Under the Dome

1

Selectman Rennie’s assumption that no one had seen Brenda come to his house that morning was correct. But she was seen on her morning travels, not by one person but by three, including one who also lived on Mill Street. If Big Jim had known, would the knowledge have given him pause? Doubtful; by then he was committed to his course and it was too late to turn back. But it might have caused him to reflect (for he was a reflective man, in his own way) on murder’s similarity to Lay’s potato chips: it’s hard to stop with just one.

2

Big Jim didn’t see the watchers when he came down to the corner of Mill and Main. Neither did Brenda as she walked up Town Common Hill. This was because they didn’t want to be seen. They were sheltering just inside the Peace Bridge, which happened to be a condemned structure. But that wasn’t the worst of it. If Claire McClatchey had seen the cigarettes, she would have shit a brick. In fact, she might have shit two. And certainly she never would have let Joe chum with Norrie Calvert again, not even if the fate of the town hinged upon their association, because it was Norrie who supplied the smokes—badly bent and croggled Winstons, which she had found on a shelf in the garage. Her father had quit smoking the year before and the pack was covered with a fine scrim of dust, but the cigarettes inside had looked okay to Norrie. There were just three, but three was perfect: one each. Think of it as a good-luck rite, she instructed.

“We’ll smoke like Indians praying to the gods for a successful hunt. Then we’ll go to work.”

“Sounds good,” Joe said. He had always been curious about smoking. He couldn’t see the attraction, but there must be one, because a lot of people still did it.

“Which gods?” Benny Drake asked.

“The gods of your choice,” Norrie answered, looking at him as if he were the dumbest creature in the universe. “God god, if that’s the one you like.” Dressed in faded denim shorts and a pink sleeveless top, her hair for once down and framing her foxy little face instead of scrooped back in its usual sloppin-around-town ponytail, she looked good to both boys. Totally awesome, in fact. “I pray to Wonder Woman.”

“Wonder Woman is not a goddess,” Joe said, taking one of the elderly Winstons and smoothing it straight. “Wonder Woman is a superhero.” He considered. “Maybe a superher-ette.”

“She’s a goddess to me,” Norrie replied with a grave-eyed sincerity that could not be gainsaid, let alone ridiculed. She was carefully straightening her own cigarette. Benny left his the way it was; he thought a bent cigarette had a certain coolness factor. “I had Wonder Woman Power Bracelets until I was nine, but then I lost them. I think that bitch Yvonne Nedeau stole them.”

She lit a match and touched it first to Scarecrow Joe’s cigarette, then to Benny’s. When she tried to use it to light her own, Benny blew it out.

“What did you do that for?” she asked.

“Three on a match. Bad luck.”

“You believe that?”

“Not much,” Benny said, “but today we’re going to need all the luck we can get.” He glanced at the shopping bag in the basket of his bike, then took a pull on his cigarette. He inhaled a little and then coughed the smoke back out, his eyes watering. “This tastes like panther-shit!”

“Smoked a lot of that, have you?” Joe asked. He dragged on his own cigarette. He didn’t want to look like a wuss, but he didn’t want to start coughing and maybe throw up, either. The smoke burned, but in sort of a good way. Maybe there was something to this, after all. Only he already felt a little woozy.

Go easy on the inhaling part, he thought. Passing out would be almost as uncool as puking. Unless, maybe, he passed out in Norrie Calvert’s lap. That might be very cool indeed.

Norrie reached into her shorts pocket and brought out the cap of a Verifine juice bottle. “We can use this for an ashtray. I want to do the Indian smoke ritual, but I don’t want to catch the Peace Bridge on fire.” She then closed her eyes. Her lips began to move. Her cigarette was between her fingers, growing an ash.

Benny looked at Joe, shrugged, then closed his own eyes. “Almighty GI Joe, please hear the prayer of your humble pfc Drake—”

Norrie kicked him without opening her eyes.

Joe got up (a little dizzy, but not too bad; he chanced another drag when he was on his feet) and walked past their parked bikes to the town common end of the covered walkway.

“Where you goin?” Norrie asked without opening her eyes.

“I pray better when I look at nature,” Joe said, but he actually just wanted a breath of fresh air. It wasn’t the burning tobacco; he sort of liked that. It was the other smells inside the bridge—decaying wood, old booze, and a sour chemical aroma that seemed to be rising up from the Prestile beneath them (that was a smell, The Chef might have told him, that you could come to love).

Even the outside air wasn’t that wonderful; it had a slightly used quality that made Joe think of the trip he’d made with his parents to New York the previous year. The subways had smelled a little like this, especially late in the day when they were crowded with people headed home.

He tapped ashes into his hand. As he scattered them, he spotted Brenda Perkins making her way up the hill.

A moment later, a hand touched his shoulder. Too light and delicate to be Benny’s. “Who’s that?” Norrie asked.

“Know the face, not the name,” he said.

Benny joined them. “That’s Mrs. Perkins. The Sheriff’s widow.”

Norrie elbowed him. “Police Chief, dummy.”

Benny shrugged. “Whatever.”

They watched her, mostly because there was no one else to watch. The rest of the town was at the supermarket, apparently having the world’s biggest food fight. The three kids had investigated, but from afar; they did not need persuasion to stay away, given the valuable piece of equipment that had been entrusted to their care.

Brenda crossed Main to Prestile, paused outside the McCain house, then went on to Mrs. Grinnell’s.

“Let’s get going,” Benny said.

“We can’t get going until she’s gone,” Norrie said.

Benny shrugged. “What’s the big deal? If she sees us, we’re just some kids goofing around on the town common. And know what? She probably wouldn’t see us if she looked right at us. Adults never see kids.” He considered this. “Unless they’re on skateboards.”

“Or smoking,” Norrie added. They all glanced at their cigarettes.

Joe hooked a thumb at the shopping bag sitting in the carrier attached to the handlebars of Benny’s Schwinn High Plains. “They also have a tendency to see kids who are goofing around with expensive town property.”

Norrie tucked her cigarette in the corner of her mouth. It made her look wonderfully tough, wonderfully pretty, and wonderfully adult.

The boys went back to watching. The Police Chief’s widow was now talking to Mrs. Grinnell. It wasn’t a long conversation. Mrs. Perkins had taken a big brown envelope from her carrier-bag as she came up the steps, and they watched her hand it to Mrs. Grinnell. A few seconds later, Mrs. Grinnell pretty much slammed the door in her visitor’s face.

“Whoa, that was rude,” Benny said. “Week’s detention.”

Joe and Norrie laughed.

Mrs. Perkins stood where she was for a moment, as if perplexed, then went back down the steps. She was now facing the common, and the three children instinctively stepped further into the shadows of the walkway. This caused them to lose sight of her, but Joe found a handy gap in the wooden siding and peered through that.

“Going back to Main,” he reported. “Okay, now she’s going up the hill… now she’s crossing over again….”

Benny held an imaginary microphone. “Video at eleven.”

Joe ignored this. “Now she’s going onto my street.” He turned to Benny and Norrie. “Do you think she’s going to see my mom?”

“Mill Street’s four blocks long, dude,” Benny said. “What are the chances?”

Joe felt relieved even though he could think of no reason why Mrs. Perkins’s going to see his mom would be a bad thing. Except his mother was all worried about Dad being out of town, and Joe would sure hate to see her more upset than she already was. She had almost forbidden him to go on this expedition. Thank God Miz Shumway had talked her out of that idea, mostly by telling her that Dale Barbara had mentioned Joe specifically for this job (which Joe—Benny and Norrie, too—preferred to think of as “the mission”).

“Mrs. McClatchey,” Julia had said, “if anyone can put this gadget to use, Barbie thinks it’s probably your son. It could be very important.”

That had made Joe feel good, but looking at his mother’s face—worried, drawn—made him feel bad. It hadn’t even been three days since the Dome had come down, but she’d lost weight. And the way she kept holding his dad’s picture, that made him feel bad, too. It was like she thought he’d died instead of just being holed up in a motel somewhere, probably drinking beer and watching HBO.

She had agreed with Miz Shumway, though. “He’s a smart boy about gadgets, all right. He always has been.” She looked him over from head to foot, and sighed. “When did you get so tall, Son?”

“I don’t know,” he had replied truthfully.

“If I let you do this, will you be careful?”

“And take your friends with you,” Julia said.

“Benny and Norrie? Sure.”

“Also,” Julia had added, “be a little discreet. Do you know what that means, Joe?”

“Yes, ma’am, I sure do.”

It meant don’t get caught.

3

Brenda disappeared into the screening trees that lined Mill Street. “Okay,” Benny said. “Let’s go.” He carefully crushed his cigarette in the makeshift ashtray, then lifted the shopping bag out of the bike’s wire carrier. Inside the bag was the old-fashioned yellow Geiger counter, which had gone from Barbie to Rusty to Julia… and finally to Joe and his posse.

Joe took the juice lid and crushed out his own smoke, thinking he would like to try again when he had more time to concentrate on the experience. On the other hand, it might be better not to. He was addicted to computers, the graphic novels of Brian K. Vaughan, and skateboarding. Maybe that was enough monkeys for one back.

“People are gonna come by,” he said to Benny and Norrie. “Probably lots of people, once they get tired of playing in the supermarket. We’ll just have to hope they don’t pay any attention to us.”

In his mind he heard Miz Shumway telling his mom how important this could be to the town. She didn’t have to tell him ; he probably understood it better than they did.

“But if any cops come by…” Norrie said.

Joe nodded. “Back into the bag it goes. And out comes the Frisbee.”

“You really think there’s some kind of alien generator buried under the town common?” Benny asked.

“I said there might be,” Joe replied, more sharply than he had intended. “Anything’s possible.”

In truth, Joe thought it more than possible; he thought it likely. If the Dome wasn’t supernatural in origin, then it was a force field. A force field had to be generated. It looked like a QED situation to him, but he didn’t want to get their hopes up too high. Or his own, for that matter.

“Let’s start looking,” Norrie said. She ducked under the sagging yellow police tape. “I just hope you two prayed enough.”

Joe didn’t believe in praying for things he could do for himself, but he had sent up a brief one on a different subject: that if they found the generator, Norrie Calvert would give him another kiss. A nice long one.

4

Earlier that morning, during their pre-exploration meeting in the McClatchey living room, Scarecrow Joe had taken off his right sneaker, then the white athletic sock beneath.

“Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat,” Benny said cheerfully.

“Shut up, stupid,” Joe replied.

“Don’t call your friend stupid,” Claire McClatchey said, but she gave Benny a reproachful look.

Norrie added no repartee of her own, only watched with interest as Joe laid the sock on the living room rug and smoothed it out with the flat of his hand.

“This is Chester’s Mill,” Joe said. “Same shape, right?”

“You are correctamundo,” Benny agreed. “It’s our fate to live in a town that looks like one of Joe McClatchey’s athletic socks.”

“Or the old woman’s shoe,” Norrie put in.

“ ‘There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,’ ” Mrs. McClatchey recited. She was sitting on the couch with the picture of her husband in her lap, just as she had been when Miz Shumway came by with the Geiger counter late yesterday afternoon. “‘She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.’”

“Good one, Mom,” Joe said, trying not to grin. The middle-school version had been revised to She had so many children her cunt fell off.

He looked down at the sock again. “So does a sock have a middle?”

Benny and Norrie thought it over. Joe let them. The fact that such a question could interest them was one of the things he dug about them.

“Not like a circle or square has a center,” Norrie said at last. “Those are geometric shapes.”

Benny said, “I guess a sock is also a geometric shape—technically—but I don’t know what you’d call it. A socktagon?”

Norrie laughed. Even Claire smiled a little.

“On the map, The Mill’s closer to a hexagon,” Joe said, “but never mind that. Just use common sense.”

Norrie pointed to the place on the sock where the foot-shaped bottom flowed into the tube top. “There. That’s the middle.”

Joe dotted it with the tip of his pen.

“I’m not sure that’ll come out, mister.” Claire sighed. “But you need new ones anyway, I suppose.” And, before he could ask the next question, she said: “On a map, that would be about where the town common is. Is that where you’re going to look?”

“It’s where we’re going to look first, ” Joe said, a little deflated at having his explicatory thunder stolen.

“Because if there’s a generator,” Mrs. McClatchey mused, “you think it should be in the middle of the township. Or as close to it as possible.”

Joe nodded.

“Cool, Mrs. McClatchey,” Benny said. He raised one hand. “Give me five, mother of my soul-brother.”

Smiling wanly, still holding the picture of her husband, Claire McClatchey slapped Benny five. Then she said, “At least the town common’s a safe place.” She paused to consider that, frowning slightly. “I hope so, anyway, but who really knows?”

“Don’t worry,” Norrie said. “I’ll watch out for them.”

“Just promise me that if you do find something, you’ll let the experts handle things,” Claire said.

Mom, Joe thought, I think maybe we’re the experts. But he didn’t say it. He knew it would bum her out even more.

“Word up,” Benny said, and held his hand up again. “Five more, o mother of my—”

This time she kept both hands on the picture. “I love you, Benny, but sometimes you tire me out.”

He smiled sadly. “My mom says the exact same thing.”

5

Joe and his friends walked downhill to the bandstand that stood in the center of the common. Behind them, the Prestile murmured. It was lower now, dammed up by the Dome where it crossed into Chester’s Mill from the northwest. If the Dome was still in place tomorrow, Joe thought it would be nothing but a mudslick.

“Okay,” Benny said. “Enough with the Freddy Fuckaround. Time for the board-bangers to rescue Chester’s Mill. Let’s fire that baby up.”

Carefully (and with real reverence), Joe lifted the Geiger counter out of the shopping bag. The battery that powered it had been a long-dead soldier and the terminals had been thick with gunk, but a little baking soda took care of the corrosion, and Norrie had found not just one but three six-volt dry cells in her father’s tool closet. “He’s kind of a freak when it comes to batteries,” she had confided, “and he’s gonna kill himself trying to learn boarding, but I love him.”

Joe put his thumb on the power switch, then looked at them grimly. “You know, this thing could read zilch everywhere we take it and there still might be a generator, just not one that emits alpha or beta wa—”

“Do it, for God’s sakes!” Benny said. “The suspense is killin me.”

“He’s right,” Norrie said. “Do it.”

But here was an interesting thing. They had tested the Geiger counter plenty around Joe’s house, and it worked fine—when they tried it on an old watch with a radium dial, the needle jerked appreciably. They’d each taken a turn. But now that they were out here—on-site, so to speak—Joe felt frozen. There was sweat on his forehead. He could feel it beading up and getting ready to trickle down.

He might have stood there quite awhile if Norrie hadn’t put her hand over his. Then Benny added his. The three of them ended up pushing the slide-switch together. The needle in the COUNTS PER SECOND window immediately jumped to +5, and Norrie clutched Joe’s shoulder. Then it settled back to +2, and she relaxed her hold. They had no experience with radiation counters, but they all guessed they were seeing no more than a background count.

Slowly, Joe walked around the bandstand with the Geiger-Müller tube held out on its coiled phone receiver–type cord. The power lamp glowed a bright amber, and the needle jiggled a little bit from time to time, but mostly it stayed close to the zero end of the dial. The little jumps they saw were probably being caused by their own movements. He wasn’t surprised—part of him knew it couldn’t be so easy—but at the same time, he was bitterly disappointed. It was amazing, really, how well disappointment and lack of surprise complimented each other; they were like the Olsen Twins of emotion.

“Let me,” Norrie said. “Maybe I’ll have better luck.”

He gave it over without protest. Over the next hour or so, they crisscrossed the town common, taking turns with the Geiger counter. They saw a car turn down Mill Street, but didn’t notice Junior Rennie—who was feeling better again—behind the wheel. Nor did he notice them. An ambulance sped down Town Common Hill in the direction of Food City with its lights flashing and its siren wailing. This they looked at briefly, but were again absorbed when Junior reappeared shortly after, this time behind the wheel of his father’s Hummer.

They never used the Frisbee they had brought as camouflage; they were too preoccupied. Nor did it matter. Few of the townspeople heading back to their homes bothered looking into the Common. A few were hurt. Most were carrying liberated foodstuffs, and some were wheeling loaded shopping carts. Almost all looked ashamed of themselves.

By noon, Joe and his friends were ready to give up. They were also hungry. “Let’s go to my house,” Joe said. “My mom’ll make us something to eat.”

“Great,” Benny said. “Hope it’s chop suey. Your ma’s chop suey is tight.”

“Can we go through the Peace Bridge and try the other side first?” Norrie asked.

Joe shrugged. “Okay, but there’s nothing over there but woods. Also, it’s moving away from the center.”

“Yes, but…” She trailed off.

“But what?”

“Nothing. Just an idea. It’s probably stupid.”

Joe looked at Benny. Benny shrugged and handed her the Geiger counter.

They went back to the Peace Bridge and ducked under the sagging police tape. The walkway was dim, but not too dim for Joe to look over Norrie’s shoulder and see the Geiger counter’s needle stir as they passed the halfway point, walking single file so as not to test the rotted boards under their feet too much. When they came out on the other side, a sign informed them YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE CHESTER’S MILL TOWN COMMON, EST. 1808. A well-worn path led up a slope of oak, ash, and beech. Their fall foliage hung limply, looking sullen rather than gay.

By the time they reached the foot of this path, the needle in the COUNTS PER SECOND window stood between +5 and +10. Beyond +10, the meter’s calibration rose steeply to +500 and then to +1000. The top end of the dial was marked in red. The needle was miles below that, but Joe was pretty sure its current position indicated more than just a background count.

Benny was looking at the faintly quivering needle, but Joe was looking at Norrie.

“What were you thinking about?” he asked her. “Don’t be afraid to spill it, because it doesn’t seem like such a stupid idea, after all.”

“No,” Benny agreed. He tapped the COUNTS PER SECOND window. The needle jumped, then settled back to +7 or 8.

“I was thinking a generator and a transmitter are practically the same thing,” Norrie said. “And a transmitter doesn’t have to be in the middle, just high up.”

“The CIK tower isn’t,” Benny said. “Just sits in a clearing, pumpin out the Jesus. I’ve seen it.”

“Yeah, but that thing’s, like, super-powerful,” Norrie replied. “My Dad said it’s a hundred thousand watts, or something. Maybe what we’re looking for has a shorter range. So then I thought, ‘What’s the highest part of the town?’”

“Black Ridge,” Joe said.

“Black Ridge,” she agreed, and held up a small fist.

Joe bumped her, then pointed. “That way, two miles. Maybe three.” He turned the Geiger-Müller tube in that direction and they all watched, fascinated, as the needle rose to +10.

“I’ll be fucked,” Benny said.

“Maybe when you’re forty,” Norrie said. Tough as ever… but blushing. Just a little.

“There’s an old orchard out on the Black Ridge Road,” Joe said. “You can see the whole Mill from it—TR-90, too. That’s what my dad says, anyway. It could be there. Norrie, you’re a genius.” He didn’t have to wait for her to kiss him, after all. He did the honors, although daring no more than the corner of her mouth.

She looked pleased, but there was still a frown line between her eyes. “It might not mean anything. The needle’s not exactly going crazy. Can we go out there on our bikes?”

“Sure!” Joe said.

“After lunch,” Benny added. He thought of himself as the practical one.

6

While Joe, Benny, and Norrie were eating lunch at the McClatchey house (it was indeed chop suey) and Rusty Everett, assisted by Barbie and the two teenage girls, were treating supermarket-riot casualties at Cathy Russell, Big Jim Rennie sat in his study, going over a list and checking off items.

He saw his Hummer roll back up the driveway, and checked off another item: Brenda dropped off with the others. He thought he was ready—as ready as he could be, anyway. And even if the Dome disappeared this afternoon, he thought his butt was covered.

Junior came in and dropped the Hummer’s keys on Big Jim’s desk. He was pale and needed a shave worse than ever, but he no longer looked like death on a cracker. His left eye was red, but not flaming.

“All set, Son?”

Junior nodded. “Are we going to jail?” He spoke with an almost disinterested curiosity.

“No,” Big Jim said. The idea that he might go to jail had never crossed his mind, not even when the Perkins witch had shown up here and started making her accusations. He smiled. “But Dale Barbara is.”

“No one’s going to believe he killed Brenda Perkins.”

Big Jim continued to smile. “They will. They’re frightened, and they will. It’s how these things work.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’m a student of history. You ought to try it sometime.” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Junior why he had left Bowdoin—had he quit, flunked out, or been asked to leave? But this wasn’t the time or the place. Instead he asked his son if he was up to one more errand.

Junior rubbed at his temple. “I guess. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“You’ll need help. You could take Frank, I suppose, but I’d prefer the Thibodeau lad, if he’s able to move around today. Not Sear-les, though. A good fellow, but stupid.”

Junior said nothing. Big Jim wondered again what was wrong with the boy. But did he really want to know? Perhaps when this crisis was over. In the meantime, he had many pots and skillets on the stove, and dinner would be served soon.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Let me check one thing first.” Big Jim picked up his cell. Each time he did this, he expected to find it as useless as tits on a bull, but it was still working. At least for in-town calls, which was all he cared about. He selected PD. It rang three times at the cop-shop before Stacey Moggin picked up. She sounded harried, not at all like her usual businesslike self. Big Jim wasn’t surprised by that, given the morning’s festivities; he could hear quite an uproar in the background.

“Police,” she said. “If this isn’t an emergency, please hang up and call back later. We’re awfully bus—”

“It’s Jim Rennie, hon.” He knew that Stacey hated being called hon. Which was why he did it. “Put on the Chief. Chop-chop.”

“He’s trying to break up a fistfight in front of the main desk right now,” she said. “Maybe you could call back la—”

“No, I can’t call back later,” Big Jim said. “Do you think I’d be calling if this wasn’t important? Just go over there, hon, and Mace the most aggressive one. Then you send Pete into his office to—”

She didn’t let him finish, and she didn’t put him on hold, either. The phone hit the desk with a clunk. Big Jim was not put out of countenance; when he was getting under somebody’s skin, he liked to know it. In the far distance, he heard someone call someone else a thieving sonofabitch. This made him smile.

A moment later he was put on hold, Stacey not bothering to inform him. Big Jim listened to McGruff the Crime Dog for awhile. Then the phone was picked up. It was Randolph, sounding out of breath.

“Talk fast, Jim, because this place is a madhouse. The ones who didn’t go to the hospital with broken ribs or something are mad as hornets. Everybody’s blaming everybody else. I’m trying to keep from filling up the cells downstairs, but it’s like half of them want to go there.”

“Does increasing the size of the police force sound like a better idea to you today, Chief?”

“Christ, yes. We took a beating. I’ve got one of the new officers—that Roux girl—up to the hospital with the whole lower half of her face broken. She looks like the Bride of Frankenstein.”

Big Jim’s smile widened to a grin. Sam Verdreaux had come through. But of course that was another thing about feeling it ; when you did have to pass the ball, on those infrequent occasions when you couldn’t shoot it yourself, you always passed it to the right person.

“Someone nailed her with a rock. Mel Searles, too. He was knocked out for a while, but he seems to be all right now. It’s ugly, though. I sent him to the hospital to get patched up.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” Big Jim said.

“Someone was targeting my officers. More than one someone, I think. Big Jim, can we really get more volunteers?”

“I think you’ll find plenty of willing recruits among the upstanding young people of this town,” Big Jim said. “In fact, I know several from the Holy Redeemer congregation. The Killian boys, for instance.”

“Jim, the Killian boys are dumber than Crackerjacks.”

“I know, but they’re strong and they’ll take orders.” He paused. “Also, they can shoot.”

“Are we going to arm the new police?” Randolph sounded doubtful and hopeful at the same time.

“After what happened today? Of course. I was thinking ten or a dozen good trustworthy young people to start with. Frank and Junior can help pick them out. And we’ll need more if this thing isn’t sorted out by next week. Pay em in scrip. Give em first dibs on supplies, when and if rationing starts. Them and their families.”

“Okay. Send Junior down, will you? Frank’s here, and so’s Thibodeau. He got banged around some at the market and he had to get the bandage on his shoulder changed, but he’s pretty much good to go.” Randolph lowered his voice. “He said Barbara changed the bandage. Did a good job, too.”

“That’s ducky, but our Mr. Barbara won’t be changing bandages for long. And I’ve got another job for Junior. Officer Thibodeau, too. Send him up here.”

“What for?”

“If you needed to know, I’d tell you. Just send him up. Junior and Frank can make a list of possible new recruits later on.”

“Well… if you say s—”

Randolph was interrupted by a fresh uproar. Something either fell over or was thrown. There was a crash as something else shattered.

“Break that up!” Randolph roared.

Smiling, Big Jim held the phone away from his ear. He could hear perfectly well, just the same.

“Get those two… not those two, you idiot, the OTHER two…. NO, I don’t want em arrested! I want em the hell out of here! On their asses, if they won’t go any other way!”

A moment later he was speaking to Big Jim again. “Remind me why I wanted this job, because I’m starting to forget.”

“It’ll sort itself out,” Big Jim soothed. “You’ll have five new bodies by tomorrow—fresh young bucks—and another five by Thursday. Another five at least. Now send young Thibodeau up here. And make sure that cell at the far end downstairs is ready for a fresh occupant. Mr. Barbara will be using it as of this afternoon.”

“On what charge?”

“How about four counts of murder, plus inciting a riot at the local supermarket? Will that do?”

He hung up before Randolph could reply.

“What do you want me and Carter to do?” Junior asked.

“This afternoon? First, a little reconnaissance and planning. I’ll assist with the planning. Then you take part in arresting Barbara. You’ll enjoy that, I think.”

“Yes I will.”

“Once Barbara’s in the jug, you and Officer Thibodeau should eat a good supper, because your real job’s tonight.”

“What?”

“Burning down the Democrat office—how does that sound?”

Junior’s eyes widened. “Why?”

That his son had to ask was a disappointment. “Because, for the immediate future, having a newspaper is not in the town’s best interest. Any objections?” “Dad—has it ever occurred to you that you might be crazy?” Big Jim nodded. “Like a fox,” he said.

7

“All the times I’ve been in this room,” Ginny Tomlinson said in her new foggy voice, “and I never once imagined myself on the table.”

“Even if you had, you probably wouldn’t have imagined being worked on by the guy who serves you your morning steak and eggs.” Barbie tried to keep it light, but he’d been patching and bandaging since arriving at Cathy Russell on the ambulance’s first run, and he was tired. A lot of that, he suspected, was stress: he was scared to death of making someone worse instead of better. He could see the same worry on the faces of Gina Buffalino and Harriet Bigelow, and they didn’t have the Jim Rennie clock ticking in their heads to make things worse.

“I think it will be awhile before I’m capable of eating another steak,” Ginny said.

Rusty had set her nose before seeing any of the other patients. Barbie had assisted, holding the sides of her head as gently as he could and murmuring encouragement. Rusty plugged her nostrils with gauze soaked in medicinal cocaine. He gave the anesthetic ten minutes to work (using the time to treat a badly sprained wrist and put an elastic bandage on an obese woman’s swollen knee), then tweezed out the gauze strips and grabbed a scalpel. The PA was admirably quick. Before Barbie could tell Ginny to say wishbone, Rusty had slid the scalpel’s handle up the clearer of her nostrils, braced it against her septum, and used it as a lever.

Like a man prying off a hubcap, Barbie had thought, listening to the small but perfectly audible crunch as Ginny’s nose came back to something approximating its normal position. She didn’t scream, but her fingernails tore holes in the paper covering the examination table, and tears poured down her cheeks.

She was calm now—Rusty had given her a couple of Percocets—but tears were still leaking from her less swollen eye. Her cheeks were a puffy purple. Barbie thought she looked a little like Rocky Balboa after the Apollo Creed fight.

“Look on the bright side,” he said.

“Is there one?”

“Definitely. The Roux girl is looking at a month of soup and milkshakes.”

“Georgia? I heard she took a hit. How bad?”

“She’ll live, but it’s going to be a long time before she’s pretty.”

“That one was never going to be Miss Apple Blossom.” And, in a lower voice: “Was it her screaming?”

Barbie nodded. Georgia’s yowls had filled the whole hospital, it seemed. “Rusty gave her morphine, but she didn’t go down for a long time. She must have the constitution of a horse.”

“And the conscience of an alligator,” Ginny added in her foggy voice. “I wouldn’t wish what happened to her on anybody, but it’s still a damned good argument for karmic retribution. How long have I been here? My darn watch is broken.”

Barbie glanced at his own. “It’s now fourteen thirty. So I guess that puts you about five and a half hours on the road to recovery.” He twisted at the hips, heard his back crackle, and felt it loosen up a little. He decided Tom Petty was right: the waiting was the hardest part. He reckoned he would feel easier once he was actually in a cell. Unless he was dead. It had crossed his mind that it might be convenient for him to be killed while resisting arrest.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He held up a set of tweezers. “Now be quiet and let me do this. Soonest begun, soonest done.”

“I ought to get up and pitch in.”

“If you try it, the only pitching you’ll do will be straight down to the floor.”

She looked at the tweezers. “Do you know what you’re doing with those?”

“You bet. I won a gold medal in Olympic Glass Removal.”

“Your bullshit quotient is even higher than my ex-husband’s.” She was smiling a little. Barbie guessed it hurt her, even with painkillers on board, and he liked her for it.

“You’re not going to be one of those tiresome medical people who turns into a tyrant when it’s her turn for treatment, are you?” he asked.

“That was Dr. Haskell. He ran a big splinter under his thumbnail once, and when Rusty offered to take it out, The Wiz said he wanted a specialist.” She laughed, then winced, then groaned.

“If it makes you feel any better, the cop who punched you took a rock in the head.”

“More karma. Is he up and around?”

“Yep.” Mel Searles had walked out of the hospital two hours ago with a bandage wrapped around his head.

When Barbie bent toward her with the tweezers, she instinctively turned her head away. He turned it back, pressing his hand—very gently—against the cheek that was less swollen.

“I know you have to,” she said. “I’m just a baby about my eyes.”

“Given how hard he hit you, you’re lucky the glass is around them instead of in them.”

“I know. Just don’t hurt me, okay?”

“Okay,” he said. “You’ll be on your feet in no time, Ginny. I’ll make this quick.”

He wiped his hands to make sure they were dry (he hadn’t wanted the gloves, didn’t trust his grip in them), then bent closer. There were maybe half a dozen small splinters of broken spectacle-lens peppered in her brows and around her eyes, but the one he was worried about was a tiny dagger just below the corner of her left eye. Barbie was sure Rusty would have taken it out himself if he’d seen it, but he had been concentrating on her nose.

Do it quick, he thought. He who hesitates is usually fucked.

He tweezed the shard out and dropped it into a plastic basin on the counter. A tiny seed-pearl of blood welled up where it had been. He let out his breath. “Okay. Nothing to the rest of these. Smooth sailing.”

“From your lips to God’s ear,” Ginny said.

He had just removed the last of the splinters when Rusty opened the door of the exam room and told Barbie he could use a little help. The PA was holding a tin Sucrets box in one hand.

“Help with what?”

“A hemorrhoid that walks like a man,” Rusty said. “This anal sore wants to leave with his ill-gotten gains. Under normal circumstances I’d be delighted to see his miserable backside going out the door, but right now I might be able to use him.”

“Ginny?” Barbie asked. “You okay?”

She made a waving gesture at the door. He had reached it, following after Rusty, when she called, “Hey, handsome.” He turned back and she blew him a kiss.

Barbie caught it.

8

There was only one dentist in Chester’s Mill. His name was Joe Boxer. His office was at the end of Strout Lane, where his dental suite offered a scenic view of Prestile Stream and the Peace Bridge. Which was nice if you were sitting up. Most visitors to said suite were in the reclining position, with nothing to look at but several dozen pictures of Joe Boxer’s Chihuahua pasted on the ceiling.

“In one of them, the goddam dog looks like he’s unloading,” Dougie Twitchell told Rusty after one visit. “Maybe it’s just the way that kind of dog sits down, but I don’t think so. I think I spent half an hour looking at a dishrag with eyes take a shit while The Box dug two wisdom teeth out of my jaw. With a screwdriver, it felt like.”

The shingle hung outside Dr. Boxer’s office looked like a pair of basketball shorts large enough to fit a fairy-tale giant. They were painted a gaudy green and gold—the colors of the Mills Wildcats. The sign read JOSEPH BOXER, DDS. And, below that: BOXER IS BRIEF! And he was fairly speedy, everyone agreed, but he recognized no medical plans and accepted only cash. If a pulpcutter walked in with his gums suppurating and his cheeks puffed out like those of a squirrel with a mouthful of nuts and started talking about his dental insurance, Boxer would tell him to get the money from Anthem or Blue Cross or whoever and then come back to see him.

A little competition in town might have forced him to soften these Draconian policies, but the half a dozen who’d tried to make a go of it in The Mill since the early nineties had given up. There was speculation that Joe Boxer’s good friend Jim Rennie might have had something to do with the paucity of competition, but no proof. Meantime, Boxer might be seen on any given day cruising around in his Porsche, with its bumper sticker reading MY OTHER CAR IS ALSO A PORSCHE!

As Rusty came down the hall with Barbie trailing after, Boxer was heading for the main doors. Or trying to; Twitch had him by the arm. Hung from Dr. Boxer’s other arm was a basket filled with Eggo waffles. Nothing else; just packages and packages of Eggos. Barbie wondered—not for the first time—if maybe he was lying in the ditch that ran behind Dipper’s parking lot, beaten to a pulp and having a terrible brain-damaged dream.

“I’m not staying!” Boxer yapped. “I have to get these home to the freezer! What you’re proposing has almost no chance of working, anyway, so take your hands off me.”

Barbie observed the butterfly bandage bisecting one of Boxer’s eyebrows and the larger bandage on his right forearm. The dentist had fought the good fight for his frozen waffles, it seemed.

“Tell this goon to take his hands off me,” he said when he saw Rusty. “I’ve been treated, and now I’m going home.”

“Not just yet,” Rusty said. “You were treated gratis, and I expect you to pay that forward.”

Boxer was a little guy, no more than five-four, but he drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. “Expect and be damned. I hardly see oral surgery—which the State of Maine hasn’t certified me to do, by the way—as a quid pro quo for a couple of bandages. I work for a living, Everett, and I expect to be paid for my work.”

“You’ll be paid back in heaven,” Barbie said. “Isn’t that what your friend Rennie would say?”

“He has nothing to do with th—”

Barbie took a step closer and peered into Boxer’s green plastic shopping basket. The words PROPERTY OF FOOD CITY were printed on the handle. Boxer tried, with no great success, to shield the basket from him.

“Speaking of payment, did you pay for those waffles?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Everybody was taking everything. All I took were these.” He looked at Barbie defiantly. “I have a very large freezer, and I happen to enjoy waffles.”

“ ‘Everyone was taking everything’ won’t be much of a defense if you’re charged with looting,” Barbie said mildly.

It was impossible for Boxer to draw himself up any further, and yet somehow he did. His face was so red it was almost purple. “Then take me to court! What court? Case closed! Ha!”

He started to turn away again. Barbie reached out and grabbed him, not by the arm but by the basket. “I’ll just confiscate this, then, shall I?”

“You can’t do that!”

“No? Take me to court, then.” Barbie smiled. “Oh, I forgot—what court?”

Dr. Boxer glared at him, lips drawn back to show the tips of tiny perfect teeth.

“We’ll just toast those old waffles up in the caff,” Rusty said. “Yum! Tasty!”

“Yeah, while we’ve still got some electricity to toast em with,” Twitch muttered. “After that we can poke em on forks and cook em over the incinerator out back.”

“You can’t do this!”

Barbie said, “Let me be perfectly clear: unless you do whatever it is Rusty wants you to do, I have no intention of letting go your Eggos.”

Chaz Bender, who had a Band-Aid on the bridge of his nose and another on the side of his neck, laughed. Not very kindly. “Pay up, Doc!” he called. “Isn’t that what you always say?”

Boxer turned his glare first on Bender, then on Rusty. “What you want has almost no chance of working. You must know that.”

Rusty opened the Sucrets box and held it out. Inside were six teeth. “Torie McDonald picked these up outside the supermarket. She got down on her knees and grubbed through puddles of Georgia Roux’s blood to find them. And if you want to have Eggos for breakfast in the near future, Doc, you’re going to put them back in Georgia’s head.”

“And if I just walk away?”

Chaz Bender, the history teacher, took a step forward. His fists were clenched. “In that case, my mercenary friend, I’ll beat the shit out of you in the parking lot.”

“I’ll help,” Twitch said.

“I won’t help,” Barbie said, “but I’ll watch.”

There was laughter and some applause. Barbie felt simultaneously amused and sick to his stomach.

Boxer’s shoulders slumped. All at once he was just a little man caught in a situation too big for him. He took the Sucrets box, then looked at Rusty. “An oral surgeon working under optimum conditions might be able to reimplant these teeth, and they might actually root, although he would be careful to give the patient no guarantees. If I do it, she’ll be lucky to get back one or two. She’s more likely to pull them down her windpipe and choke on them.”

A stocky woman with a lot of flaming red hair shouldered Chaz Bender aside. “I’ll sit with her and make sure that doesn’t happen. I’m her mother.”

Dr. Boxer sighed. “Is she unconscious?”

Before he could get any further, two Chester’s Mill police units, one of them the green Chief’s car, pulled up in the turnaround. Freddy Denton, Junior Rennie, Frank DeLesseps, and Carter Thibodeau got out of the lead car. Chief Randolph and Jackie Wetting-ton emerged from the Chief’s car. Rusty’s wife got out of the back. All were armed, and as they approached the main doors of the hospital, they drew their weapons.

The little crowd that had been watching the confrontation with Joe Boxer murmured and drew back, some in its number undoubtedly expecting to be arrested for theft.

Barbie turned to Rusty Everett. “Look at me,” he said.

“What do you m—”

“Look at me!” Barbie lifted his arms, turning them to show both sides. Then he pulled up his tee-shirt, showing first his flat stomach, then turning to exhibit his back. “Do you see marks? Bruises?”

“No—”

“Make sure they know that,” Barbie said.

It was all he had time for. Randolph led his officers through the door. “Dale Barbara? Step forward.”

Before Randolph could lift his gun and point it at him, Barbie did so. Because accidents happen. Sometimes on purpose.

Barbie saw Rusty’s puzzlement, and liked him even better for his innocence. He saw Gina Buffalino and Harriet Bigelow, their eyes wide. But most of his attention was reserved for Randolph and his backups. All the faces were stony, but on Thibodeau’s and DeLesseps’s he saw undeniable satisfaction. For them this was all about payback for that night at Dipper’s. And payback was going to be a bitch.

Rusty stepped in front of Barbie, as if to shield him.

“Don’t do that,” Barbie murmured.

“Rusty, no!” Linda cried.

“Peter?” Rusty asked. “What’s this about? Barbie’s been helping out, and he’s been doing a damned good job.”

Barbie was afraid to move the big PA aside or even touch him. He raised his arms instead, very slowly, holding his palms out.

When they saw his arms go up, Junior and Freddy Denton came at Barbie, and fast. Junior bumped Randolph on his way by, and the Beretta clutched in the Chief’s fist went off. The sound was deafening in the reception area. The bullet went into the floor three inches in front of Randolph’s right shoe, making a surprisingly large hole. The smell of gunpowder was immediate and startling.

Gina and Harriet screamed and bolted back down the main corridor, vaulting nimbly over Joe Boxer, who was crawling along with his head tucked and his normally neat hair hanging in his face. Brendan Ellerbee, who had been treated for a mildly dislocated jaw, kicked the dentist in the forearm as he stampeded past. The Sucrets box spun out of Boxer’s hand, struck the main desk, and flew open, scattering the teeth Torie McDonald had so carefully picked up.

Junior and Freddy grabbed Rusty, who made no effort to fight them. He looked totally confused. They pushed him aside. Rusty went stumbling across the main lobby, trying to keep his feet. Linda grabbed him, and they sprawled to the floor together.

“What the fuck?” Twitch was roaring. “What in the fuck?”

Limping slightly, Carter Thibodeau approached Barbie, who saw what was coming but kept his hands raised. Lowering them could get him killed. And maybe not just him. Now that one gun had been fired, the chance of others going off was that much higher.

“Hello, hoss,” Carter said. “Ain’t you been a busy boy.” He punched Barbie in the stomach.

Barbie had tensed his muscles in anticipation of the blow, but it still doubled him over. The sonofabitch was strong.

“Stop that!” Rusty roared. He still looked bewildered, but now he looked angry, as well. “Stop that right goddam now!”

He tried to get up, but Linda put both of her arms around him and held him down. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t, he’s dangerous.”

“What?” Rusty turned his head and stared at her with disbelief. “Are you crazy?”

Barbie was still holding his hands up, showing them to the cops. Doubled over as he was, it made him look like he was salaaming.

“Thibodeau,” Randolph said. “Step back. That’s enough.”

“Put that gun away, you idiot!” Rusty shouted at Randolph. “You want to kill someone?”

Randolph gave him a brief look of dismissive contempt, then turned to Barbie. “Stand up straight, son.”

Barbie did. It hurt, but he managed. He knew that if he hadn’t been prepared for Thibodeau’s gutpunch, he would have been curled on the floor, gasping for breath. And would Randolph have tried kicking him to his feet? Would the other cops have joined him in spite of the spectators in the hall, some of whom were now creeping back for a better view? Of course, because their blood was up. It was how these things went.

Randolph said, “I’m arresting you for the murders of Angela McCain, Dorothy Sanders, Lester A. Coggins, and Brenda Perkins.”

Each name struck Barbie, but the last one hit the hardest. The last one was a fist. That sweet woman. She had forgotten to be careful. Barbie couldn’t blame her—she had still been in deep grief for her husband—but he could blame himself for letting her go to Rennie. For encouraging her.

“What happened?” he asked Randolph. “What in God’s name did you people do?”

“Like you don’t know,” Freddy Denton said.

“What kind of psycho are you?” Jackie Wettington asked. Her face was a twisted mask of loathing, her eyes small with rage.

Barbie ignored them both. He was staring into Randolph’s face with his hands still raised over his head. All it would take was the smallest excuse and they’d be on him. Even Jackie, ordinarily the pleasantest of women, might join in, although with her it would take a reason instead of just an excuse. Or perhaps not. Sometimes even good people snapped.

“A better question,” he said to Randolph, “is what you let Rennie do. Because this is his mess, and you know it. His fingerprints are all over it.”

“Shut up.” Randolph turned to Junior. “Cuff him.”

Junior reached for Barbie, but before he could so much as touch a raised wrist, Barbie put his hands behind his back and turned around. Rusty and Linda Everett were still on the floor, Linda with her arms wrapped around her husband’s chest in a restraining bearhug.

“Remember,” Barbie said to Rusty as the plastic cuffs went on… and were then tightened until they dug into the scant meat above the heels of his hands.

Rusty stood up. When Linda tried to hold him, he pushed her away and gave her a look she had never seen before. There was sternness in it, and reproach, but there was also pity. “Peter,” he said, and when Randolph began to turn away, he raised his voice to a shout. “I’m talking to you! You look at me while I do!”

Randolph turned. His face was a stone.

“He knew you were here for him.”

“Sure he did,” Junior said. “He may be crazy, but he’s not stupid.” Rusty took no notice of this. “He showed me his arms, his face, raised his shirt to show me his stomach and back. He’s unmarked, unless he raises a bruise where Thibodeau suckerpunched him.”

Carter said, “Three women? Three women and a preacher? He deserved it.”

Rusty didn’t shift his gaze from Randolph. “This is a setup.”

“All due respect, Eric, not your department,” Randolph said. He had holstered his sidearm. Which was a relief.

“That’s right,” Rusty said. “I’m a patch-em-up guy, not a cop or a lawyer. What I’m telling you is if I have occasion to look him over again while he’s in your custody and he’s got a lot of cuts and bruises, God help you.”

“What are you gonna do, call the Civil Liberties Union?” Frank DeLesseps asked. He was white-lipped with fury. “Your friend there beat four people to death. Brenda Perkins’s neck was broken. One of the girls was my fiancée, and she was sexually molested. Probably after she was dead as well as before, is the way it looks.”

Most of the crowd that had scattered at the gunshot had crept back to watch, and now a soft and horrified groan arose from it.

“This is the guy you’re defending? You ought to be in jail yourself!”

“Frank, shut up!” Linda said.

Rusty looked at Frank DeLesseps, the boy he had treated for chicken pox, measles, head lice picked up at summer camp, a broken wrist suffered sliding into second base, and once, when he was twelve, a particularly malicious case of poison ivy. He saw very little resemblance between that boy and this man. “And if I was locked up? Then what, Frankie? What if your mother has another gallbladder attack, like last year? Do I wait for visiting hours at the jail to treat her?”

Frank stepped forward, raising a hand to either slap or punch. Junior grabbed him. “He’ll get his, don’t worry. Everyone on Barbara’s side will. All in good time.”

“Sides?” Rusty sounded honestly bewildered. “What are you talking about, sides? This isn’t a goddam football game.”

Junior smiled as if he knew a secret.

Rusty turned to Linda. “Those are your colleagues talking. Do you like how they sound?”

For a moment she couldn’t look at him. Then, with an effort, she did. “They’re mad, that’s all, and I don’t blame them. I am, too. Four people, Eric—didn’t you hear? He killed them, and he almost certainly raped at least two of the women. I helped take them out of the hearse at Bowie’s. I saw the stains.”

Rusty shook his head. “I just spent the morning with him, watching him help people, not hurt them.”

“Let it go,” Barbie said. “Stand back, big guy. It’s not the ti—”

Junior poked him in the ribs. Hard. “You have the right to remain silent, assmunch.”

“He did it,” Linda said. She stretched out a hand to Rusty, saw he wasn’t going to take it, and dropped it to her side. “They found his dog tags in Angie McCain’s hand.”

Rusty was speechless. He could only watch as Barbie was hustled out to the Chief’s car and locked in the backseat with his hands still cuffed behind him. There was one moment when Barbie’s eyes found Rusty’s. Barbie shook his head. A single shake only, but hard and firm.

Then he was driven away.

There was silence in the lobby. Junior and Frank had gone with Randolph. Carter, Jackie, and Freddy Denton headed out to the other police car. Linda stood looking at her husband with pleading and anger. Then the anger disappeared. She stepped toward him, raising her arms, wanting to be held, if only for a few seconds.

“No,” he said.

She stopped. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you? Did you miss what just happened here?”

“Rusty, she was holding his dog tags!”

He nodded slowly. “Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

Her face, which had been both hurt and hopeful, now froze. She seemed to notice that her arms were still held out to him, and she lowered them.

“Four people,” she said, “three beaten almost beyond recognition. There are sides, and you need to think about which one you’re on.”

“So do you, honey,” Rusty said.

From outside, Jackie called, “Linda, come on!”

Rusty was suddenly aware he had an audience, and that many among it had voted for Jim Rennie again and again. “Just think about this, Lin. And think about who Pete Randolph works for.”

“Linda!” Jackie called.

Linda Everett left with her head dropped. She didn’t look back. Rusty was okay until she got into the car. Then he began to tremble. He thought if he didn’t sit down soon, he might fall down.

A hand fell on his shoulder. It was Twitch. “You okay, boss?”

“Yes.” As if saying so would make it so. Barbie had been hauled off to jail and he’d had his first real argument with his wife in—what?—four years? More like six. No, he wasn’t okay.

“Got a question,” Twitch said. “If those people were murdered, why’d they take the bodies to the Bowie Funeral Home instead of bringing them here for postmortem examination? Whose idea was that?”

Before Rusty could reply, the lights went out. The hospital generator had finally run dry.

9

After watching them polish off the last of her chop suey (which had contained the last of her hamburger), Claire motioned the three children to stand in front of her in the kitchen. She looked at them solemnly and they looked back—so young and scarily determined. Then, with a sigh, she handed Joe his backpack. Benny peered inside and saw three PB&Js, three deviled eggs, three bottles of Snapple, and half a dozen oatmeal-raisin cookies. Although still full of lunch, he brightened. “Most excellent, Mrs. McC.! You are a true—”

She paid no heed; all her attention was fixed on Joe. “I understand that this could be important, so I’m going along. I’ll even drive you out there if you—”

“Don’t have to, Mom,” Joe said. “It’s an easy ride.”

“Safe, too,” Norrie added. “Hardly anyone on the roads.”

Claire’s eyes were locked on her son’s in the Mom Death-Stare. “But I need two promises. First, that you’ll be home before dark… and I don’t mean the last gasp of twilight, either, I mean while the sun is still up. Second, if you do find something, mark its location and then leave it utterly and completely alone. I accept that you three might be the best people to look for this whatever-it-might-be, but dealing with it is a job for adults. So do I have your word? Give it to me or I’ll have to come with you as your chaperone.”

Benny looked doubtful. “I’ve never been down Black Ridge Road, Mrs. McC., but I’ve been past it. I don’t think your Civic would exactly be, like, up to the task.”

“Then promise me or you stay right here, how’s that?”

Joe promised. So did the other two. Norrie even crossed herself.

Joe started to shoulder the backpack. Claire slipped in her cell phone. “Don’t lose that, mister.”

“I won’t, Mom.” Joe was shifting from foot to foot, anxious to be gone.

“Norrie? Can I trust you to put the brakes on if these two get crazy?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Norrie Calvert said, as if she hadn’t dared death or disfigurement on her skateboard a thousand times just in the last year. “You sure can.”

“I hope so,” she said. “I hope so.” Claire rubbed at her temples as if she were getting a headache.

“Awesome lunch, Mrs. McC.!” Benny said, and held up his hand. “Slap me five.”

“Dear God, what am I doing?” Claire asked. Then she slapped him five.

10

Behind the chest-high front desk in the Police Department lobby, where people came to complain about such troubles as theft, vandalism, and the neighbor’s ceaselessly barking dog, was the ready room. It contained desks, lockers, and a coffee station where a grouchy sign announced COFFEE AND DONUTS ARE NOT FREE. It was also the booking area. Here Barbie was photographed by Freddy Denton and fingerprinted by Henry Morrison while Peter Randolph and Denton stood close by with their guns drawn.

“Limp, keep em limp!” Henry shouted. This was not the man who had enjoyed talking with Barbie about the Red Sox–Yankees rivalry over lunch at Sweetbriar Rose (always a BLT with a dill pickle spear on the side). This was a fellow who looked like he’d enjoy punching Dale Barbara in the nose. Hard. “You don’t roll em, I do, so keep em limp!”

Barbie thought of telling Henry it was hard to relax your hands when you were standing this close to men with guns, especially if you knew the men wouldn’t mind using them. He kept his mouth shut instead, and concentrated on relaxing his hands so Henry could roll the prints. And he wasn’t bad at it, not at all. Under other circumstances Barbie might have asked Henry why they were bothering, but he held his tongue on this subject, as well.

“All right,” Henry said when he judged the prints clear. “Take him downstairs. I want to wash my hands. I feel dirty just touching him.”

Jackie and Linda had been standing to one side. Now, as Randolph and Denton holstered their guns and grabbed Barbie’s arms, the two women drew their own. They were pointed down but ready.

“I’d puke up everything you ever fed me, if I could,” Henry said. “You disgust me.”

“I didn’t do it,” Barbie said. “Think about it, Henry.”

Morrison only turned away. Thinking’s in short supply around here today, Barbie thought. Which, he was sure, was just the way Rennie liked it.

“Linda,” he said. “Mrs. Everett.”

“Don’t talk to me.” Her face was paper-pale except for dark purplish crescents beneath her eyes. They looked like bruises.

“Come on, sunshine,” Freddy said, and ground a knuckle into the small of Barbie’s back, just above the kidney. “Your suite awaits.”

11

Joe, Benny, and Norrie rode their bikes north along Route 119. The afternoon was summer-hot, the air hazy and humid. Not a breath of breeze stirred. Crickets sang dozily in the high weeds at the sides of the road. The sky at the horizon had a yellow look that Joe first took for clouds. Then he realized it was a mixture of pollen and pollution on the surface of the Dome. Out here, Prestile Stream ran close beside the highway, and they should have heard it chuckling as it sped southeast toward Castle Rock, eager to join the mighty Androscoggin, but they heard only the crickets and a few crows cawing lackadaisically in the trees.

They passed the Deep Cut Road, and came to the Black Ridge Road about a mile farther on. It was dirt, badly potholed, and marked with two leaning, frost-heaved signs. The one on the left read 4-WHEEL DRIVE RECOMMENDED. The one on the right added BRIDGE WEIGHT LIMIT 4 TONS LARGE TRUCKS POSTED. Both signs were riddled with bulletholes.

“I like a town where the folks take regular target practice,” Benny said. “Makes me feel safe from El Kliyder.”

“That’s Al Qaeda, nitboy,” Joe said.

Benny shook his head, smiling indulgently. “I’m talking about El Kliyder, the terrible Mexican bandit who has relocated to western Maine in order to avoid—”

“Let’s try the Geiger counter,” Norrie said, dismounting her bike.

It was back in the carrier of Benny’s High Plains Schwinn. They had nested it in a few old towels from Claire’s rag-basket. Benny took it out and handed it to Joe, its yellow case the brightest thing in that hazy landscape. Benny’s smile had disappeared. “You do it. I’m too nervous.”

Joe considered the Geiger counter, then handed it off to Norrie.

“Chickenshits,” she said, not unkindly, and turned it on. The needle swung immediately to +50. Joe stared at it and felt his heart suddenly bumping in his throat instead of his chest.

“Whoa!” Benny said. “We have liftoff!”

Norrie looked from the needle, which was steady (but still half a dial away from the red), to Joe. “Keep going?”

“Hell, yeah,” he said.

12

There was no power shortage at the Police Department—at least not yet. A green-tiled corridor ran the length of the basement beneath fluorescents that cast a depressingly changeless light. Dawn or midnight, it was always the blare of noon down here. Chief Randolph and Freddy Denton escorted (if such a word could be used, considering the fists clamped on his upper arms) Barbie down the steps. The two women officers, guns still drawn, followed behind.

To the left was the file room. To the right were five cells, two on each side and one at the very end. The last was the smallest, with a narrow bunk all but overhanging the seatless steel toilet, and this was the one toward which they frog-marched him.

On orders from Pete Randolph—who had gotten his from Big Jim—even the worst actors in the supermarket riot had been released on their own recognizance (where were they going to go?), and all the cells were supposed to be empty. So it was a surprise when Melvin Searles came bolting from number 4, where he had been lurking. The bandage wound around his head had slipped down and he was wearing sunglasses to mask two gaudily blackening eyes. In one hand he was carrying an athletic sock with something weighting the toe: a homemade blackjack. Barbie’s first, blurred impression was that he was about to be attacked by the Invisible Man.

“Bastard!” Mel shouted, and swung his cosh. Barbie ducked. It whizzed over his head, striking Freddy Denton on the shoulder. Freddy bellowed and let go of Barbie. Behind them, the women were shouting.

“Fuckin murderer! Who’d you pay to bust my head? Huh?” Mel swung again, and this time connected with the bicep of Barbie’s left arm. That arm seemed to fall dead. Not sand in the sock, but a paperweight of some kind. Glass or metal, probably, but at least it was round. If it had had an angle, he would be bleeding.

“You fuckin fucked-up fuck!” Mel roared, and swung the loaded sock again. Chief Randolph ducked backward, also letting go of Barbie. Barbie grabbed the top of the sock, wincing as the weight inside wound the bottom around his wrist. He pulled back hard, and managed to yank Mel Searles’s homemade weapon free. At the same time Mel’s bandage fell down over his dark glasses like a blindfold.

“Hold it, hold it!” Jackie Wettington cried. “Stop what you’re doing, prisoner, this is your only warning!”

Barbie felt a small cold circle form between his shoulder blades. He couldn’t see it, but knew without looking that Jackie had drawn her sidearm. If she shoots me, that’s where the bullet will go. And she might, because in a small town where big trouble’s almost a complete stranger, even the professionals are amateurs.

He dropped the sock. Whatever was in it clunked on the lino. Then he raised his hands. “Ma’am I have dropped it!” he called. “Ma’am, I am unarmed, please lower your weapon!”

Mel brushed the slipping bandage aside. It unrolled down his back like the tail of a swami’s turban. He hit Barbie twice, once in the solar plexus and once in the pit of the stomach. This time Barbie wasn’t prepared, and the air exploded out of his lungs with a harsh PAH sound. He doubled over, then went to his knees. Mel hammered a fist down on the nape of his neck—or maybe it was Freddy; for all Barbie knew, it could have been the Fearless Leader himself—and he went sprawling, the world growing thin and indistinct. Except for a chip in the linoleum. That he could see very well. With breathtaking clarity, in fact, and why not? It was less than an inch from his eyes.

“Stop it, stop it, stop hitting him!” The voice was coming from a great distance, but Barbie was pretty sure it belonged to Rusty’s wife. “He’s down, don’t you see he’s down?”

Feet shuffled around him in a complicated dance. Someone stepped on his ass, stumbled, cried “Oh fuck!” and then he was kicked in the hip. It was all happening far away. It might hurt later, but right now it wasn’t too bad.

Hands grabbed him and hauled him upright. Barbie tried to raise his head, but it was easier, on the whole, just to let it hang. He was propelled down the hall toward the final cell, the green lino sliding between his feet. What had Denton said upstairs? Your suite awaits.

But I doubt if there’s pillow mints or turndown service, Barbie thought. Nor did he care. All he wanted was to be left alone to lick his wounds.

Outside the cell someone put a shoe in his ass to hurry him along even more. He flew forward, raising his right arm to stop himself from crashing face-first into the green cinderblock wall. He tried to raise his left arm as well, but it was still dead from the elbow down. He managed to protect his head, though, and that was good. He rebounded, staggered, then went to his knees again, this time beside the cot, as if about to say a prayer prior to turning in. Behind him, the cell door rumbled shut along its track.

Barbie braced his hands on the bunk and pushed himself up, the left arm working a little now. He turned around just in time to see Randolph walking away in a pugnacious strut—fists clenched, head lowered. Beyond him, Denton was unwinding what remained of Searles’s bandage while Searles glared (the power of the glare somewhat vitiated by the sunglasses, now sitting askew on his nose). Beyond the male officers, at the foot of the stairs, were the women. They wore identical expressions of dismay and confusion. Linda Everett’s face was paler than ever, and Barbie thought he saw the gleam of tears in her lashes.

Barbie summoned all his will and called out to her. “Officer Everett!”

She jumped a little, startled. Had anyone ever called her Officer Everett before? Perhaps schoolchildren, when she pulled crossing-guard duty, which had probably been her heaviest responsibility as a part-time cop. Up until this week.

“Officer Everett! Ma’am! Please, ma’am!”

“Shut up!” Freddy Denton said.

Barbie paid him no mind. He thought he was going to pass out, or at least gray out, but for the time being he held on grimly.

“Tell your husband to examine the bodies! Mrs. Perkins’s in particular! Ma’am, he must examine the bodies! They won’t be at the hospital! Rennie won’t allow them to—”

Peter Randolph strode forward. Barbie saw what he had taken off Freddy Denton’s belt and tried to raise his arms across his face, but they were just too heavy.

“That’s enough out of you, son,” Randolph said. He shoved the Mace dispenser between the bars and squeezed the pistol grip.

13

Halfway over the rust-eaten Black Ridge Bridge, Norrie stopped her bike and stood looking at the far side of the cut.

“We better keep going,” Joe said. “Use the daylight while we’ve got it.”

“I know, but look,” Norrie said, pointing.

On the other bank, below a steep drop and sprawled on the drying mud where the Prestile had run full before the Dome began to choke its flow, were the bodies of four deer: a buck, two does, and a yearling. All were of good size; it had been a fine summer in The Mill, and they had fed well. Joe could see clouds of flies swarming above the carcasses, could even hear their somnolent buzz. It was a sound that would have been covered by running water on an ordinary day.

“What happened to them?” Benny asked. “Do you think it has anything to do with what we’re looking for?”

“If you’re talking about radiation,” Joe said, “I don’t think it works that fast.”

“Unless it’s really high radiation,” Norrie said uneasily.

Joe pointed at the Geiger counter’s needle. “Maybe, but this still isn’t very high. Even if it was all the way in the red, I don’t think it would kill animals as big as deer in only three days.”

Benny said, “That buck’s got a broken leg, you can see it from here.”

“I’m pretty sure one of the does has got two, ” Norrie said. She was shading her eyes. “The front ones. See how they’re bent?”

Joe thought the doe looked as if she had died while trying to do some strenuous gymnastic stunt.

“I think they jumped,” Norrie said. “Jumped off the bank like those little rat-guys are supposed to.”

“Lemons,” Benny said.

“Lem-mings, birdbrain,” Joe said.

“Trying to get away from something?” Norrie asked. “Is that what they were doing?”

Neither boy answered. Both looked younger than they had the week before, like children forced to listen to a campfire story that’s much too scary. The three of them stood by their bikes, looking at the dead deer and listening to the somnolent hum of the flies.

“Go on?” Joe asked.

“I think we have to,” Norrie said. She swung a leg over the fork of her bike and stood astride it.

“Right,” Joe said, and mounted his own bike.

“Ollie,” Benny said, “this is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” Benny said. “Ride, my soul brother, ride.”

On the far side of the bridge, they could see that all the deer had broken legs. One of the yearlings also had a crushed skull, probably suffered when it came down on a large boulder that would have been covered by water on an ordinary day.

“Try the Geiger counter again,” Joe said.

Norrie turned it on. This time the needle danced just below +75.

14

Pete Randolph exhumed an old cassette recorder from one of Duke Perkins’s desk drawers, tested it, and found the batteries still good. When Junior Rennie came in, Randolph pressed REC and set the little Sony on the corner of the desk where the young man could see it.

Junior’s latest migraine was down to a dull mutter on the left side of his head, and he felt calm enough; he and his father had been over this, and Junior knew what to say.

“It’ll be strictly softball,” Big Jim had said. “A formality.”

And so it was.

“How’d you find the bodies, son?” Randolph asked, rocking back in the swivel chair behind the desk. He had removed all of Perkins’s personal items and put them in a file cabinet on the other side of the room. Now that Brenda was dead, he supposed he could dump them in the trash. Personal effects were no good when there was no next of kin.

“Well,” Junior said, “I was coming back from patrol out on 117—I missed the whole supermarket thing—”

“Good luck for you,” Randolph said. “That was a total cock-and-balls, if you’ll pardon my fran-kays. Coffee?”

“No thanks, sir. I’m subject to migraines, and coffee seems to make them worse.”

“Bad habit, anyway. Not as bad as cigarettes, but bad. Did you know I smoked until I was Saved?”

“No, sir, I sure didn’t.” Junior hoped this idiot would stop blathering and let him tell his story so he could get out of here.

“Yep, by Lester Coggins.” Randolph splayed his hands on his chest. “Full-body immersion in the Prestile. Gave my heart to Jesus right then and there. I haven’t been as faithful a churchgoer as some, certainly not as faithful as your dad, but Reverend Coggins was a good man.” Randolph shook his head. “Dale Barbara’s got a lot on his conscience. Always assuming he has one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A lot to answer for, too. I gave him a shot of Mace, and that was just a small down payment on what he’s got coming. So. You were coming back from patrol and?”

“And I got to thinking that someone told me they’d seen Angie’s car in the garage. You know, the McCain garage.”

“Who told you that?”

“Frank?” Junior rubbed his temple. “I think maybe it was Frank.”

“Go on.”

“So anyway, I looked in one of the garage windows, and her car was there. I went to the front door and rang the bell, but nobody answered. Then I went around to the back because I was worried. There was… a smell.”

Randolph nodded sympathetically. “Basically, you just followed your nose. That was good police work, son.”

Junior looked at Randolph sharply, wondering if this was a joke or a sly dig, but the Chief’s eyes seemed to hold nothing but honest admiration. Junior realized that his father might have found an assistant (the first word actually to occur to him was accomplice) who was even dumber than Andy Sanders. He wouldn’t have thought that possible.

“Go on, finish up. I know this is painful to you. It’s painful to all of us.”

“Yes, sir. Basically it’s just what you said. The back door was unlocked, and I followed my nose straight to the pantry. I could hardly believe what I found there.”

“Did you see the dog tags then?”

“Yes. No. Kind of. I saw Angie had something in her hand… on a chain… but I couldn’t tell what it was, and I didn’t want to touch anything.” Junior looked down modestly. “I know I’m just a rookie.”

“Good call,” Randolph said. “Smart call. You know, we’d have a whole forensic team from the State Attorney General’s office in there under ordinary circumstances—really nail Barbara to the wall—but these aren’t ordinary circumstances. Still, we’ve got enough, I’d say. He was a fool to overlook those dog tags.”

“I used my cell phone and called my father. Based on all the radio chatter, I figured you’d be busy down here—”

“Busy?” Randolph rolled his eyes. “Son, you don’t know the half of it. You did the right thing calling your dad. He’s practically a member of the department.”

“Dad grabbed two officers, Fred Denton and Jackie Wettington, and they came on over to the McCains’ house. Linda Everett joined us while Freddy was photographing the crime scene. Then Stewart Bowie and his brother showed up with the funeral hack. My dad thought that was best, things being so busy at the hospital with the riot and all.”

Randolph nodded. “Just right. Help the living, store the dead. Who found the dog tags?”

“Jackie. She pushed Angie’s hand open with a pencil and they fell right out on the floor. Freddy took pictures of everything.”

“Helpful at a trial,” Randolph said. “Which we’ll have to handle ourselves, if this Dome thing doesn’t clear up. But we can. You know what the Bible says: With faith, we can move mountains. What time did you find the bodies, son?”

“Around noon.” After I took some time to say goodbye to my girlfriends.

“And you called your father right away?”

“Not right away.” Junior gave Randolph a frank stare. “First I had to go outside and vomit. They were beaten up so bad. I never saw anything like that in my life.” He let out a long sigh, being careful to put a small tremble in it. The tape recorder probably wouldn’t pick up that tremble, but Randolph would remember it. “When I was done heaving, that was when I called Dad.”

“Okay, I think that’s all I need.” No more questions about the timeline or about his “morning patrol”; not even a request for Junior to write up a report (which was good, since writing inevitably gave him a headache these days). Randolph leaned forward to snap off the tape recorder. “Thank you, Junior. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Go home and rest. You look beat.”

“I’d like to be here when you question him, sir. Barbara.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about missing that today. We’re going to give him twenty-four hours to stew in his own juices. Your dad’s idea, and a good one. We’ll question him tomorrow afternoon or tomorrow night, and you’ll be there. I give you my word. We’re going to question him vigorously. ”

“Yes, sir. Good.”

“None of this Miranda stuff.”

“No, sir.”

“And thanks to the Dome, no turning him over to the County Sheriff, either.” Randolph looked at Junior keenly. “Son, this is going to be a true case of what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

Junior didn’t know whether to say yes, sir or no, sir to that, because he had no idea what the idiot behind the desk was talking about.

Randolph held him with that keen glance a moment or two longer, as if to assure himself that they understood one another, then clapped his hands together once and stood up. “Go home, Junior. You’ve got to be shaken up a bit.”

“Yes, sir, I am. And I think I will. Rest, that is.”

“I had a pack of cigarettes in my pocket when Reverend Coggins dipped me,” Randolph said in a tone of fond-hearted reminiscence. He put an arm around Junior’s shoulders as they walked to the door. Junior retained his respectful, listening expression, but felt like screaming at the weight of that heavy arm. It was like wearing a meat necktie. “They were ruined, of course. And I never bought another pack. Saved from the devil’s weed by the Son of God. How’s that for grace?”

“Awesome,” Junior managed.

“Brenda and Angie will get most of the attention, of course, and that’s normal—prominent town citizen and young girl with her life ahead of her—but Reverend Coggins had his fans, too. Not to mention a large and loving congregation.”

Junior could see Randolph’s blunt-fingered hand from the corner of his left eye. He wondered what Randolph would do if he suddenly cocked his head around and bit it. Bit one of those fingers right off, maybe, and spat it on the floor.

“Don’t forget Dodee.” He had no idea why he said it, but it worked. Randolph’s hand dropped from his shoulder. The man looked thunderstruck. Junior realized he had forgotten Dodee.

“Oh God,” Randolph said. “Dodee. Has anyone called Andy and told him?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Your father will have, surely?”

“He’s been awfully busy.”

That was true. Big Jim was at home in his study, drafting his speech for the town meeting on Thursday night. The one that he’d give just before the townsfolk voted the Selectmen emergency governing powers for the duration of the crisis.

“I better call him,” Randolph said. “But maybe I’d better pray on it first. Do you want to get kneebound with me, son?”

Junior would have sooner poured lighter fluid down his pants and set his balls on fire, but didn’t say so. “Speak to God on your own, and you’ll hear Him answer more clearly. That’s what my dad always says.”

“All right, son. That’s good advice.”

Before Randolph could say any more, Junior slipped first out of the office, then out of the police station. He walked home, deep in thought, mourning his lost girlfriends and wondering if he could get another. Maybe more than one.

Under the Dome, all sorts of things might be possible.

15

Pete Randolph did try to pray, but there was too much on his mind. Besides, the Lord helped those who helped themselves. He didn’t think that was in the Bible, but it was true just the same. He called Andy Sanders’s cell from the list of numbers thumbtacked to the bulletin board on the wall. He hoped for no answer, but the guy picked up on the very first ring—wasn’t that always the way?

“Hello, Andy. Chief Randolph here. I’ve got some pretty tough news for you, my friend. Maybe you better sit down.”

It was a difficult conversation. Hellacious, actually. When it was finally over, Randolph sat drumming his fingers on his desk. He thought—again—that if Duke Perkins were the one sitting behind this desk, he wouldn’t be entirely sorry. Maybe not sorry at all. It had turned out to be a much harder and dirtier job than he had imagined. The private office wasn’t worth the aggravation. Even the green Chief’s car wasn’t; every time he got behind the wheel and his butt slipped into the hollow Duke’s meatier hindquarters had made before him, the same thought occurred: You’re not up to this.

Sanders was coming down here. He wanted to confront Barbara. Randolph had tried to talk him out of it, but halfway through his suggestion that Andy’s time would be better spent on his knees, praying for the souls of his wife and daughter—not to mention the strength to bear his cross—Andy had broken the connection.

Randolph sighed and punched up another number. After two rings, Big Jim’s ill-tempered voice was in his ear. “What? What? ”

“It’s me, Jim. I know you’re working and I hate to interrupt you, but could you come down here? I need help.”

16

The three children stood in the somehow depthless afternoon light, under a sky that now had a decided yellowish tinge, and looked at the dead bear at the foot of the telephone pole. The pole was leaning crookedly. Four feet up from its base, the creosoted wood was splintered and splashed with blood. Other stuff, too. White stuff that Joe supposed was fragments of bone. And grayish mealy stuff that had to be brai—

He turned around, trying to control his gorge. He almost had it, too, but then Benny threw up—a big wet yurp sound—and Norrie followed suit. Joe gave in and joined the club.

When they were under control again, Joe unslung his backpack, took out the bottles of Snapple, and handed them around. He used the first mouthful to rinse with, and spat it out. Norrie and Benny did the same. Then they drank. The sweet tea was warm, but it still felt like heaven on Joe’s raw throat.

Norrie took two cautious steps toward the black, fly-buzzing heap at the foot of the phone pole. “Like the deer,” she said. “Poor guy didn’t have any riverbank to jump over, so he beat his brains out on a phone-pole.”

“Maybe it had rabies,” Benny said in a thin voice. “Maybe the deer did, too.”

Joe guessed that was a technical possibility, but he didn’t believe it. “I’ve been thinking about this suicide thing.” He hated the tremble he heard in his voice, but couldn’t seem to do anything about it. “Whales and dolphins do it—they beach themselves, I’ve seen it on TV. And my dad says octopuses do it.”

“Pi,” Norrie said. “Octopi.”

“Whatever. My dad said when their environment gets polluted, they eat off their own tentacles.”

“Dude, do you want me to throw up again?” Benny asked. He sounded querulous and tired.

“Is that what’s going on here?” Norrie asked. “The environment’s polluted?”

Joe glanced up at the yellowish sky. Then he pointed southwest, where a hanging black residue from the fire started by the missile strike discolored the air. The smutch looked to be two or three hundred feet high and a mile across. Maybe more.

“Yes,” she said, “but that’s different. Isn’t it?”

Joe shrugged.

“If we’re gonna feel a sudden urge to kill ourselves, maybe we should go back,” Benny said. “I got a lot to live for. I still haven’t been able to beat Warhammer. ”

“Try the Geiger counter on the bear,” Norrie said.

Joe held the sensor tube out toward the bear’s carcass. The needle didn’t drop, but it didn’t rise either.

Norrie pointed east. Ahead of them, the road emerged from the thick band of black oak that gave the ridge its name. Once they were out of the trees, Joe thought they’d be able to see the apple orchard at the top.

“Let’s at least keep going until we’re out of the trees,” she said. “We’ll take a reading from there, and if it’s still going up, we’ll head back to town and tell Dr. Everett or that guy Barbara or both of them. Let them figure it out.”

Benny looked doubtful. “I don’t know.”

“If we feel anything weird, we’ll turn back right away,” Joe said.

“If it might help, we should do it,” Norrie said. “I want to get out of The Mill before I go completely stircrazy.”

She smiled to show this was a joke, but it didn’t sound like a joke, and Joe didn’t take it as one. Lots of people kidded about what a small burg The Mill was—it was probably why the James McMurtry song had been so popular—and it was, intellectually speaking, he supposed. Demographically, too. He could think of only one Asian American—Pamela Chen, who sometimes helped Lissa Jamieson out at the library—and there were no black people at all since the Laverty family had moved to Auburn. There was no McDonald’s, let alone a Starbucks, and the movie theater was closed down. But until now it had always felt geographically big to him, with plenty of room to roam. It was amazing how much it shrank in his mind once he realized that he and his mom and dad couldn’t just pile into the family car and drive to Lewiston for fried clams and ice cream at Yoder’s. Also, the town had plenty of resources, but they wouldn’t last forever.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s important. Worth the risk. At least I think so. You can stay here if you want to, Benny. This part of the mission is strictly volunteer.”

“No, I’m in,” Benny said. “If I let you guys go without me, you’d rank me to the dogs and back.”

“You’re already there!” Joe and Norrie yelled in unison, then looked at each other and laughed.

17

“That’s right, cry!”

The voice was coming from far away. Barbie struggled toward it, but it was hard to open his burning eyes.

“You’ve got a lot to cry about!”

The person making these declarations sounded like he was crying himself. And the voice was familiar. Barbie tried to see, but his lids felt swollen and heavy. The eyes beneath were pulsing with his heartbeat. His sinuses were so full his ears crackled when he swallowed.

“Why did you kill her? Why did you kill my baby?”

Some sonofabitch Maced me. Denton? No, Randolph.

Barbie managed to open his eyes by placing the heels of his hands over his eyebrows and shoving upward. He saw Andy Sanders standing outside the cell with tears rolling down his cheeks. And what was Sanders seeing? A guy in a cell, and a guy in a cell always looked guilty.

Sanders screamed, “She was all I had!”

Randolph stood behind him, looking embarrassed and shuffling like a kid twenty minutes overdue for a bathroom pass. Even with his eyes burning and his sinuses pounding, Barbie wasn’t surprised that Randolph had let Sanders come down here. Not because Sanders was the town’s First Selectman, but because Peter Randolph found it almost impossible to say no.

“Now, Andy,” Randolph said. “That’s enough. You wanted to see him and I let you, even though it was against my better judgment. He’s jugged good and proper, and he’ll pay the price for what he did. So now come on upstairs and I’ll pour you a cup of—”

Andy grabbed the front of Randolph’s uniform. He was four inches shorter, but Randolph still looked scared. Barbie didn’t blame him. He was viewing the world through a deep red film, but he could see Andy Sanders’s fury clearly enough.

“Give me your gun! A trial’s too good for him! He’s apt to get off, anyway! He’s got friends in high places, Jim says so! I want some satisfaction! I deserve some satisfaction, so give me your gun!”

Barbie didn’t think Randolph’s desire to please would go so far as handing over his weapon so that Andy could shoot him in this cell like a rat in a rainbarrel, but he wasn’t entirely sure; there might be a reason other than the craven need to please that had caused Randolph to bring Sanders down here, and to bring him down alone.

He struggled to his feet. “Mr. Sanders.” Some of the Mace had gotten into his mouth. His tongue and throat were swollen, his voice an unconvincing nasal croak. “I did not kill your daughter, sir. I did not kill anyone. If you think about this you’ll see that your friend Rennie needs a scapegoat and I’m the most convenient—”

But Andy was in no shape to think about anything. He dropped his hands to Randolph’s holster and began clawing at the Glock there. Alarmed, Randolph struggled to keep it where it was.

At that moment, a large-bellied figure descended the stairs, moving gracefully despite his bulk.

“Andy!” Big Jim boomed. “Andy, pal—come here!”

He opened his arms. Andy stopped struggling for the gun and rushed to him like a weeping child to the arms of his father. And Big Jim enfolded him.

“I want a gun!” Andy babbled, lifting his tear-streaked, snot-creamy face to Big Jim’s. “Get me a gun, Jim! Now! Right now! I want to shoot him for what he did! It’s my right as a father! He killed my baby girl!”

“Maybe not just her,” Big Jim said. “Maybe not just Angie, Lester, and poor Brenda, either.”

This halted the verbal flood. Andy stared up into Big Jim’s slab of a face, dumbfounded. Fascinated.

“Maybe your wife, too. Duke. Myra Evans. All the others.”

“Wha…”

“Somebody’s responsible for the Dome, pal—am I right?”

“Ye…” Andy was capable of no more, but Big Jim nodded benignly.

“And it seems to me that the people who did it had to have at least one inside man. Someone to stir the pot. And who’s better at pot-stirring than a short-order cook?” He put an arm around Andy’s shoulder and led him to Chief Randolph. Big Jim glanced back at Barbie’s red and swollen face as if looking at some species of bug. “We’ll find proof. I have no doubt of it. He’s already demonstrated he’s not smart enough to cover his tracks.”

Barbie fixed his attention on Randolph. “This is a setup,” he said in his nasal foghorning voice. “It might have started just because Rennie needed to cover his ass, but now it’s just a naked power-grab. You may not be expendable yet, Chief, but when you are, you’ll go, too.”

“Shut up,” Randolph said.

Rennie was stroking Andy’s hair. Barbie thought of his mother and how she used to stroke their cocker spaniel, Missy, when Missy got old and stupid and incontinent. “He’ll pay the price, Andy—you have my word on that. But first we’re going to get all the details: the what, the when, the why, and who else was involved. Because he’s not in it alone, you can bet your rooty-toot on that. He’s got accomplices. He’ll pay the price, but first we’re going to wring him dry of information.”

“What price?” Andy asked. He was looking up at Big Jim almost rapturously now. “What price will he pay?”

“Well, if he knows how to lift the Dome—and I wouldn’t put it past him—I guess we’ll have to be satisfied with seeing him in Shawshank. Life without parole.”

“Not good enough,” Andy whispered.

Rennie was still stroking Andy’s head. “If the Dome doesn’t let go?” He smiled. “In that case, we’ll have to try him ourselves. And when we find him guilty, we’ll execute him. Do you like that better?”

“Much,” Andy whispered.

“So do I, pal.”

Stroking. Stroking.

“So do I.”

18

They came out of the woods three abreast and stopped, looking up at the orchard.

“There’s something up there!” Benny said. “I see it!” His voice sounded excited, but to Joe it also sounded strangely far away.

“So do I,” Norrie said. “It looks like a… a…” Radio beacon were the words she wanted to say, but she never got them out. She managed only an rrr-rrr-rrr sound, like a toddler playing trucks in a sandpile. Then she fell off her bike and lay on the road with her arms and legs jerking.

“Norrie?” Joe looked down at her—more with bemusement than alarm—then up at Benny. Their eyes met for just a moment and then Benny also toppled, pulling his bike over on top of him. He began to thrash, kicking the High Plains off to one side. The Geiger counter flew into the ditch dial-side down.

Joe tottered toward it and reached out an arm that seemed to stretch like rubber. He turned the yellow box over. The needle had jumped to +200, just below the red danger zone. He saw this, then fell into a black hole full of orange flames. He thought they were coming from a huge heap of pumpkins—a funeral pyre of blazing jack-o-lanterns. Somewhere voices were calling: lost and terrified. Then the darkness swallowed him.

19

When Julia came into the Democrat office after leaving the supermarket, Tony Guay, the former sports reporter who was now the entire news department, was typing on his laptop. She handed him the camera and said, “Stop what you’re doing and print these.”

She sat down at her computer to write her story. She’d been holding the open in her head all the way up Main Street: Ernie Calvert, the former manager of Food City, called for people to come in the back. He said he had opened the doors for them. But by then it was too late. The riot was on. It was a good lead. The problem was, she couldn’t write it. She kept hitting all the wrong keys.

“Go upstairs and lie down,” Tony said.

“No, I have to write—”

“You’re not going to write anything like you are. You’re shaking like a leaf. It’s shock. Lie down for an hour. I’ll print the pictures and send them to your computer desktop. Transcribe your notes, too. Go on up.”

She didn’t like what he was saying, but recognized the wisdom of it. Only it turned out to be more than an hour. She hadn’t slept well since Friday night, which seemed a century ago, and she had no more than put her head on the pillow before she fell into a deep sleep.

When she woke up, she saw with panic that the shadows in her bedroom had grown long. It was late afternoon. And Horace! He would’ve wet in some corner and would give her his most shame-faced look, as though it were his fault instead of hers.

She slipped on her sneakers, hurried into the kitchen, and found her Corgi not by the door, whining to go out, but peacefully asleep on his blanket bed between the stove and the refrigerator. There was a note on the kitchen table, propped up against the salt and pepper shakers.

Julia, not wanting Horace to forget she was a part of his life, woke him up long enough for him to gobble half a Beggin’ Strip, then went downstairs to punch up the news story and write the editorial Tony and Pete were suggesting. Just as she was starting, her cell rang.

“Shumway, Democrat. ”

“Julia!” It was Pete Freeman. “I think you better get down here. Marty Arsenault’s on the desk and he won’t let me in. Told me to wait out-goddam-side! He’s no cop, just a dumb pulp-jockey who picks up a little side-money directing traffic in the summertime, but now he’s acting like Chief Big Dick of Horny Mountain.”

“Pete, I’ve got a ton of stuff to do here, so unless—”

“Brenda Perkins is dead. So are Angie McCain, Dodee Sanders—”

“What?” She stood up so suddenly her chair tipped over.

“—and Lester Coggins. They were killed. And get this—Dale Barbara’s been arrested for the murders. He’s in jail downstairs.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Ahh, fuck,” Pete said. “Here comes Andy Sanders, and he’s cryin his goddam eyes out. Should I try for a comment, or—”

“Not if the man lost his daughter three days after losing his wife. We’re not the New York Post. I’ll be right there.”

She broke the connection without waiting for a reply. Initially she felt calm enough; she even remembered to lock up the office. But once she was on the sidewalk, in the heat and under that tobacco-stained sky, her calm broke and she began to run.

20

Joe, Norrie, and Benny lay twitching on the Black Ridge Road in sunlight that was too diffuse. Heat that was too hot blared down on them. A crow, not in the least suicidal, landed on a telephone wire and gazed at them with bright, intelligent eyes. It cawed once, then flapped away through the strange afternoon air.

“Halloween,” Joe muttered.

“Make them stop screaming,” Benny groaned.

“No sun,” Norrie said. Her hands groped at the air. She was crying. “No sun, oh my God, there’s no more sun.”

At the top of Black Ridge, in the apple orchard that overlooked all of Chester’s Mill, a brilliant mauve light flashed.

Every fifteen seconds, it flashed again.

21

Julia hurried up the police station steps, her face still puffy from sleep, her hair standing up in back. When Pete made to fall in beside her, she shook her head. “Better stay here. I may call you in when I get the interview.”

“Love the positive thinking, but don’t hold your breath,” Pete said. “Not long after Andy showed up, guess who?” He pointed at the Hummer parked in front of a fire hydrant. Linda Everett and Jackie Wettington were standing near it, deep in conversation. Both women looked seriously freaked out.

Inside the station, Julia was first struck by how warm it was—the air-conditioning had been turned off, presumably to save juice. Next, by the number of young men who were sitting around, including two of the God-knew-how-many Killian brothers—there was no mistaking those long beaks and bullet heads. The young men all seemed to be filling out forms. “What if you didn’t have no last place of employment?” one asked another.

There was tearful shouting from downstairs: Andy Sanders.

Julia headed toward the ready room, where she had been a frequent visitor over the years, even a contributor to the coffee-and donuts fund (a wicker basket). She had never been stopped before, but this time Marty Arsenault said, “You can’t go back there, Miz Shumway. Orders.” He spoke in an apologetic, conciliatory voice he probably had not used with Pete Freeman.

Just then Big Jim Rennie and Andy Sanders came up the stairs from what Mill PD officers called the Chicken Coop. Andy was crying. Big Jim had an arm around him and was speaking soothingly. Peter Randolph came behind them. Randolph’s uniform was resplendent, but the face above it was that of a man who has barely escaped a bomb-blast.

“Jim! Pete!” Julia called. “I want to talk to you, for the Democrat!”

Big Jim turned around long enough to give her a glance that said people in hell wanted icewater, too. Then he began leading Andy toward the Chief’s office. Rennie was talking about praying.

Julia tried to bolt past the desk. Still looking apologetic, Marty grabbed her arm.

She said, “When you asked me to keep that little altercation with your wife last year out of the paper, Marty, I did. Because you would have lost your job otherwise. So if you’ve got an ounce of gratitude in you, let me go. ”

Marty let her go. “I tried to stop you but you wouldn’t listen,” he muttered. “Remember that.”

Julia trotted across the ready room. “Just a damn minute,” she said to Big Jim. “You and Chief Randolph are town officials, and you’re going to talk to me.”

This time the look Big Jim gave her was angry as well as contemptuous. “No. We’re not. You have no business back here.”

“But he does?” she asked, and nodded to Andy Sanders. “If what I’m hearing about Dodee is right, he’s the last person who should have been allowed downstairs.”

“That sonofabitch killed my precious girl!” Andy bawled.

Big Jim jabbed a finger at Julia. “You’ll get the story when we’re ready to give it out. Not before.”

“I want to see Barbara.”

“He’s under arrest for four murders. Are you insane?”

“If the father of one of his supposed victims can get downstairs to see him, why not me?”

“Because you’re neither a victim nor a next of kin,” Big Jim said. His upper lip rose, exposing his teeth.

“Does he have a lawyer?”

“I’m done talking to you, wom—”

“He doesn’t need a lawyer, he needs to be hung! HE KILLED MY PRECIOUS GIRL!”

“Come on, pal,” Big Jim said. “We’ll take it to the Lord in prayer.”

“What kind of evidence do you have? Has he confessed? If he hasn’t, what kind of alibi has he offered? How does it match up with the times of death? Do you even know the times of death? If the bodies were just discovered, how can you? Were they shot, or stabbed, or—”

“Pete, get rid of this rhymes-with-witch,” Big Jim said without turning around. “If she won’t go on her own, throw her out. And tell whoever’s on the desk that he’s fired.”

Marty Arsenault winced and passed a hand over his eyes. Big Jim escorted Andy into the Chief’s office and closed the door.

“Is he charged?” Julia asked Randolph. “You can’t charge him without a lawyer, you know. It isn’t legal.”

And although he still didn’t look dangerous, only stunned, Pete Randolph said something that chilled her heart. “Until the Dome goes away, Julia, I guess legal is whatever we decide it is.”

“When were they killed? Tell me that much, anyhow.”

“Well, it looks like the two girls were fir—”

The office door opened, and she had no doubt at all that Big Jim had been standing on the other side, listening. Andy was sitting behind what was now Randolph’s desk with his face in his hands.

“Get her out!” Big Jim snarled. “I don’t want to have to tell you again.”

“You can’t hold him incommunicado, and you can’t deny information to the people of this town!” Julia shouted.

“You’re wrong on both counts,” Big Jim said. “Have you ever heard that saying, ‘If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem?’ Well, you’re not solving anything by being here. You’re a tiresome noseyparker. You always were. And if you don’t leave, you’re going to be arrested. Fair warning.”

“Fine! Arrest me! Stick me in a cell downstairs!” She held out her hands with the wrists together, as if for handcuffs.

For one moment, she thought Jim Rennie was going to hit her. The desire to do so was clear on his face. Instead, he spoke to Pete Randolph. “For the last time, get this noseyparker out of here. If she resists, throw her out.” And he slammed the door.

Not meeting her eyes and with his cheeks the color of freshly fired brick, Randolph took her arm. This time, Julia went. As she passed the duty desk, Marty Arsenault said—more in disconsolation than anger—“Now look. I lost my job to one of these thuds, who don’t know their asses from their elbows.”

“You won’t lose your job, Marts,” Randolph said. “I can talk him around.”

A moment later, she was outside, blinking in the sunlight.

“So,” Pete Freeman said. “How’d that go?”

22

Benny was the first to come out of it. And aside from being hot—his shirt was stuck to his less-than-heroic chest—he felt okay. He crawled to Norrie and shook her. She opened her eyes and looked at him, dazed. Her hair was clumped to her sweaty cheeks.

“What happened?” she asked. “I must have fallen asleep. I had a dream, only I can’t remember what it was. It was bad, though. I know that.”

Joe McClatchey rolled over and pushed himself to his knees.

“Jo-Jo?” Benny asked. He hadn’t called his friend Jo-Jo since fourth grade. “You okay?”

“Yeah. The pumpkins were on fire.”

“What pumpkins?”

Joe shook his head. He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that he wanted to grab some shade and drink the rest of his Snapple. Then he thought of the Geiger counter. He fished it out of the ditch and saw with relief that it was still working—they’d built things tough in the twentieth century, it seemed.

He showed Benny the +200 reading, and tried to show Norrie, but she was looking up the slope of Black Ridge to the orchard at the top.

“What’s that?” she asked, and pointed.

Joe initially saw nothing. Then a bright purple light flashed out. It was almost too bright to look at. Shortly thereafter, it flashed again. He looked down at his watch, wanting to time the flashes, but his watch had stopped at 4:02.

“I think it’s what we were looking for,” he said, getting to his feet. He expected his legs to feel rubbery, but they didn’t. Except for being too hot, he felt pretty much okay. “Now let’s get the hell out of here before it makes us sterile, or something.”

“Dude,” Benny said. “Who wants kids? They might turn out like me.” Nevertheless, he mounted his bike.

They rode back the way they came, not stopping to rest and drink until they were over the bridge and back to Route 119.