freddy Denton laughed. So did a couple of other people. Even Johnny Carver smiled, although he didn’t look as if he really wanted to.

“Get outta here, Sloppy,” Freddy said. “It’s a nice day. You don’t want to spend it in a cell.”

But something—maybe being called Sloppy, maybe having his nose tweaked, maybe both—had relit some of the rage that had awed and frightened Sam’s mates when he’d been a lumber-jockey on the Canadian side of the Merimachee forty years before. The tremble disappeared from his lips and hands, at least temporarily. His eyes lighted on Junior, and he made a phlegmy but undeniably contemptuous throat-clearing sound. When he spoke, the slur had left his voice.

“Fuck you, kid. You ain’t no cop, and you was never much of a football player. Couldn’t even make the college B-team is what I heard.”

His gaze switched to Officer Denton.

“And you, Deputy Dawg. Sunday sales legal after nine o’clock. Has been since the seventies, and that’s the end of that tale.”

Now it was Johnny Carver he was looking at. Johnny’s smile was gone, and the watching customers had grown very silent. One woman had a hand to her throat.

“I got money, coin of the realm, and I’m takin what’s mine.”

He started around the counter. Junior grabbed him by the back of the shirt and the seat of the pants, whirled him around, and ran him toward the front of the store.

“Hey!” Sam shouted as his feet bicycled above the old oiled boards. “Take your hands off me! Take your fucking hands—”

Out through the door and down the steps, Junior holding the old man out in front of him. He was light as a bag of feathers. And Christ, he was farting! Pow-pow-pow, like a damn machine gun!

Stubby Norman’s panel truck was parked at the curb, the one with FURNITURE BOUGHT & SOLD and TOP PRICES FOR ANTIQUES on the side. Stubby himself stood beside it with his mouth open. Junior didn’t hesitate. He ran the blabbering old drunk headfirst into the side of the truck. The thin metal gave out a mellow BONNG!

It didn’t occur to Junior that he might have killed the smelly fuck until Sloppy Sam dropped like a rock, half on the sidewalk and half in the gutter. But it took more than a smack against the side of an old truck to kill Sam Verdreaux. Or silence him. He cried out, then just began to cry. He got to his knees. Scarlet was pouring down his face from his scalp, where the skin had split. He wiped some away, looked at it with disbelief, then held out his dripping fingers.

Foot traffic on the sidewalk had halted so completely that someone might have called a game of Statues. Pedestrians stared with wide eyes at the kneeling man holding out a palmful of blood.

“I’ll sue this whole fuckin town for police brutality!” Sam bawled. “AND I’LL WIN!”

Freddy came down the store’s steps and stood beside Junior.

“Go ahead, say it,” Junior told him.

“Say what?”

“I overreacted.”

“The fuck you did. You heard what Pete said: Take no shit from anybody. Partner, that deal starts here and now.”

Partner! Junior’s heart lifted at the word.

“You can’t throw me out when I got money!” Sam raved. “You can’t beat me up! I’m an American citizen! I’ll see you in court!”

“Good luck on that one,” Freddy said. “The courthouse is in Castle Rock, and from what I hear, the road going there is closed.”

He hauled the old man to his feet. Sam’s nose was also bleeding, and the flow had turned his shirt into a red bib. Freddy reached around to the small of his back for a set of his plastic cuffs (Gotta get me some of those, Junior thought admiringly). A moment later they were on Sam’s wrists.

Freddy looked around at the witnesses—those on the street, those crowding the doorway of the Gas & Grocery. “This man is being arrested for public disturbance, interfering with police officers, and attempted assault!” he said in a bugling voice Junior remembered well from his days on the football field. Hectoring from the sidelines, it had never failed to irritate him. Now it sounded delightful.

Guess I’m growing up, Junior thought.

“He is also being arrested for violating the new no-alcohol rule, instituted by Chief Randolph. Take a good look!” Freddy shook Sam. Blood flew from Sam’s face and filthy hair. “We’ve got a crisis situation here, folks, but there’s a new sheriff in town, and he intends to handle it. Get used to it, deal with it, learn to love it. That’s my advice. Follow it, and I’m sure we’ll get through this situation just fine. Go against it, and…” He pointed to Sam’s hands, plasticuffed behind him.

A couple of people actually applauded. For Junior Rennie, the sound was like cold water on a hot day. Then, as Freddy began to frog-march the bleeding old man up the street, Junior felt eyes on him. The sensation so clear it might have been fingers poking the nape of his neck. He turned, and there was Dale Barbara. Standing with the newspaper editor and looking at him with flat eyes. Barbara, who had beaten him up pretty good that night in the parking lot. Who’d marked all three of them, before sheer weight of numbers had finally begun to turn things around.

Junior’s good feelings began to depart. He could almost feel them flying up through the top of his head like birds. Or bats from a belfry.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Barbara.

“I’ve a better question,” Julia Shumway said. She was wearing her tight little smile. “What are you doing, brutalizing a man who’s a quarter your weight and three times your age?”

Junior could think of nothing to say. He felt blood rush into his face and fan out on his cheeks. He suddenly saw the newspaper bitch in the McCain pantry, keeping Angie and Dodee company. Barbara, too. Maybe lying on top of the newspaper bitch, as if he were enjoying a little of the old sumpin-sumpin.

Freddy came to Junior’s rescue. He spoke calmly. He wore the stolid policeman’s face known the world over. “Any questions about police policy should go to the new Chief, ma’am. In the meantime, you’d do well to remember that, for the time being, we’re on our own. Sometimes when people are on their own, examples have to be made.”

“Sometimes when people are on their own, they do things they regret later,” Julia replied. “Usually when the investigations start.”

The corners of Freddy’s mouth turned down. Then he hauled Sam down the sidewalk.

Junior looked at Barbie a moment longer, then said: “You want to watch your mouth around me. And your step.” He touched a thumb deliberately to his shiny new badge. “Perkins is dead and I’m the law.”

“Junior,” Barbie said, “you don’t look so good. Are you sick?”

Junior looked at him from eyes that were a little too wide. Then he turned and went after his new partner. His fists were clenched.

6

In times of crisis, folks are apt to fall back on the familiar for comfort. That is as true for the religious as it is for the heathen. There were no surprises for the faithful in Chester’s Mill that morning; Piper Libby preached hope at the Congo, and Lester Coggins preached hellfire at Christ the Holy Redeemer. Both churches were packed.

Piper’s scripture was from the book of John: A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another, as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. She told those who filled the pews of the Congo church that prayer was important in times of crisis—the comfort of prayer, the power of prayer—but it was also important to help one another, depend on one another, and love one another.

“God tests us with things we don’t understand,” she said. “Sometimes it’s sickness. Sometimes it’s the unexpected death of a loved one.” She looked sympathetically at Brenda Perkins, who sat with her head bowed and her hands clasped in the lap of a black dress. “And now it’s some inexplicable barrier that has cut us off from the outside world. We don’t understand it, but we don’t understand sickness or pain or the unexpected deaths of good people, either. We ask God why, and in the Old Testament, the answer is the one He gave to Job: ‘Were you there when I made the world?’ In the New—and more enlightened—Testament, it’s the answer Jesus gave to his disciples: ‘Love one another, as I have loved you.’ That’s what we have to do today and every day until this thing is over: love one another. Help one another. And wait for the test to end, as God’s tests always do.”

Lester Coggins’s scripture came from Numbers (a section of the Bible not known for optimism): Behold, ye have sinned against the LORD, and be sure your sin will find you out.

Like Piper, Lester mentioned the testing concept—an ecclesiastical hit during all the great clustermugs of history—but his major theme had to do with the infection of sin, and how God dealt with such infections, which seemed to be squeezing them with His Fingers the way a man might squeeze a troublesome pimple until the pus squirted out like holy Colgate.

And because, even in the clear light of a beautiful October morning, he was still more than half convinced that the sin for which the town was being punished was his own, Lester was particularly eloquent. There were tears in many eyes, and cries of “Yes, Lord!” rang from one amen corner to the other. When he was this inspired, great new ideas sometimes occurred to Lester even as he was preaching. One occurred to him this day, and he articulated it at once, without so much as a pause for thought. It needed no thought. Some things are just too bright, too glowing, not to be right.

“This afternoon I’m going out to where Route 119 strikes God’s mysterious Gate,” he said.

“Yes, Jesus!” a weeping woman cried. Others clapped their hands or raised them in testimony.

“I reckon two o’clock. I’m going to get on my knees out there in that dairy field, yea, and I’m going to pray to God to lift this affliction.”

This time the cries of Yes Lord and Yes Jesus and God knows it were louder.

“But first—” Lester raised the hand with which he had whipped his bare back in the dark of night. “First, I’m going to pray about the SIN that has caused this PAIN and this SORROW and this AFFLICTION! If I am alone, God may not hear me. If I am with two or three or even five, God STILL may not hear me, can you say amen.”

They could. They did. All of them were holding up their hands now, and swaying from side to side, caught up in that good-God fever.

“But if YOU ALL were to come out—if we were to pray in a circle right there in God’s grass, under God’s blue sky… within sight of the soldiers they say are guarding the work of God’s righteous Hand… if YOU ALL were to come out, if WE ALL were to pray together, then we might be able to get to the bottom of this sin, and drag it out into the light to die, and work a God-almighty miracle! WILL YOU COME? WILL YOU GET KNEEBOUND WITH ME? ”

Of course they would come. Of course they would get knee-bound. People enjoy an honest-to-God prayer meeting in good times and bad. And when the band swung into “Whate’er My God Ordains is Right” (key of G, Lester on lead guitar), they sang fit to raise the roof.

Jim Rennie was there, of course; it was Big Jim who made the car-pool arrangements.

7

8

If there was one man in town who could take that old Nietzschean saying “Whatever does not kill me makes me stronger” as his personal motto, that man was Romeo Burpee, a hustler with a daddy-cool Elvis pomp and pointed boots with elastic sides. He owed his first name to a romantic Franco-American mother; his last to a hardass Yankee father who was practical to his dry pinchpenny core. Romeo had survived a childhood of merciless taunts—plus the occasional beating—to become the richest man in town. (Well… no. Big Jim was the richest man in town, but much of his wealth was of necessity hidden.) Rommie owned the largest and most profitable indie department store in the entire state. Back in the eighties, his potential backers in the venture had told him he was mad to go with such a frankly ugly name as Burpee’s. Rommie’s response had been that if the name hadn’t hurt Burpee Seeds, it wouldn’t hurt him. And now their biggest summer sellers were tee-shirts reading MEET ME FOR SLURPEES AT BURPEES. Take that, you imagination-challenged bankers!

He had succeeded, in large measure, by recognizing the main chance and pursuing it ruthlessly. Around ten that Sunday morning—not long after he’d watched Sloppy Sam hauled off to the copshop—another main chance rolled around. As they always did, if you watched for them.

Romeo observed children putting up posters. Computer-generated and very professional-looking. The kids—most on bikes, a couple on skateboards—were doing a good job of covering Main Street. A protest demonstration out on 119. Romeo wondered whose idea that had been.

He caught up with one and asked.

“It was my idea,” Joe McClatchey said.

“No shit?”

“No shit whatsoever,” Joe said.

Rommie tipped the kid five, ignoring his protests and tucking it deep into his back pocket. Information was worth paying for. Rommie thought people would go to the kid’s demonstration. They were crazy to express their fear, frustration, and righteous anger.

Shortly after sending Scarecrow Joe on his way, Romeo began to hear people talking about an afternoon prayer meeting, to be held by Pastor Coggins. Same by-God time, same by-God place.

Surely a sign. One reading SALES OPPORTUNITY HERE.

Romeo went into his store, where business was lackadaisical. The people Sunday-shopping today were either doing it at Food City or Mill Gas & Grocery. And they were the minority. Most were either at church or at home watching the news. Toby Manning was behind the cash register, watching CNN on a little battery-powered TV.

“Shut off that quack and close down your register,” Romeo said.

“Really, Mr. Burpee?”

“Yes. Drag the big tent out of storage. Get Lily to help you.”

“The Summer Blowout Sale tent?”

“That’s the baby,” Romeo said. “We’re gonna pitch it in that cowgrass where Chuck Thompson’s plane crashed.”

“Alden Dinsmore’s field? What if he wants money to use it?”

“Then we’ll pay him.” Romeo was calculating. The store sold everything, including discount grocery items, and he currently had roughly a thousand packs of discount Happy Boy franks in the industrial freezer behind the store. He’d bought them from Happy Boy HQ in Rhode Island (company now defunct, little microbe problem, thank God not E. coli), expecting to sell them to tourists and locals planning Fourth of July cookouts. Hadn’t done as well as he’d expected, thanks to the goddam recession, but had held onto them anyway, as stubbornly as a monkey holding onto a nut. And now maybe…

Serve them on those little garden-sticks from Taiwan, he thought. I’ve still got a billion of those bastards. Call them something cute, like Frank-AMa-Bobs. Plus they had maybe a hundred cartons of Yummy Tummy Lemonade and Limeade powder, another discount item on which he’d expected to take a loss.

“We’re going to want to pack up all the Blue Rhino, too.” Now his mind was clicking away like an adding machine, which was just the way Romeo liked it to click.

Toby was starting to look excited. “Whatcha got in mind, Mr. Burpee?”

Rommie went on inventorying stuff he’d expected to record on his books as a dead loss. Those cheapshit pinwheels… leftover Fourth of July sparklers… the stale candy he’d been saving for Halloween…

“Toby,” he said, “we’re going to throw the biggest damn cookout and field day this town has ever seen. Get moving. We’ve got a lot to do.”

9

Rusty was making hospital rounds with Dr. Haskell when the walkie-talkie Linda had insisted he carry buzzed in his pocket.

Her voice was tinny but clear. “Rusty, I have to go in after all. Randolph says it looks like half the town is going to be out at the barrier on 119 this afternoon—some for a prayer meeting, some for a demonstration. Romeo Burpee is going to pitch a tent and sell hot-dogs, so expect an influx of gastroenteritis patients this evening.”

Rusty groaned.

“I’ll have to leave the girls with Marta after all.” Linda sounded defensive and worried, a woman who knew there was suddenly not enough of her to go around. “I’ll fill her in on Jannie’s problem.”

“Okay.” He knew if he told her to stay home, she would… and all he’d accomplish would be to worry her just when her worries were starting to settle a bit. And if a crowd did show up out there, she’d be needed.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Just remember to send the dog to Marta’s with the girls,” Rusty said. “You know what Haskell said.”

Dr. Ron Haskell—The Wiz—had come up big for the Everett family this morning. Had come up big ever since the onset of the crisis, really. Rusty never would have expected it, but he appreciated it. And he could see by the old guy’s pouched eyes and drooping mouth that Haskell was paying the price. The Wiz was too old for medical crises; snoozing in the third-floor lounge was more his speed these days. But, other than Ginny Tomlinson and Twitch, it was now just Rusty and The Wiz holding the fort. It was bad luck all around that the Dome had crashed down on a beautiful weekend morning when anyone who could get out of town had done so.

Haskell, although pushing seventy, had stayed at the hospital with Rusty last night until eleven, when Rusty had literally forced him out the door, and he’d been back by seven this morning, when Rusty and Linda arrived with daughters in tow. Also with Audrey, who seemed to take the new environment of Cathy Russell calmly enough. Judy and Janelle had walked on either side of the big golden, touching her for comfort. Janelle had looked scared to death.

“What’s with the dog?” Haskell asked, and when Rusty filled him in, Haskell had nodded and said to Janelle: “Let’s check you out, hon.”

“Will it hurt?” Janelle had asked apprehensively.

“Not unless getting a piece of candy after I look in your eyes hurts.”

When the exam was over, the adults left the two girls and the dog in the examining room and went into the hall. Haskell’s shoulders were slumped. His hair seemed to have whitened overnight.

“What’s your diagnosis, Rusty?” Haskell had asked.

“Petit mal. I’d think brought on by excitement and worry, but Audi’s been doing that Whining Thing of hers for months.”

“Right. We’ll start her on Zarontin. You agree?”

“Yes.” Rusty had been touched to be asked. He was beginning to regret some of the mean things he’d said and thought about Haskell.

“And keep the dog with her, yes?”

“Absolutely.”

“Will she be all right, Ron?” Linda asked. She’d had no plans to work then; her plan then had been to spend the day in quiet activities with the girls.

“She is all right,” Haskell said. “Many children suffer petit mal seizures. Most have only one or two. Others have more, over a course of years, and then stop. There’s rarely any lasting damage.”

Linda looked relieved. Rusty hoped she would never have to know what Haskell wasn’t telling her: that instead of finding their way out of the neurological thicket, some unlucky kids went in deeper, progressing to grand mal. And grand mal seizures could do damage. They could kill.

Now, after finishing morning rounds (only half a dozen patients, one a new mom with no complications) and hoping for a cup of coffee before jetting over to the Health Center, this call from Linda.

“I’m sure Marta will be fine with having Audi,” she said.

“Good. You’ll have your cop walkie while you’re on duty, right?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Then give your personal walkie to Marta. Agree on a com channel. If something should go wrong with Janelle, I’ll come on the run.”

“All right. Thanks, honeybunch. Is there any chance you could get out there this afternoon?”

As Rusty considered that, he saw Dougie Twitchell coming down the hall. He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear and was walking in his usual don’t-give-a-shit amble, but Rusty saw concern on his face.

“I might be able to play hookey for an hour. No promises.”

“I understand, but it would be so great to see you.”

“You too. Be careful out there. And tell folks not to eat the hot-dogs. Burpee’s probably had them in cold storage for ten thousand years.”

“Those are his mastodon steaks,” Linda said. “Over and out, sweet man. I’ll look for you.”

Rusty stuck the walkie in the pocket of his white coat and turned to Twitch. “What’s up? And get that cigarette out from behind your ear. This is a hospital.”

Twitch plucked the cigarette from its resting place and looked at it. “I was going to smoke it out by the storage shed.”

“Not a good idea,” Rusty said. “That’s where the extra propane’s stored.”

“That’s what I came to tell you. Most of the tanks are gone.”

“Bullshit. Those things are huge. I can’t remember if they hold three thousand gallons each or five thousand.”

“So what are you saying? I forgot to look behind the door?”

Rusty began to rub his temples. “If it takes them—whoever they are—more than three or four days to short out that force field, we’re going to need mucho LP.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Twitch said. “According to the inventory card on the door, there’s supposed to be seven of those puppies, but there are only two.” He stowed the cigarette in the pocket of his own white coat. “I checked the other shed just to make sure, thought somebody might have moved the tanks—”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“I dunno, O Great One. Anyway, the other shed’s for the really important hospital supplies: gardening and landscaping shit. In that one the tools are present and accounted for, but the fucking fertilizer’s gone.”

Rusty didn’t care about the fertilizer; he cared about the propane. “Well—if push comes to shove, we’ll get some from the town supplies.”

“You’ll get a fight from Rennie.”

“When Cathy Russell might be his only option if that ticker of his vapor-locks? I doubt it. You think there’s any chance I can get away for a while this afternoon?”

“That’d be up to The Wiz. He now appears to be the ranking officer.”

“Where is he?”

“Sleeping in the lounge. Snores like a mad bastard, too. You want to wake him up?”

“No,” Rusty said. “Let him sleep. And I’m not going to call him The Wiz anymore. Given how hard he’s worked since this shit came down, I think he deserves better.”

“Ah so, sensei. You have reached a new level of enlightenment.”

“Blow me, grasshopper,” Rusty said.

10

Now see this; see it very well.

It’s two forty PM on another eye-bustingly gorgeous autumn day in Chester’s Mill. If the press were not being kept away they’d be in photo-op heaven—and not just because the trees are in full flame. The imprisoned people of the town have migrated to Alden Dinsmore’s dairy field en masse. Alden has struck a use-fee deal with Romeo Burpee: six hundred dollars. Both men are happy, the farmer because he jacked the businessman up considerable from Burpee’s starting offer of two hundred, Romeo because he would have gone to a thousand, if pressed.

From the protestors and Jesus-shouters Alden collected not a single crying dime. That doesn’t mean he isn’t charging them, however; Farmer Dinsmore was born at night, but not last night. When this opportunity came along, he marked out a large parking area just north of the place where the fragments of Chuck Thompson’s plane came to rest the day before, and there he has stationed his wife (Shelley), his older son (Ollie; you remember Ollie), and his hired man (Manuel Ortega, a no-greencard Yankee who can ayuh with the best of them). Alden’s knocking down five dollars a car, a fortune for a shirttail dairyman who for the last two years has been keeping his farm out of Keyhole Bank’s hands by the skin of his teeth. There are complaints about the fee, but not many; they charge more to park at the Fryeburg Fair, and unless folks want to park by the side of the road—which has already been lined on both sides by early arrivals—and then walk half a mile to where all the excitement is, they have no choice.

And what a strange and varied scene! A three-ring circus for sure, with the ordinary citizens of The Mill in all the starring roles. When Barbie arrives with Rose and Anse Wheeler (the restaurant is closed again, will reopen for supper—just cold sandwiches, no grill orders), they stare in openmouthed silence. Both Julia Shumway and Pete Freeman are taking pictures. Julia stops long enough to give Barbie her attractive but somehow inward-turning smile.

“Some show, wouldn’t you say?”

Barbie grins. “Yessum.”

In the first ring of this circus, we have the townsfolk who have responded to the posters put up by Scarecrow Joe and his cadre. The protest turnout has been quite satisfying, almost two hundred, and the sixty signs the kids made (the most popular: LET US OUT, DAMN IT!!) were gone in no time. Luckily, many people did bring their own signs. Joe’s favorite is the one with prison bars inked over a map of The Mill. Lissa Jamieson is not just holding it but pumping it aggressively up and down. Jack Evans is there, looking pale and grim. His sign is a collage of photographs featuring the woman who bled to death the day before. WHO KILLED MY WIFE? it screams. Scarecrow Joe feels sorry for him… but what an awesome sign! If the press could see that one, they’d fill their collective pants with joyshit.

Joe organized the protestors into a big circle that rotates just in front of the Dome, which is marked by a line of dead birds on the Chester’s Mill side (those on the Motton side have been removed by the military personnel). The circle gives all of Joe’s people—for so he thinks of them—a chance to wave their signs at the posted guards, who stand with their backs resolutely (and maddeningly) turned. Joe also gave out printed “chant-sheets.” He wrote these with Benny Drake’s skateboarding idol, Norrie Calvert. Besides being balls-to the-wall on her Blitz deck, Norrie’s rhymes are simple but tight, yo? One chant goes, Ha-ha-ha! Hee-hee-hee! Chester’s Mill must be set free! Another: You did it! You did it! Come on out and just admit it! Joe has—with real reluctance—vetoed another Norrie masterpiece that goes Take off the gags! Take off the gags! Let us talk to the press, you fags! “We have to be politically correct about this,” he told her. What he’s wondering just now is if Norrie Calvert is too young to kiss. And if she would slip him any tongue if he did. He has never kissed a girl, but if they’re all going to die like starving bugs trapped under a Tupper-ware bowl, he probably should kiss this one while there’s still time.

In the second ring is Pastor Coggins’s prayer circle. They are really getting God-sent. And, in a fine show of ecclesiastical détente, the Holy Redeemer choir has been joined by a dozen men and women from the Congo church choir. They’re singing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” and a good number of unaffiliated townsfolk who know the words have joined in. Their voices rise to the blameless blue sky, with Lester’s shrill exhortations and the prayer circle’s supporting cries of amen and hallelujah weaving in and out of the singing in perfect counterpoint (although not harmony—that would be going too far). The prayer circle keeps growing as other townsfolk drop to their knees and join in, laying their signs temporarily aside so they can raise their clasped hands in supplication. The soldiers have turned their backs; perhaps God has not.

But the center ring of this circus is the biggest and most bodacious. Romeo Burpee pitched the End of Summer Blowout Sale tent well back from the Dome and sixty yards east of the prayer circle, calculating the location by testing the faint gasp of breeze that’s blowing. He wants to make sure that the smoke from his rank of Hibachis reaches both those praying and those protesting. His only concession to the afternoon’s religious aspect is to make Toby Manning turn off his boombox, which was blaring that James McMurtry song about living in a small town; it didn’t mix well with “How Great Thou Art” and “Won’t You Come to Jesus.” Business is good and will only get better. Of this Romeo is sure. The hotdogs—thawing even as they cook—may gripe some bellies later, but they smell perfect in the warm afternoon sun; like a county fair instead of chowtime in prison. Kids race around waving pinwheels and threatening to set Dinsmore’s grass on fire with leftover Fourth of July sparklers. Empty paper cups that held either citrus-powder drinks (foul) or hastily brewed coffee (fouler still) are littered everywhere. Later on, Romeo will have Toby Manning pay some kid, maybe Dinsmore’s, ten bucks to pick up the litter. Community relations, always important. Right now, though, Romeo’s totally focused on his jackleg cash register, a carton that once contained Charmin toilet paper. He takes in long green and returns short silver: it’s the way America does business, honeybunch. He’s charging four bucks per dog, and he’s goddamned if people aren’t paying it. He expects to clear at least 3K by sundown, maybe a lot more.

And look! Here’s Rusty Everett! He got away after all! Good for him! He almost wishes he’d stopped to get the girls—they would surely enjoy this, and it might allay their fears to see so many people having a good time—but it might be a little too much excitement for Jannie.

He spots Linda at the same time she spots him and starts waving frantically, practically jumping up and down. With her hair done in the stubby Fearless Police Girl braids she almost always wears when she’s working, Lin looks like a junior high school cheerleader. She’s standing with Twitch’s sister Rose and the young man who short-orders at the restaurant. Rusty’s a little surprised; he thought Barbara had left town. Got on Big Jim Rennie’s bad side. A bar fight is what Rusty heard, although he wasn’t on duty when the participants came in to get patched up. Fine by Rusty. He’s patched up his share of Dipper’s customers.

He hugs his wife, kisses her mouth, then plants a kiss on Rose’s cheek. Shakes hands with the cook, and gets reintroduced.

“Look at those hotdogs,” Rusty mourns. “Oh dear.”

“Better line up the bedpans, Doc,” Barbie says, and they all laugh. It’s amazing to be laughing under these circumstances, but they aren’t the only ones… and good God, why not? If you can’t laugh when things go bad—laugh and put on a little carnival—then you’re either dead or wishing you were.

“This is fun,” Rose says, unaware of how soon the fun is going to end. A Frisbee floats past. She plucks it out of the air and wings it back to Benny Drake, who leaps to catch it and then spins to throw it on to Norrie Calvert, who catches it behind her back—show-off! The prayer circle prays. The mixed choir, really finding its voice now, has moved on to that all-time chart topper “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” A child no more than Judy’s age bops past, skirt flapping around her chubby knees, a sparkler clutched in one hand and a cup of the awful limeade in the other. The protestors turn and turn in a widening gyre, chanting Ha-ha-ha! Hee-hee-hee! Chester’s Mill must be set free! Overhead, puffy clouds with shady bottoms float northward from Motton… and then divide as they near the soldiers, skirting around the Dome. The sky directly overhead is a cloudless, flawless blue. There are those in Dinsmore’s field who study those clouds and wonder about the future of rain in Chester’s Mill, but nobody speaks of this aloud.

“I wonder if we’ll still be having fun next Sunday,” Barbie says. Linda Everett looks at him. It’s not a friendly look. “Surely you think before then—”

Rose interrupts her. “Look over there. That kid shouldn’t be driving that damn rig so fast—he’ll tip it over. I hate those ATVs.”

They all look at the little vehicle with the fat balloon tires, and watch as it cuts a diagonal through the October-white hay. Not toward them, exactly, but certainly toward the Dome. It’s going too fast. A couple of the soldiers hear the approaching engine and finally turn around.

“Oh Christ, don’t let him crash,” Linda Everett moaned.

Rory Dinsmore doesn’t crash. It would have been better if he had.

11

An idea is like a cold germ: sooner or later someone always catches it. The Joint Chiefs had already caught this one; it had been kicked around at several of the meetings attended by Barbie’s old boss, Colonel James O. Cox. Sooner or later someone in The Mill was bound to be infected by the same idea, and it wasn’t entirely surprising that the someone should turn out to be Rory Dinsmore, who was by far the sharpest tool in the Dinsmore family box (“I don’t know where he gets it from,” Shelley Dinsmore said when Rory brought home his first all-As rank card… and she said it in a voice more worried than proud). If he’d lived in town—and if he’d had a computer, which he did not—Rory would undoubtedly have been a part of Scarecrow Joe McClatchey’s posse.

Rory had been forbidden to attend the carnival/prayer meeting/demonstration; instead of eating weird hotdogs and helping with the car-park operation, he was ordered by his father to stay at home and feed the cows. When that was done, he was to grease their udders with Bag Balm, a job he hated. “And once you got those teats nice and shiny,” his father said, “you can sweep the barns and bust up some haybales.”

He was being punished for approaching the Dome yesterday after his father had expressly forbidden it. And actually knocking on it, for God’s sake. Appealing to his mother, which often worked, did no good this time. “You could have been killed,” Shelley said. “Also, your dad says you mouthed off.”

“Just told em the cook’s name!” Rory protested, and for that his father once more had gone upside his head while Ollie looked on with smug and silent approval.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” Alden said.

Safely behind his father’s back, Ollie had stuck out his tongue. Shelley saw, however… and went upside Ollie ’s head. She did not, however, forbid him the pleasures and excitements of that after-noon’s makeshift fair.

“And you leave that goddam go-cart alone,” Alden said, pointing to the ATV parked in the shade between dairy barns 1 and 2. “You need to move hay, you carry it. It’ll build you up a little.” Shortly thereafter, the dim Dinsmores went off together, walking across the field toward Romeo’s tent. The bright one was left behind with a hayfork and a jar of Bag Balm as big as a flowerpot.

Rory went about his chores glumly but thoroughly; his racing mind sometimes got him in trouble, but he was a good son for all that, and the idea of ditching punishment-chores never crossed his mind. At first nothing crossed his mind. He was in that mostly empty-headed state of grace which is sometimes such fertile soil; it’s the ground from which our brightest dreams and biggest ideas (both the good and the spectacularly bad) suddenly burst forth, often full-blown. Yet there is always a chain of association.

As Rory began sweeping barn 1’s main aisle (he would save the hateful udder-greasing for last, he reckoned), he heard a rapid poppow -pam that could only be a string of firecrackers. They sounded a little like gunshots. This made him think of his father’s.30-.30 rifle, which was propped in the front closet. The boys were forbidden to touch it except under strict supervision—while shooting at targets, or in hunting season—but it wasn’t locked up and the ammo was on the shelf above it.

And the idea came. Rory thought: I could blow a hole in that thing. Maybe pop it. He had an image, bright and clear, of touching a match to the side of a balloon.

He dropped the broom and ran for the house. Like many bright people (especially bright children), inspiration rather than consideration was his strong suit. If his older brother had had such an idea (unlikely), Ollie would have thought: If a plane couldn’t bust through it, or a pulp-truck going full tilt, what chance does a bullet have? He might also have reasoned: I’m in dutch already for disobeying, and this is disobedience raised to the ninth power.

Well… no, Ollie probably wouldn’t have thought that. Ollie’s mathematical abilities had topped out at simple multiplication.

Rory, however, was already taking college-track algebra, and knocking it dead. If asked how a bullet could accomplish what a truck or an airplane hadn’t, he would have said the impact effect of a Winchester Elite XP3 would be far greater than either. It stood to reason. For one thing, the velocity would be greater. For another, the impact itself would be concentrated upon the point of a 180-grain bullet. He was sure it would work. It had the unquestionable elegance of an algebraic equation.

Rory saw his smiling (but of course modest) face on the front page of USA Today ; being interviewed on Nightly News with Brian Williams ; sitting on a flower-bedecked float in a parade in his honor, with Prom Queen–type girls surrounding him (probably in strapless gowns, but possibly in bathing suits) as he waved to the crowd and confetti floated down in drifts. He would be THE BOY WHO SAVED CHESTER’S MILL!

He snatched the rifle from the closet, got the step stool, and pawed a box of XP3s down from the shelf. He stuffed two cartridges into the breech (one for a backup), then raced back outside with the rifle held above his head like a conquering rebelista (but—give him this—he engaged the safety without even thinking about it). The key to the Yamaha ATV he had been forbidden to ride was hanging on the pegboard in barn 1. He held the key fob between his teeth while he strapped the rifle to the back of the ATV with a couple of bungee cords. He wondered if there would be a sound when the Dome popped. He probably should have taken the shooter’s plugs from the top shelf of the closet, but going back for them was unthinkable; he had to do this now.

That’s how it is with big ideas.

He drove the ATV around barn 2, pausing just long enough to size up the crowd in the field. Excited as he was, he knew better than to head for where the Dome crossed the road (and where the smudges of yesterday’s collisions still hung like dirt on an unwashed windowpane). Someone might stop him before he could pop the Dome. Then, instead of being THE BOY WHO SAVED CHESTER’S MILL, he’d likely wind up as THE BOY WHO GREASED COW TITS FOR A YEAR. Yes, and for the first week he’d be doing it in a crouch, his ass too sore to sit down. Someone else would end up getting the credit for his big idea.

So he drove on a diagonal that would bring him to the Dome five hundred yards or so from the tent, marking the place to stop by the crushed spots in the hay. Those, he knew, had been made by falling birds. He saw the soldiers stationed in that area turn toward the oncoming blat of the ATV. He heard shouts of alarm from the fair-and-prayer folks. The hymn-singing came to a discordant halt.

Worst of all, he saw his father waving his dirty John Deere cap at him and bawling, “RORY OH GODDAMMIT YOU STOP!”

Rory was in too deep to stop, and—good son or not—he didn’t want to stop. The ATV struck a hummock and he bounced clear of the seat, holding on with his hands and laughing like a loon. His own Deere cap was spun around backward and he didn’t even remember doing it. The ATV tilted, then decided to stay up. Almost there, now, and one of the fatigues-clad soldiers was also shouting at him to stop.

Rory did, and so suddenly he almost somersaulted over the Yamaha’s handlebars. He forgot to put the darned thing in neutral and it lurched forward, actually striking the Dome before stalling out. Rory heard the crimp of metal and the tinkle of the headlight as it shattered.

The soldiers, afraid of being hit by the ATV (the eye which sees nothing to block an oncoming object triggers powerful instincts), fell off to either side, leaving a nice big hole and sparing Rory the need of telling them to move away from a possible explosive blowout. He wanted to be a hero, but didn’t want to hurt or kill anybody to do it.

He had to hurry. The people closest to his stopping point were the ones in the parking lot and clustered around the Summer Blowout Sale tent, and they were running like hell. His father and brother were among them, both screaming at him to not do whatever he was planning to do.

Rory yanked the rifle free of the bungee cords, socked the butt-plate into his shoulder, and aimed at the invisible barrier five feet above a trio of dead sparrows.

“No, kid, bad idea!” one of the soldiers shouted.

Rory paid him no mind, because it was a good idea. The people from the tent and the parking lot were close, now. Someone—it was Lester Coggins, who ran a lot better than he played guitar—shouted: “In the name of God, son, don’t do that!”

Rory pulled the trigger. No; only tried to. The safety was still on. He looked over his shoulder and saw the tall, thin preacher from the holy-roller church blow past his puffing, red-faced father. Lester’s shirttail was out and flying. His eyes were wide. The cook from Sweetbriar Rose was right behind him. They were no more than sixty yards away now, and the Reverend looked like he was just getting into fourth gear.

Rory thumbed off the safety.

“No, kid, no!” the soldier cried again, simultaneously crouching on his side of the Dome and holding out his splayed hands.

Rory paid no attention. It’s that way with big ideas. He fired.

It was, unfortunately for Rory, a perfect shot. The hi-impact slug struck the Dome dead on, ricocheted, and came back like a rubber ball on a string. Rory felt no immediate pain, but a vast sheet of white light filled his head as the smaller of the slug’s two fragments thumbed out his left eye and lodged in his brain. Blood flew in a spray, then ran through his fingers as he dropped to his knees, clutching his face.

12

“I’m blind! I’m blind!” the boy was screaming, and Lester immediately thought of the scripture upon which his finger had landed: Madness and blindness and astonishment of the heart.

“I’m blind! I’m blind!”

Lester pried away the boy’s hands and saw the red, welling socket. The remains of the eye itself were dangling on Rory’s cheek. As he turned his head up to Lester, the splattered remains plopped into the grass.

Lester had a moment to cradle the child in his arms before the father arrived and tore him away. That was all right. That was as it should be. Lester had sinned and begged guidance from the Lord. Guidance had been given, an answer provided. He knew now what he was to do about the sins he’d been led into by James Rennie.

A blind child had shown him the way.