Under the Dome

1

Sweetbriar was closed until 5 PM, at which time Rose planned to offer a light supper, mostly leftovers. She was making potato salad and keeping an eye on the TV over the counter when the knocking on the door started. It was Jackie Wettington, Ernie Calvert, and Julia Shumway. Rose crossed the empty restaurant, wiping her hands on her apron, and unlocked the door. Horace the Corgi trotted at Julia’s heel, ears up, grinning companionably. Rose made sure the CLOSED sign was still in place, then relocked the door behind them.

“Thanks,” Jackie said.

“Not at all,” Rose replied. “I wanted to see you anyway.”

“We came for that,” Jackie said, and pointed to the TV. “I was at Ernie’s, and we met Julia on our way here. She was sitting across the street from her place, mooning at the wreckage.”

“I was not mooning,” Julia said. “Horace and I were trying to figure how we’re going to get a paper out after the town meeting. It’ll have to be small—probably just two pages—but there will be a paper. My heart is set on it.”

Rose glanced back at the TV. On it, a pretty young woman was doing a stand-up. Beneath her was a banner reading EARLIER TODAY COURTESY ABC. All at once there was a bang and a fire-ball bloomed in the sky. The reporter flinched, cried out, wheeled around. By that point her cameraman was already zooming her out of the picture, homing in on the earthbound fragments of the Air Ireland jet.

“There’s nothing but reruns of the plane-crash footage,” Rose said. “If you haven’t seen it before, be my guest. Jackie, I saw Barbie late this morning—I took him some sandwiches and they let me go downstairs to where the cells are. I had Melvin Searles as my chaperone.”

“Lucky you,” Jackie said.

“How is he?” Julia asked. “Is he okay?”

“He looks like the wrath of God, but I think so, yes. He said… maybe I should tell you privately, Jackie.”

“Whatever it is, I think you can say it in front of Ernie and Julia.” Rose considered this, but only for a moment. If Ernie Calvert and Julia Shumway weren’t all right, nobody was. “He said I was supposed to talk to you. Make up with you, as if we’d had a fight. He said to tell you that I’m all right.”

Jackie turned to Ernie and Julia. It seemed to Rose that a question was asked and answered. “If Barbie says you are, then you are,” Jackie said, and Ernie nodded emphatically. “Hon, we’re putting together a little meeting tonight. At the Congo parsonage. It’s kind of a secret—”

“Not kind of, it is, ” Julia said. “And given the way things are in town right now, the secret better not get out.”

“If it’s about what I think it’s about, I’m in.” Then Rose lowered her voice. “But not Anson. He’s wearing one of those goddam arm-bands.”

Just then the CNN BREAKING NEWS logo came on the TV screen, accompanied by the annoying minor-key disaster music the network was now playing with each new Dome story. Rose expected either Anderson Cooper or her beloved Wolfie—both were now based in Castle Rock—but it was Barbara Starr, the network’s Pentagon correspondent. She was standing outside the tent-and-trailer village serving as the Army’s forward base in Harlow.

“Don, Kyra—Colonel James O. Cox, the Pentagon’s point man since the mammoth mystery known as the Dome came into being last Saturday, is about to speak to the press for only the second time since this crisis began. The subject was announced to reporters just moments ago, and it’s sure to galvanize the tens of thousands of Americans with loved ones in the beleaguered town of Chester’s Mill. We were told—” She listened to something in her earpiece. “Here’s Colonel Cox.”

The four in the restaurant sat on stools at the counter, watching as the picture switched to the inside of a large tent. There were perhaps forty reporters seated in folding chairs, and more standing in the back. They were murmuring among themselves. A makeshift stage had been set up at one end of the tent. On it was a podium festooned with microphones and flanked by American flags. There was a white screen behind it.

“Pretty professional, for an on-the-fly operation,” Ernie said.

“Oh, I think this has been in the works,” Jackie said. She was recalling her conversation with Cox. We’re going to do our level best to make Rennie’s life uncomfortable, he’d said.

A flap opened to the left side of the tent, and a short, fit-looking man with graying hair strode briskly to the makeshift stage. No one had thought to put down a couple of stairs or even a box to stand on, but this presented no problem to the featured speaker; he hopped up easily, not even breaking stride. He was dressed in plain khaki BDUs. If he had medals, they weren’t in evidence. There was nothing on his shirt but a strip reading COL. J. COX. He held no notes. The reporters quieted immediately, and Cox gave them a little smile.

“This guy should have been holding press conferences all along,” Julia said. “He looks good. ”

“Hush, Julia,” Rose said.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Cox said. “I’ll be brief, and then I’ll take a few questions. The situation as regards Chester’s Mill and what we’re all now calling the Dome is as it was: the town continues to be cut off, we still have no idea about what is causing this situation or what brought it about, and we have as yet had no success in breaching the barrier. You would know, of course, if we had. The best scientists in America—the best in the entire world—are on the case, however, and we’re considering a number of options. Do not ask me about these, because you’ll get no answers at this time.”

The reporters murmured discontentedly. Cox let them. Below him, the CNN super switched to NO ANSWERS AT THIS TIME. When the murmuring died, Cox went on.

“As you’re aware, we have established a no-go zone around the Dome, initially of a mile, expanded to two on Sunday and four on Tuesday. There were a number of reasons for this, the most important being that the Dome is dangerous to people with certain implants, such as pacemakers. A second reason is that we were concerned the field generating the Dome might have other harmful effects which would be less clearly recognized.”

“Are you talking about radiation, Colonel?” someone called.

Cox froze him with a glance, and when he seemed to consider the reporter properly chastised (not Wolfie, Rose was pleased to see, but that half-bald no-spin yapper from FOX News), he went on.

“We now believe that there are no harmful effects, at least in the short term, and so we have designated Friday, October twenty-seventh—the day after tomorrow—as Visitors Day at the Dome.”

A perfect fury of thrown questions went up at this. Cox waited it out, and when the audience had quieted down, he took a remote from the shelf under the podium and pressed a button. A high-resolution photograph (much too good to have been downloaded from Google Earth, in Julia’s estimation) popped up on the white screen. It showed The Mill and both towns to the south, Motton and Castle Rock. Cox put down the controller and produced a laser-pointer.

The super at the bottom of the screen now read FRIDAY DESIGNATED VISATORS DAY AT THE DOME. Julia smiled. Colonel Cox had caught CNN with its spell-checker down.

“We believe we can process and accommodate twelve hundred visitors,” Cox said crisply. “These will be limited to close relatives, at least this time… and all of us hope and pray there will never have to be a next time. Rally points will be here, at the Castle Rock Fair-grounds, and here, at Oxford Plains Speedway.” He highlighted both locations. “We will lay on two dozen buses, twelve at each location. These will be provided by six surrounding school districts, which are canceling classes that day to help in this effort, and we offer them our greatest thanks. A twenty-fifth bus will be available for press at Shiner’s Bait and Tackle in Motton.” Dryly: “Since Shiner’s is also an agency liquor store, I’m sure most of you know it. There will also be one, I repeat, one, video truck allowed on this trip. You’ll arrange pool coverage, ladies and gentlemen, the coverage provider to be chosen by lottery.”

A groan went up at this, but it was perfunctory.

“There are forty-eight seats on the press bus, and obviously there are hundreds of press representatives here, from all over the world—”

“Thousands!” a gray-haired man shouted, and there was general laughter.

“Boy, I’m glad someone’s havin fun,” Ernie Calvert said bitterly.

Cox allowed himself a smile. “I stand corrected, Mr. Gregory. Seats will be allocated according to your news organization—TV networks, Reuters, Tass, AP, and so on—and it’s up to those organizations to pick their representatives.”

“Better be Wolfie from CNN, that’s all I can say,” Rose announced.

The reporters were babbling excitedly.

“May I go on?” Cox asked. “And those of you sending text messages, kindly stop.”

“Ooo,” Jackie said. “I love a forceful man.”

“Surely you folks recall that you’re not the story here? Would you behave this way if it was a mine cave-in, or people trapped under collapsed buildings after an earthquake?”

Silence greeted this, the kind that falls over a fourth-grade class after the teacher finally loses his temper. He really was forceful, Julia thought, and for a moment wished with all her heart that Cox were here under the Dome, and in charge. But of course, if pigs had wings, bacon would be airborne.

“Your job, ladies and gentlemen, is twofold: to help us get the word out, and to make sure that things go smoothly on Visitors Day once it does.”

The CNN super became PRESS TO AID VISATORS ON FRIDAY.

“The last thing we want to do is start a stampede of relations from all over the country to western Maine. We’ve already got close to ten thousand relatives of those trapped under the Dome in this immediate area; the hotels, motels, and camping areas are full to bursting. The message to relatives in other parts of the country is, ‘If you’re not here, don’t come.’ Not only will you not be granted a visitors’ pass, you’ll be turned around at checkpoints here, here, here, and here.” He highlighted Lewiston, Auburn, North Windham, and Conway, New Hampshire.

“Relatives currently in the area should procede to registration officers who are already standing by at the Fairgrounds and the Speed-way. If you’re planning to jump into your car right this minute, don’t. This isn’t the Filene’s White Sale, and being first in line guarantees you nothing. Visitors will be chosen by lottery, and you must register to get in. Those applying to visit will need two photo IDs. We’ll attempt to give priority to visitors with two or more relatives in The Mill, but no promises on that. And a warning, people: if you show up on Friday to board one of the buses and you have no pass or a counterfeit pass—if you clog up our operation, in other words—you’ll find yourself in jail. Do not test us on this.

“Embarkation on Friday morning will commence at 0800 hours. If this goes smoothly, you’ll have at least four hours with your loved ones, maybe longer. Gum up the works and everyone’s time Domeside goes down. Buses will depart the Dome at seventeen hundred hours.”

“What’s the visitors’ site?” a woman shouted.

“I was just getting to that, Andrea.” Cox picked up his controller and zoomed in on Route 119. Jackie knew the area well; she had damned near broken her nose on the Dome out there. She could see the roofs of the Dinsmore farmhouse, outbuildings, and dairy barns.

“There’s a flea market site on the Motton side of the Dome.” Cox binged it with his pointer. “The buses will park there. Visitors will debark and walk to the Dome. There’s plenty of field on both sides where people can gather. All the wreckage out there has been removed.”

“Will the visitors be allowed to go all the way up to the Dome?” a reporter asked.

Cox once more faced the camera, addressing the potential visitors directly. Rose could just imagine the hope and fear those people—watching in bars and motel TVs, listening on their car radios—must be feeling right now. She felt plenty of both herself.

“Visitors will be allowed within two yards of the Dome,” Cox said. “We consider that a safe distance, although we make no guarantees. This isn’t an amusement park ride that’s been safety-tested. People with electronic implants must stay away. You’re on your own with that; we can’t check each and every chest for a pacemaker scar. Visitors will also leave all electronic devices, including but not limited to iPods, cell phones, and Blackberries, on the buses. Reporters with mikes and cameras will be kept at a distance. The close-up space is for the visitors, and what goes on between them and their loved ones is no one’s business but their own. People, this will work if you help us make it work. If I can put it in Star Trek terms, help us make it so.” He put the pointer down. “Now I’ll take a few questions. A very few. Mr. Blitzer.”

Rose’s face lit up. She raised a fresh cup of coffee and toasted the TV screen with it. “Lookin good, Wolfie! You can eat crackers in my bed anytime you want.”

“Colonel Cox, are there any plans to add a press conference with the town officials? We understand that Second Selectman James Rennie is the actual man in charge. What’s going on with that?”

“We are trying to make a press conference happen, with Mr. Rennie and any other town officials who might be in attendance. That would be at noon, if things run to the schedule we have in mind.”

A round of spontaneous applause from the reporters greeted this. There was nothing they liked better than a press conference, unless it was a high-priced politician caught in bed with a high-priced whore.

Cox said, “Ideally, the presser will take place right there on the road, with the town spokespersons, whoever they might be, on their side and you ladies and gentlemen on this one.”

Excited gabble. They liked the visual possibilities.

Cox pointed. “Mr. Holt.”

Lester Holt from NBC shot to his feet. “How sure are you that Mr. Rennie will attend? I ask because there have been reports of financial mismanagement on his part, and some sort of criminal investigation into his affairs by the State of Maine Attorney General.”

“I’ve heard those reports,” Cox said. “I’m not prepared to comment on them, although Mr. Rennie may want to.” He paused, not quite smiling. “I’d certainly want to.”

“Rita Braver, Colonel Cox, CBS. Is it true that Dale Barbara, the man you tapped as emergency administrator in Chester’s Mill, has been arrested for murder? That the Chester’s Mill police in fact believe him to be a serial killer?”

Total silence from the press; nothing but attentive eyes. The same was true of the four people seated at the counter in Sweetbriar Rose.

“It’s true,” Cox said. A muted mutter went up from the assembled reporters. “But we have no way of verifying the charges or vetting whatever evidence there may be. What we have is the same telephone and Internet chatter you ladies and gentlemen are no doubt getting. Dale Barbara is a decorated officer. He’s never been arrested. I have known him for many years and vouched for him to the President of the United States. I have no reason to say I made a mistake based on what I know at this time.”

“Ray Suarez, Colonel, PBS. Do you believe the charges against Lieutenant Barbara—now Colonel Barbara—may have been politically motivated? That James Rennie may have had him jailed to keep him from taking control as the President ordered?”

And that’s what the second half of this dog-and-pony show is all about, Julia realized. Cox has turned the news media into the Voice of America, and we’re the people behind the Berlin Wall. She was all admiration.

“If you have a chance to question Selectman Rennie on Friday, Mr. Suarez, you be sure to ask him that.” Cox spoke with a kind of stony calm. “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s all I have.”

He strode off as briskly as he’d entered, and before the assembled reporters could even begin shouting more questions, he was gone.

“Holy wow,” Ernie murmured.

“Yeah,” Jackie said.

Rose killed the TV. She looked glowing, energized. “What time is this meeting? I don’t regret a thing that Colonel Cox said, but this could make Barbie’s life more difficult.”

2

Barbie found out about Cox’s press conference when a red-faced Manuel Ortega came downstairs and told him. Ortega, formerly Alden Dinsmore’s hired man, was now wearing a blue workshirt, a tin badge that looked homemade, and a.45 hung on a second belt that had been buckled low on his hips, gunslinger-style. Barbie knew him as a mild fellow with thinning hair and perpetually sunburned skin who liked to order breakfast for dinner—pancakes, bacon, eggs over easy—and talk about cows, his favorite being the Belted Galloways that he could never persuade Mr. Dinsmore to buy. He was Yankee to the core in spite of his name, and had a dry Yankee sense of humor. Barbie had always liked him. But this was a different Manuel, a stranger with all the good humor boiled dry. He brought news of the latest development, most of it shouted through the bars and accompanied by a considerable dose of flying spit. His face was nearly radioactive with rage.

“Not a word about how they found your dog tags in that poor girl’s hand, not word-fucking-one about that! And then the tin-pants bastid went and took after Jim Rennie, who’s held this town together by himself since this happened! By himself! With SPIT and BALING WIRE!”

“Take it easy, Manuel,” Barbie said.

“That’s Officer Ortega to you, motherfucker!”

“Fine. Officer Ortega.” Barbie was sitting on the bunk and thinking about just how easy it would be for Ortega to unholster the elderly.45 Schofield on his belt and start shooting. “I’m in here, Rennie’s out there. As far as he’s concerned, I’m sure it’s all good.”

“SHUT UP!” Manuel screamed. “We’re ALL in here! All under the fucking Dome! Alden don’t do nothing but drink, the boy that’s left won’t eat, and Miz Dinsmore never stops crying over Rory. Jack Evans blew his brains out, do you know that? And those military pukes out there can’t think of anything better to do than sling mud. A lot of lies and trumped-up stories while you start supermarket riots and then burn down our newspaper! Probably so Miz Shumway couldn’t publish WHAT YOU ARE! ”

Barbie kept silent. He thought that one word spoken in his own defense would get him shot for sure.

“This is how they get any politician they don’t like,” Manuel said. “They want a serial killer and a rapist—one who rapes the dead—in charge instead of a Christian? That’s a new low.”

Manuel drew his gun, lifted it, pointed it through the bars. To Barbie the hole at the end looked as big as a tunnel entrance.

“If the Dome comes down before you been stood up against the nearest wall and ventilated,” Manuel continued, “I’ll take a minute to do the job myself. I’m head of the line, and right now in The Mill, the line waiting to do you is a long one.”

Barbie kept silent and waited to die or keep on drawing breath. Rose Twitchell’s BLTs were trying to crowd back up his throat and choke him.

“We’re trying to survive and all they can do is dirty up the man who’s keeping this town out of chaos.” He abruptly shoved the oversized pistol back into its holster. “Fuck you. You’re not worth it.”

He turned and strode back toward the stairs, head down and shoulders hunched.

Barbie leaned back against the wall and let out a breath. There was sweat on his forehead. The hand he lifted to wipe it off was shaking.

3

When Romeo Burpee’s van turned into the McClatchey driveway, Claire rushed out of the house. She was weeping.

“Mom!” Joe shouted, and was out even before Rommie could come to a complete stop. The others piled out after. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Claire sobbed, grabbing him and hugging him. “There’s going to be a Visitors Day! On Friday! Joey, I think we might get to see your dad!”

Joe let out a cheer and danced her around. Benny hugged Norrie… and took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss, Rusty observed. Cheeky little devil.

“Take me to the hospital, Rommie,” Rusty said. He waved to Claire and the kids as they backed down the driveway. He was glad to get away from Mrs. McClatchey without having to talk to her; Mom Vision might work on PAs, as well. “And could you do me a favor and talk English instead of that comic-book on parle shit while you do it?”

“Some people have no cultural heritage to fall back on,” Rommie said, “and are thus jealous of those who do.”

“Yeah, and your mother wears galoshes,” Rusty said.

“Dat’s true, but only when it rains, her.”

Rusty’s cell phone chimed once: a text message. He flipped it open and read: MEETING AT 2130 CONGO PARSONAGE B THERE OR B SQUARE JW

“Rommie,” he said, closing his phone. “Assuming I survive the Rennies, would you consider attending a meeting with me tonight?”

4

At the hospital, Ginny met him in the lobby. “It’s Rennie Day at Cathy Russell,” she announced, looking as if this did not exactly displease her. “Thurse Marshall has been in to see them both. Rusty, that man is a gift from God. He clearly doesn’t like Junior—he and Frankie were the ones who roughed him up out at the Pond—but he was totally professional. The guy’s wasted in some college English department—he should be doing this.” She lowered her voice. “He’s better than me. And way better than Twitch.”

“Where is he now?”

“Went back to where he’s living to see that young girlfriend of his and the two children they took on. He seems to genuinely care about the kids, too.”

“Oh my goodness, Ginny’s in love,” Rusty said, grinning.

“Don’t be juvenile.” She glared at him.

“What rooms are the Rennies in?”

“Junior in Seven, Senior in Nineteen. Senior came in with that guy Thibodeau, but must have sent him off to run errands, because he was on his own when he went down to see his kid.” She smiled cynically. “He didn’t visit long. Mostly he’s been on that cell phone of his. The kid just sits, although he’s rational again. He wasn’t when Henry Morrison brought him in.”

“Big Jim’s arrhythmia? Where are we with that?”

“Thurston got it quieted down.”

For the time being, Rusty thought, and not without satisfaction. When the Valium wears off, he’ll recommence the old cardiac jitterbug.

“Go see the kid first,” Ginny said. They were alone in the lobby, but she kept her voice low-pitched. “I don’t like him, I’ve never liked him, but I feel sorry for him now. I don’t think he’s got long.”

“Did Thurston say anything about Junior’s condition to Rennie?”

“Yes, that the problem was potentially serious. But apparently not as serious as all those calls he’s making. Probably someone told him about Visitors Day on Friday. Rennie’s pissed about it.”

Rusty thought of the box on Black Ridge, just a thin rectangle with an area of less than fifty square inches, and still he hadn’t been able to lift it. Or even budge it. He also thought of the laughing leatherheads he’d briefly glimpsed.

“Some people just don’t approve of visitors,” he said.

5

“How are you feeling, Junior?”

“Okay. Better.” He sounded listless. He was wearing a hospital johnny and sitting by the window. The light was merciless on his haggard face. He looked like a rode-hard forty-year-old.

“Tell me what happened before you passed out.”

“I was going to school, then I went to Angie’s house instead. I wanted to tell her to make it up with Frank. He’s been majorly bummin.”

Rusty considered asking if Junior knew Frank and Angie were both dead, then didn’t—what was the point? Instead he asked, “You were going to school? What about the Dome?”

“Oh, right.” The same listless, affectless voice. “I forgot about that.”

“How old are you, son?”

“Twenty… one?”

“What was your mother’s name?”

Junior considered this. “Jason Giambi,” he said at last, then laughed shrilly. But the listless, haggard expression on his face never changed.

“When did the Dome drop down?”

“Saturday.”

“And how long ago was that?”

Junior frowned. “A week?” he said at last. Then, “Two weeks? It’s been awhile, for sure.” He turned at last to Rusty. His eyes were shining with the Valium Thurse Marshall had injected. “Did Baaarbie put you up to all these questions? He killed them, you know.” He nodded. “We found his gog-bags.” A pause. “Dog tags.”

“Barbie didn’t put me up to anything,” Rusty said. “He’s in jail.”

“Pretty soon he’ll be in hell,” Junior said with dry matter-offactness. “We’re going to try him and execute him. My dad said so. There’s no death penalty in Maine, but he says these are wartime conditions. Egg salad has too many calories.”

“That’s true,” Rusty said. He had brought a stethoscope, a blood-pressure cuff, and ophthalmoscope. Now he wrapped the cuff around Junior’s arm. “Can you name the last three presidents in order, Junior?”

“Sure. Bush, Push, and Tush.” He laughed wildly, but still with no facial expression.

Junior’s bp was 147 over 120. Rusty had been prepared for worse. “Do you remember who came in to see you before I did?”

“Yeah. The old guy me and Frankie found at the Pond just before we found the kids. I hope those kids are all right. They were totally cute.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“Aidan and Alice Appleton. We went to the club and that girl with the red hair jerked me off under the table. Thought she was gonna fair it right off before she was fun.” A pause. “Done.”

“Uh-huh.” Rusty employed the ophthalmoscope. Junior’s right eye was fine. The optic disc of the left was bulging, a condition known as papilledema. It was a common symptom of advanced brain tumors and the attendant swelling.

“See anything green, McQueen?”

“Nope.” Rusty put the ophthalmoscope down, then held his index finger in front of Junior’s face. “I want you to touch my finger with your finger. Then touch your nose.”

Junior did so. Rusty began to move his finger slowly back and forth. “Keep going.”

Junior succeeded in going from the moving finger to his nose once. Then he hit the finger but touched his cheek instead. The third time he missed the finger and touched his right eyebrow. “Booya. Want more? I can do it all day, you know.”

Rusty pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’m going to send Ginny Tomlinson in with a prescription for you.”

“After I get it, can I go roam? Home, I mean?”

“You’re staying overnight with us, Junior. For observation.”

“But I’m all right, aren’t I? I had one of my headaches before—I mean a real blinder—but it’s gone. I’m okay, right?”

“I can’t tell you anything right now,” Rusty said. “I want to talk with Thurston Marshall and look at some books.”

“Man, that guy’s no doctor. He’s an English teacher.”

“Maybe so, but he treated you okay. Better than you and Frank treated him, is my understanding.”

Junior waved a dismissing hand. “We were just playin. Besides, we treated those rids kite, didn’t we?”

“Can’t argue with you there. For now, Junior, just relax. Watch some TV, why don’t you?”

Junior considered this, then asked, “What’s for supper?”

6

Under the circumstances, the only thing Rusty could think of to reduce the swelling in what passed for Junior Rennie’s brain was IV mannitol. He pulled the chart out of the door and saw a note attached to it in an unfamiliar looping scrawl:

Dear Dr. Everett: What do you think about manitol for this patient? I cannot order, have no idea of the correct amount.

Thurse

Rusty jotted down the dose. Ginny was right; Thurston Marshall was good.

7

The door to Big Jim’s room was open, but the room was empty. Rusty heard the man’s voice coming from the late Dr. Haskell’s favorite snoozery. Rusty walked down to the lounge. He did not think to take Big Jim’s chart, an oversight he would come to regret.

Big Jim was fully dressed and sitting by the window with his phone to his ear, even though the sign on the wall showed a bright red cell phone with a red X over it for the reading-impaired. Rusty thought it would give him great pleasure to order Big Jim to terminate his call. It might not be the most politic way to start what was going to be a combination exam-discussion, but he meant to do it. He started forward, then stopped. Cold.

A clear memory arose: not being able to sleep, getting up for a piece of Linda’s cranberry-orange bread, hearing Audrey whining softly from the girls’ room. Going down there to check the Js. Sitting on Jannie’s bed beneath Hannah Montana, her guardian angel.

Why had this memory been so slow in coming? Why not during his meeting with Big Jim, in Big Jim’s home study?

Because then I didn’t know about the murders; I was fixated on the propane. And because Janelle wasn’t having a seizure, she was just in REM sleep. Talking in her sleep.

He has a golden baseball, Daddy. It’s a bad baseball.

Even last night, in the mortuary, that memory hadn’t resur-faced. Only now, when it was half-past too late.

But think what it means: that gadget up on Black Ridge may only be putting out limited radiation, but it’s broadcasting something else. Call it induced precognition, call it something that doesn’t even have a name, but whatever you call it, it’s there. And if Jannie was right about the golden baseball, then all the kids who’ve been making Sybil-like pronouncements about a Halloween disaster may be right, too. But does it mean on that exact day? Or could it be earlier?

Rusty thought the latter. For a townful of kids overexcited about trick-or-treating, it was Halloween already.

“I don’t care what you’ve got on, Stewart,” Big Jim was saying. Three milligrams of Valium didn’t seem to have mellowed him out; he sounded as fabulously grumpy as ever. “You and Fernald get up there, and take Roger with y… huh? What?” He listened. “I shouldn’t even have to tell you. Haven’t you been watching the cotton-picking TV? If he gives you any sass, you—”

He looked up and saw Rusty in the doorway. For just a moment Big Jim had the startled look of a man replaying his conversation and trying to decide how much the newcomer might have overheard.

“Stewart, someone’s here. I’ll get back to you, and when I do, you better tell me what I want to hear.” He broke the connection without saying goodbye, held the phone up to Rusty, and bared his small upper teeth in a smile. “I know, I know, very naughty, but town business won’t wait.” He sighed. “It’s not easy to be the one every-body’s depending on, especially when you’re not feeling well.”

“Must be difficult,” Rusty agreed.

“God helps me. Would you like to know the philosophy I live by, pal?”

No. “Sure.”

“When God closes a door, He opens a window.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so. And the one thing I always try to remember is that when you pray for what you want, God turns a deaf ear. But when you pray for what you need, He’s all ears.”

“Uh-huh.” Rusty entered the lounge. On the wall, the TV was tuned to CNN. The sound was muted, but there was a still photo of James Rennie, Sr., looming behind the talking head: black-and-white, not flattering. One of Big Jim’s fingers was raised, and so was his upper lip. Not in a smile, but in a remarkably canine sneer. The super beneath read WAS DOME TOWN DRUG HAVEN? The picture switched to a Jim Rennie used car ad, the annoying one that always ended with one of the salespeople (never Big Jim himself) screaming “You’ll be WHEELIN, because Big Jim’s DEALIN!”

Big Jim gestured to it and smiled sadly. “You see what Barbara’s friends on the outside are doing to me? Well, what’s the surprise? When Christ came to redeem mankind, they made him carry His own cross to Calvary Hill, where He died in blood and dust.”

Rusty reflected, and not for the first time, what a strange drug Valium was. He didn’t know if there really was veritas in vino, but there was plenty of it in Valium. When you gave it to people—especially by IV—you often heard exactly what they thought of themselves.

Rusty pulled up a chair and readied the stethoscope for action. “Lift your shirt.” When Big Jim put down his cell phone to do it, Rusty slipped it into his breast pocket. “I’ll just take this, shall I? I’ll leave it at the lobby desk. That’s an okay area for cell phones. The chairs aren’t as well padded as these, but they’re still not bad.”

He expected Big Jim to protest, maybe explode, but he didn’t so much as peep, only exposed a bulging Bhudda-belly and large soft manbreasts above it. Rusty bent forward and had a listen. It was far better than he’d expected. He would have been happy with a hundred and ten beats a minute plus moderate premature ventriculation. Instead, Big Jim’s pump was loping along at ninety, with no misbeats at all.

“I’m feeling a lot better,” Big Jim said. “It was stress. I’ve been under terrible stress. I’m going to take another hour or two to rest right here—do you realize you can see all of downtown from this window, pal?—and I’m going to visit with Junior one more time. After that I’ll just check myself out and—”

“It isn’t just stress. You’re overweight and out of shape.”

Big Jim bared his upper teeth in that bogus smile. “I’ve been running a business and a town, pal—both in the black, by the way. That leaves little time for treadmills and StairMasters and such.”

“You presented with PAT two years ago, Rennie. That’s paroxysmal atrial tachycardia.”

“I know what it is. I went to WebMD and it said healthy people often experience—”

“Ron Haskell told you in no uncertain terms to get your weight under control, to get the arrhythmia under control with medication, and if medication wasn’t effective, to explore surgical options to correct the underlying problem.”

Big Jim had begun to look like an unhappy child imprisoned in a highchair. “God told me not to! God said no pacemaker! And God was right! Duke Perkins had a pacemaker, and look what happened to him!”

“Not to mention his widow,” Rusty said softly. “Bad luck for her, too. She must have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Big Jim regarded him, little pig eyes calculating. Then he looked up at the ceiling. “Lights are on again, aren’t they? I got you your propane, like you asked. Some people don’t have much gratitude. Of course a man in my position gets used to that.”

“We’ll be out again by tomorrow night.”

Big Jim shook his head. “By tomorrow night you’ll have enough LP to keep this place running until Christmas if it’s necessary. It’s my promise to you for having such a wonderful bedside manner and being such an all-around good fellow.”

“I do have trouble being grateful when people return what was mine to begin with. I’m funny that way.”

“Oh, so now you’re equating yourself with the hospital?” Big Jim snorted.

“Why not? You just equated yourself with Christ. Let’s return to your medical situation, shall we?”

Big Jim flapped his large, blunt-fingered hands disgustedly.

“Valium isn’t a cure. If you walk out of here, you could be firing misbeats again by five PM. Or just vaporlock completely. The bright side is that you could be meeting your savior before it gets dark here in town.”

“And what would you recommend?” Rennie spoke calmly. He had regained his composure.

“I could give you something that would probably take care of the problem, at least short-term. It’s a drug.”

“What drug?”

“But there’s a price.”

“I knew it,” Big Jim said softly. “I knew you were on Barbara’s side the day you came to my office with your give me this and give me that.”

The only thing Rusty had asked for was propane, but he ignored that. “How did you know Barbara had a side then? The murders hadn’t been discovered, so how did you know he had a side?”

Big Jim’s eyes gleamed with amusement or paranoia or both. “I have my little ways, pal. So what’s the price? What would you like me to trade you for the drug that will keep me from having a heart attack?” And before Rusty could respond: “Let me guess. You want Barbara’s freedom, don’t you?”

“No. This town would lynch him the minute he stepped outside.”

Big Jim laughed. “Every now and then you show a lick of sense.”

“I want you to step down. Sanders, too. Let Andrea Grinnell take over, with Julia Shumway to help her out until Andi kicks her drug habit.”

Big Jim laughed louder this time, and slapped his thigh for good measure. “I thought Cox was bad—he wanted the one with the big tiddies to help Andrea—but you’re ever so much worse. Shumway! That rhymes-with-witch couldn’t administrate herself out of a paper bag!”

“I know you killed Coggins.”

He hadn’t meant to say that, but it was out before he could pull it back. And what harm? It was just the two of them, unless you counted CNN’s John Roberts, looking down from the TV on the wall. And besides, the results were worth it. For the first time since he had accepted the reality of the Dome, Big Jim was rocked. He tried to keep his face neutral and failed.

“You’re crazy.”

“You know I’m not. Last night I went to the Bowie Funeral Home and examined the bodies of the four murder victims.”

“You had no right to do that! You’re no pathologist! You’re not even a cotton-picking doctor!”

“Relax, Rennie. Count to ten. Remember your heart.” Rusty paused. “On second thought, fuck your heart. After the mess you left behind, and the one you’re making now, fuck your heart. There were marks all over Coggins’s face and head. Very atypical marks, but easily identifiable. Stitch marks. I have no doubt they’ll match the souvenir baseball I saw on your desk.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” But Rennie glanced toward the open bathroom door.

“It means plenty. Especially when you consider the other bodies were dumped in the same place. To me that suggests the killer of Coggins was the killer of the others. I think it was you. Or maybe you and Junior. Were you a father-and-son tag-team? Was that it?”

“I refuse to listen to this!” He started to get up. Rusty pushed him back down. It was surprisingly easy.

“Stay where you are!” Rennie shouted. “Gosh-dammit, just stay where you are!”

Rusty said, “Why did you kill him? Did he threaten to blow the whistle on your drug operation? Was he part of it?”

“Stay where you are!” Rennie repeated, although Rusty had already sat back down. It did not occur to him—then—that Rennie might not have been speaking to him.

“I can keep this quiet,” Rusty said. “And I can give you something that will take care of your PAT better than Valium. The quid pro quo is that you step down. Announce your resignation—for medical reasons—in favor of Andrea tomorrow night at the big meeting. You’ll go out a hero.”

There was no way he could refuse, Rusty thought; the man was backed into a corner.

Rennie turned to the open bathroom door again and said, “Now you can come out.”

Carter Thibodeau and Freddy Denton emerged from the bathroom where they had been hiding—and listening.

8

“Goddam,” Stewart Bowie said.

He and his brother were in the basement workroom of the funeral parlor. Stewart had been doing a makeup job on Arletta Coombs, The Mill’s latest suicide and the Bowie Funeral Home’s latest customer. “Goddam sonofabitch fucking shitmonkey. ”

He dropped his cell phone onto the counter, and from the wide front pocket of his rubberized green apron removed a package of peanut butter–flavored Ritz Bits. Stewart always ate when he was upset, he had always been messy with food (“The pigs ate here,” their dad was wont to say when young Stewie left the table), and now Ritz crumbs showered down on Arletta’s upturned face, which was far from peaceful; if she’d thought quaffing Liquid-Plumr would be a quick and painless way to escape the Dome, she had been badly deceived. Darn stuff had eaten all the way through her stomach and out through her back.

“What’s wrong?” Fern asked.

“Why did I ever get involved with fucking Rennie?”

“For money?”

“What good’s money now?” Stewart raved. “What’m I gonna do, go on a fuckin shopping spree at Burpee’s Department Store? That’d give me a fuckin hardon for sure!”

He yanked open the elderly widow’s mouth and slammed the remaining Ritz Bits inside. “There you go, bitch, it’s fucking snack-time.”

Stewart snatched up his cell, hit the CONTACTS button, and selected a number. “If he isn’t there,” he said—perhaps to Fern, more likely to himself—“I’m going to go out there, find him, and stick one of his own chickens right up his fucking a—”

But Roger Killian was there. And in his goddam chickenhouse. Stewart could hear them clucking. He could also hear the swooping violins of Mantovani coming through the chickenhouse sound system. When the kids were out there, it was Metallica or Pantera.

“Lo?”

“Roger. It’s Stewie. Are you straight, brother?”

“Pretty,” Roger agreed, which probably meant he’d been smoking glass, but what the fuck.

“Get down here to town. Meet me n Fern at the motor pool. We’re gonna take two of the big trucks—the ones with the hoists—out there to WCIK. All the propane’s got to be moved back to town. We can’t do it in one day, but Jim says we gotta make a start. Tomorrow I’ll recruit six or seven more guys we can trust—some of Jim’s goddam private army, if he’ll spare em—and we’ll finish up.”

“Aw, Stewart, no—I got to feed these chickens! The boys I got left has all gone to be cops!”

Which means, Stewart thought, you want to sit in that little office of yours, smoking glass and listening to shit music and looking at lesbian makeout videos on your computer. He didn’t know how you could get horny with the aroma of chickenshit so thick you could cut it with a knife, but Roger Killian managed.

“This is not a volunteer mission, my brother. I got ordered, and I’m ordering you. Half an hour. And if you do happen to see any of your kids hanging around, you shanghai em along.”

He hung up before Roger could recommence his whiny shit and for a moment just stood there, fuming. The last thing on earth he wanted to do with what remained of this Wednesday afternoon was muscle propane tanks into trucks… but that was what he was going to be doing, all right. Yes he was.

He snatched the spray hose from the sink, stuck it between Arletta Coombs’s dentures, and triggered it. It was a high-pressure hose, and the corpse jumped on the table. “Wash them crackers down, gramma,” he snarled. “Wouldn’t want you to choke.”

“Stop!” Fern cried. “It’ll squirt out the hole in her—”

Too late.

9

Big Jim looked at Rusty with a see what it gets you smile. Then he turned to Carter and Freddy Denton. “Did you fellows hear Mr. Everett try to coerce me?”

“We sure did,” Freddy said.

“Did you hear him threaten to withhold certain lifesaving medication if I refused to step down?”

“Yeah,” Carter said, and favored Rusty with a black look. Rusty wondered how he ever could have been so stupid.

It’s been a long day—chalk it up to that.

“The medication in question might have been a drug called verapamil, which that fellow with the long hair administered by IV.” Big Jim exposed his small teeth in another unpleasant smile.

Verapamil. For the first time, Rusty cursed himself for not taking Big Jim’s chart from its slot on the door and examining it. It would not be the last.

“What kind of crimes have we got here, do you suppose?” Big Jim asked. “Criminal threatening?”

“Sure, and extortion,” Freddy said.

“Hell with that, it was attempted murder,” Carter said.

“And who do you suppose put him up to it?”

“Barbie,” Carter said, and slugged Rusty in the mouth. Rusty had no sense of it coming, and didn’t even begin to get his guard up. He staggered backward, hit one of the chairs, and fell into it sideways with his mouth bleeding.

“You got that resisting arrest,” Big Jim remarked. “But it’s not enough. Put him on the floor, fellows. I want him on the floor.”

Rusty tried to run but barely got out of the chair before Carter grabbed one of his arms and spun him around. Freddy put a foot behind his legs. Carter pushed. Like kids in the schoolyard, Rusty thought as he toppled over.

Carter dropped down beside him. Rusty got in one blow. It landed on Carter’s left cheek. Carter shook it off impatiently, like a man ridding himself of a troublesome fly. A moment later he was sitting on Rusty’s chest, grinning down at him. Yes, just like in the schoolyard, only with no playground monitor to break things up.

He turned his head to Rennie, who was now on his feet. “You don’t want to do this,” he panted. His heart was thudding hard. He could barely get enough breath to feed it. Thibodeau was very heavy. Freddy Denton was on his knees beside the two of them. To Rusty he looked like the ref in one of those put-up-job wrestling matches.

“But I do, Everett,” Big Jim said. “In fact, God bless you, I have to. Freddy, snag my cell phone. It’s in his breast pocket, and I don’t want it getting broken. The cotton-picker stole it. You can add that to his bill when you get him to the station.”

“Other people know,” Rusty said. He had never felt so helpless. And so stupid. Telling himself that he wasn’t the first to underestimate James Rennie Senior did not help. “Other people know what you did.”

“Perhaps,” Big Jim said. “But who are they? Other friends of Dale Barbara, that’s who. The ones who started the food riot, the ones who burned down the newspaper office. The ones who set the Dome going in the first place, I have no doubt. Some sort of government experiment, that’s what I think. But we’re not rats in a box, are we? Are we, Carter?”

“No.”

“Freddy, what are you waiting for?”

Freddy had been listening to Big Jim with an expression that said Now I get it. He took Big Jim’s cell phone from Rusty’s breast pocket and tossed it onto one of the sofas. Then he turned back to Rusty. “How long have you been planning it? How long you been planning to lock us up in town so you could see what we’d do?”

“Freddy, listen to yourself,” Rusty said. The words came out in a wheeze. God, but Thibodeau was heavy. “That’s crazy. It makes no sense. Can’t you see th—”

“Hold his hand on the floor,” Big Jim said. “The left one.” Freddy did as he was ordered. Rusty tried to fight, but with Thibodeau pinning his arms, he had no leverage.

“I’m sorry to do this, pal, but the people of this town have to understand we’re in control of the terrorist element.”

Rennie could say he was sorry all he wanted, but in the instant before he brought the heel of his shoe—and all of his two hundred and thirty pounds—down on Rusty’s clenched left hand, Rusty saw a different motive poking out the front of the Second Selectman’s gabardine trousers. He was enjoying this, and not just in a cerebral sense.

Then the heel was pressing and grinding: hard, harder, hardest. Big Jim’s face was clenched with effort. Sweat stood out under his eyes. His tongue was clamped between his teeth.

Don’t scream, Rusty thought. It’ll bring Ginny, and then she’ll be in the cooking pot, too. Also, he wants you to. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

But when he heard the first snap from under Big Jim’s heel, he did scream. He couldn’t help it.

There was another snap. Then a third.

Big Jim stepped back, satisfied. “Get him on his feet and take him to jail. Let him visit with his friend.”

Freddy was examining Rusty’s hand, which was already swelling. Three of the four fingers were bent badly out of true. “Busted,” he said with great satisfaction.

Ginny appeared in the lounge doorway, her eyes huge. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

“Arresting this bastard for extortion, criminal withholding, and attempted murder,” Freddy Denton said as Carter hauled Rusty Everett to his feet. “And that’s just a start. He resisted and we subdued him. Please step aside, ma’am.”

“You’re nuts!” Ginny cried. “Rusty, your hand!”

“I’m all right. Call Linda. Tell her these thugs—”

He got no further. Carter seized him by the neck and ran him out the door with his head bent down. In his ear Carter whispered: “If I was sure that old guy knew as much about doctorin as you, I’d kill you myself.”

All this in four days and change, Rusty marveled as Carter forced him down the hallway, staggering and bent almost double by the grip on his neck. His left hand was no longer a hand, only a bellowing chunk of pain below his wrist. Just four days and change.

He wondered if the leatherheads—whatever or whoever they might be—were enjoying the show.

10

It was late afternoon before Linda finally came across The Mill’s librarian. Lissa was biking back toward town along Route 117. She said she’d been talking to the sentries out at the Dome, trying to glean further information about Visitors Day.

“They’re not supposed to schmooze with the townies, but some will,” she said. “Especially if you leave the top three buttons on your blouse undone. That seems to be a real conversation-starter. With the Army guys, anyway. The Marines… I think I could take off all my clothes and dance the Macarena and they still wouldn’t say boo. Those boys seem immune to sex appeal.” She smiled. “Not that I’ll ever be mistaken for Kate Winslet.”

“Did you pick up any interesting gossip?”

“Nope.” Lissa was straddling her bike, and looking in at Linda through the passenger window. “They don’t know squat. But they’re awfully concerned about us; I was touched by that. And they’re hearing as many rumors as we are. One of them asked me if it was true that over a hundred people had committed suicide already.”

“Can you get in the car with me for a minute?”

Lissa’s smile broadened. “Am I being arrested?”

“There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Lissa put down the kickstand of her bike and got in, first moving Linda’s citation clipboard and a nonfunctioning radar gun out of the way. Linda told her about the clandestine visit to the funeral home and what they’d found there, then about the proposed meeting at the parsonage. Lissa’s response was immediate and vehement.

“I’ll be there—you just try to keep me away.”

The radio cleared its throat then, and Stacey came on. “Unit Four, Unit Four. Break-break-break.”

Linda grabbed the mike. It wasn’t Rusty she was thinking of; it was the girls. “This is Four, Stacey. Go.”

What Stacey Moggin said when she came back changed Linda’s unease to outright terror. “I’ve got something bad to tell you, Lin. I’d tell you to brace yourself, but I don’t think you can brace yourself for a thing like this. Rusty’s been arrested.”

“What?” Linda nearly screamed, but only to Lissa; she didn’t depress the SEND button on the side of the mike.

“They’ve put him downstairs in the Coop with Barbie. He’s all right, but it looks to me like he’s got a broken hand—he was holding it against his chest and it was all swollen.” She lowered her voice. “It happened resisting arrest, they said. Over.”

This time Linda remembered to key the mike. “I’ll be right there. Tell him I’m coming. Over.”

“I can’t,” Stacey said. “No one’s allowed down there anymore except for officers on a special list… and I’m not one of them. There’s a whole basket of charges, including attempted murder and accessory to murder. Take it easy coming back to town. You won’t be allowed to see him, so there’s no sense wrecking your shop on the way—”

Linda keyed the mike three times: break-break-break. Then she said, “I’ll see him, all right.”

But she didn’t. Chief Peter Randolph, looking freshly rested from his nap, met her at the top of the PD steps and told her he’d need her badge and gun; as Rusty’s wife, she was also under suspicion of undermining the lawful town government and fomenting insurrection.

Fine, she wanted to tell him. Arrest me, put me downstairs with my husband. But then she thought of the girls, who would be at Marta’s now, waiting to be picked up, wanting to tell her all about their day at school. She also thought of the meeting at the parsonage that night. She couldn’t attend that if she was in a cell, and the meeting was now more important than ever.

Because if they were going to break one prisoner out tomorrow night, why not two?

“Tell him I love him,” Linda said, unbuckling her belt and sliding the holster off it. She hadn’t really cared for the weight of the gun, anyway. Crossing the little ones on the way to school, and telling the middle-school kids to ditch both their cigarettes and their foul mouths… those things were more her forte.

“I will convey that message, Mrs. Everett.”

“Has anyone looked at his hand? I heard from someone that his hand might be broken.”

Randolph frowned. “Who told you that?”

“I don’t know who called me. He didn’t identify himself. It was one of our guys, I think, but the reception out there on 117 isn’t very good.”

Randolph considered this, decided not to pursue it. “Rusty’s hand is fine,” he said. “And our guys aren’t your guys anymore. Go on home. I’m sure we’ll have questions for you later.”

She felt tears and fought them back. “And what am I supposed to tell my girls? Am I supposed to tell them their daddy is in jail? You know Rusty’s one of the good guys; you know that. God, he was the one who diagnosed your hot gallbladder last year!”

“Can’t help you much there, Mrs. Everett,” Randolph said—his days of calling her Linda seemed to be behind him. “But I suggest you don’t tell them that Daddy conspired with Dale Barbara in the murder of Brenda Perkins and Lester Coggins—the others we’re not sure of, those were clearly sex crimes and Rusty may not have known about them.”

“That’s insane!”

Randolph might not have heard. “He also tried to kill Selectman Rennie by withholding vital medication. Luckily, Big Jim had the foresight to conceal a couple of officers nearby.” He shook his head. “Threatening to withhold lifesaving medication from a man who’s made himself sick caring for this town. That’s your good guy; that’s your goddam good guy.”

She was in trouble here, and knew it. She left before she could make it worse. The five hours before the meeting at the Congo parsonage stretched long before her. She could think of nowhere to go, nothing to do.

Then she did.

11

Rusty’s hand was far from fine. Even Barbie could see that, and there were three empty cells between them. “Rusty—anything I can do?”

Rusty managed a smile. “Not unless you’ve got a couple of aspirin you can toss me. Darvocet would be even better.”

“Fresh out. They didn’t give you anything?”

“No, but the pain’s down a bit. I’ll survive.” This talk was a good deal braver than he actually felt; the pain was very bad, and he was about to make it worse. “I’ve got to do something about these fingers, though.”

“Good luck.”

For a wonder, none of the fingers was broken, although a bone in his hand was. It was a metacarpal, the fifth. The only thing he could do about that was tear strips from his tee-shirt and use them as a splint. But first…

He grasped his left index finger, which was dislocated at the proximal interphalangeal joint. In the movies, this stuff always happened fast. Fast was dramatic. Unfortunately, fast could make things worse instead of better. He applied slow, steady, increasing pressure. The pain was gruesome; he felt it all the way up to the hinges of his jaw. He could hear the finger creaking like the hinge of a door that hasn’t been opened in a long time. Somewhere, both close by and in another country, he glimpsed Barbie standing at the door of his cell and watching.

Then, suddenly, the finger was magically straight again and the pain was less. In that one, anyway. He sat down on the bunk, gasping like a man who has just run a race.

“Done?” Barbie asked.

“Not quite. I also have to fix my fuck-you finger. I may need it.” Rusty grasped his second finger and began again. And again, just when it seemed the pain could get no worse, the dislocated joint slipped back into place. Now there was just the matter of his pinkie, which was sticking out as if he meant to make a toast.

And I would if I could, he thought. “To the most fucked-up day in history.” In the history of Eric Everett, at least.

He began to wrap the finger. This also hurt, and for this there was no quick fix.

“What’d you do?” Barbie asked, then snapped his fingers twice, sharply. He pointed at the ceiling, then cupped one hand to his ear. Did he actually know the Coop was bugged, or only suspect it? Rusty decided it didn’t matter. It would be best to behave as if it were, although it was hard to believe anyone in this fumble-bunch had thought of it yet.

“Made the mistake of trying to get Big Jim to step down,” Rusty said. “I have no doubt they’ll add a dozen or so other charges, but basically I got jailed for telling him to quit pushing so hard or he’d have a heart attack.”

This, of course, ignored the Coggins stuff, but Rusty thought that might be just as well for his continued good health.

“How’s the food in here?”

“Not bad,” Barbie said. “Rose brought me lunch. You want to watch out for the water, though. It can be a trifle salty.”

He forked the first two fingers of his right hand, pointed them at his eyes, then pointed pointed at his own mouth: watch.

Rusty nodded.

Tomorrow night, Barbie mouthed.

I know, Rusty mouthed back. Making the exaggerated syllables caused his lips to crack open and start bleeding again.

Barbie mouthed We… need… a… safe… place.

Thanks to Joe McClatchey and his friends, Rusty thought he had that part covered.

12

Andy Sanders had a seizure.

It was inevitable, really; he was unused to glass and he’d been smoking a lot of it. He was in the WCIK studio, listening to the Our Daily Bread symphony soar through “How Great Thou Art” and conducting along with it. He saw himself flying down eternal violin strings.

Chef was somewhere with the bong, but he’d left Andy a supply of fat hybrid cigarettes he called fry-daddies. “You want to be careful with these, Sanders,” he said. “They are dynamite. ‘For thee not used to drinking must be gentle.’ First Timothy. It also applies to fries.”

Andy nodded solemnly, but smoked like a demon once Chef was gone: two of the daddies, one after the other. He puffed until they were nothing but hot nubs that burned his fingers. The roasting cat-pee smell of the glass was already rising to the top of his aromatherapy hit parade. He was halfway through the third daddy and still conducting like Leonard Bernstein when he sucked in a particularly deep lungful and instantly blacked out. He fell to the floor and lay twitching in a river of sacred music. Spitfoam oozed between his clenched teeth. His half-open eyes rolled around in their sockets, seeing things that weren’t there. At least, not yet.

Ten minutes later he was awake again, and lively enough to go flying along the path between the studio and the long red supply building out back.

“Chef!” he bawled. “Chef, where are you? THEY’RE COMING!”

Chef Bushey stepped from the supply building’s side door. His hair stood up from his head in greasy quills. He was dressed in a filthy pair of pajama pants, pee-stained at the crotch and grass-stained at the bottoms. Printed with cartoon frogs saying RIBBIT, they hung precariously from the bony flanges of his hips, displaying a fluff of pubic hair in front and the crack of his ass in back. He had his AK-47 in one hand. On the stock he had carefully painted the words GOD’S WARRIOR. The garage door opener was in his other hand. He put God’s Warrior down but not God’s Door Opener. He grasped Andy’s shoulders and gave him a smart shake.

“Stop it, Sanders, you’re hysterical.”

“They’re coming! The bitter men! Just like you said!”

Chef considered this. “Did someone call and give you a heads-up?”

“No, it was a vision! I blacked out and had a vision!”

Chef’s eyes widened. Suspicion gave way to respect. He looked from Andy to Little Bitch Road, and then back to Andy again. “What did you see? How many? Is it all of them, or just a few, like before?”

“I… I… I…”

Chef shook him again, but much more gently this time. “Calm down, Sanders. You’re in the Lord’s army now, and—”

“A Christian soldier!”

“Right, right, right. And I’m your superior. So report.”

“They’re coming in two trucks.”

“Only two?”

“Yes.”

“Orange?”

“Yes!”

Chef hitched up his pjs (they subsided to their former position almost immediately) and nodded. “Town trucks. Probably those same three dumbwits—the Bowies and Mr. Chicken.”

“Mr.—?”

“Killian, Sanders, who else? He smokes the glass but doesn’t understand the purpose of the glass. He’s a fool. They’re coming for more propane.”

“Should we hide? Just hide and let them take it?”

“That’s what I did before. But not this time. I’m done hiding and letting people take things. Star Wormwood has blazed. It’s time for men of God to hoist their flag. Are you with me?”

And Andy—who under the Dome had lost everything that had ever meant anything to him—did not hesitate. “Yes!”

“To the end, Sanders?”

“To the end!”

“Where-at did you put your gun?”

As best as Andy could recollect, it was in the studio, leaning against the poster of Pat Robertson with his arm around the late Lester Coggins.

“Let’s get it,” Chef said, picking up GOD’S WARRIOR and checking the clip. “And from now on you carry it with you, have you got that?”

“Okay.”

“Box of ammo in there?”

“Yep.” Andy had toted one of these crates in just an hour ago. At least he thought it had been an hour ago; fry-daddies had a way of bending time at the edges.

“Just a minute,” Chef said. He went down the side of the supply building to the box of Chinese grenades and brought back three. He gave two to Andy and told him to put them in his pockets. Chef hung the third grenade from the muzzle of GOD’S WARRIOR by the pull-ring. “Sanders, I was told that you get seven seconds after you yank the pin to get rid of these cocksuckers, but when I tried one in the gravel-pit back yonder, it was more like four. You can’t trust your Oriental races. Remember that.”

Andy said he would.

“All right, come on. Let’s get your weapon.”

Hesitantly, Andy asked: “Are we going to take them out?”

Chef looked surprised. “Not unless we have to, no.”

“Good,” Andy said. In spite of everything, he didn’t really want to hurt anyone.

“But if they force the issue, we’ll do what’s necessary. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Andy said.

Chef clapped him on the shoulder.

13

Joe asked his mother if Benny and Norrie could spend the night. Claire said it was okay with her if it was okay with their parents. It would, in fact, be something of a relief. After their adventure on Black Ridge, she liked the idea of having them under her eye. They could make popcorn on the woodstove and continue the raucous game of Monopoly they’d begun an hour ago. It was too raucous, actually; their chatter and catcalls had a nervy, whistling-past-the-graveyard quality she didn’t care for.

Benny’s mother agreed, and—somewhat to her surprise—so did Norrie’s. “Good deal,” Joanie Calvert said. “I’ve been wanting to get schnockered ever since this happened. Looks like tonight’s my chance. And Claire? Tell that girl to hunt up her grandfather tomorrow and give him a kiss.”

“Who’s her grandfather?”

“Ernie. You know Ernie, don’t you? Everybody knows Ernie.

He worries about her. So do I, sometimes. That skateboard.” There was a shudder in Joanie’s voice.

“I’ll tell her.”

Claire had no more than hung up when there was a knock at the door. At first she didn’t know who the middle-aged woman with the pale, strained face was. Then she realized it was Linda Everett, who ordinarily worked the school-crossing beat and ticketed cars that overstayed their welcome in the two-hour parking zones on Main Street. And she wasn’t middle-aged at all. She just looked that way now.

“Linda!” Claire said. “What’s wrong? Is it Rusty? Has something happened to Rusty?” She was thinking of radiation… at least in the front of her mind. In the back, even worse ideas slithered around.

“He’s been arrested.”

The Monopoly game in the dining room had ceased. The participants now stood together in the living room doorway, gazing at Linda solemnly.

“It’s a whole laundry list of charges, including criminal complicity in the murders of Lester Coggins and Brenda Perkins.”

“No!” Benny cried.

Claire thought of telling them to leave the room and decided it would be hopeless. She thought she knew why Linda was here, and understood it, but still hated her a little for coming. And Rusty, too, for getting the kids involved. Except they were all involved, weren’t they? Under the Dome, involvement was no longer a matter of choice.

“He got in Rennie’s way,” Linda said. “That’s what it’s really about. That’s what it’s all about now, as far as Big Jim’s concerned: who’s in his way and who isn’t. He’s forgotten entirely what a terrible situation we’re in here. No, it’s worse than that. He’s using the situation.”

Joe looked at Linda solemnly. “Does Mr. Rennie know where we went this morning, Miz Everett? Does he know about the box? I don’t think he should know about the box.”

“What box?”

“The one we found on Black Ridge,” Norrie said. “We only saw the light it puts out; Rusty went right up and looked at it.”

“It’s the generator,” Benny said. “Only he couldn’t shut it off. He couldn’t even lift it, although he said it was real small.”

“I don’t know anything about this,” Linda said.

“Then neither does Rennie,” Joe said. He looked as if the weight of the world had just slipped off his shoulders.

“How do you know?”

“Because he would have sent the cops to question us,” Joe said.

“And if we didn’t answer the questions, they’d take us to jail.”

At a distance, there came a pair of faint reports. Claire cocked her head and frowned. “Were those firecrackers or gunshots?”

Linda didn’t know, and because they hadn’t come from town—they were too faint for that—she didn’t care. “Kids, tell me what happened on Black Ridge. Tell me everything. What you saw and what Rusty saw. And later tonight there’s some other people you may have to tell. It’s time we put together everything we know. In fact, it’s past time.”

Claire opened her mouth to say she didn’t want to get involved, then didn’t. Because there was no choice. None, at least, that she could see.

14

The WCIK studio was set well back from Little Bitch Road, and the driveway leading to it (paved, and in far better shape than the road itself) was almost a quarter of a mile long. At the Little Bitch end, it was flanked by a pair of hundred-year oaks. Their fall foliage, in a normal season brilliant enough to qualify for a calendar or tourism brochure, now hung limp and brown. Andy Sanders stood behind one of these crenellated trunks. Chef was behind the other. They could hear the approaching diesel roar of big trucks. Sweat ran into Andy’s eyes and he wiped it away.

“Sanders!”

“What?”

“Is your safety off?”

Andy checked. “Yes.”

“All right, listen and get it right the first time. If I tell you to start shooting, spray those motherfuckers! Top to bottom, fore and aft! If I don’t tell you to shoot, just stand there. Have you got that?”

“Y-Yes.”

“I don’t think there’s going to be any killing.”

Thank God, Andy thought.

“Not if it’s just the Bowies and Mr. Chicken. But I can’t be sure. If I do have to make a play, will you back me?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“And keep your finger off that damn trigger or you’re apt to blow your own head off.”

Andy looked down, saw his finger was indeed curled around the trigger of the AK, and removed it in a hurry.

They waited. Andy could hear his heartbeat in the middle of his head. He told himself it was stupid to be afraid—if not for a fortuitous phone call, he’d already be dead—but it did no good. Because a new world had opened in front of him. He knew it might turn out to be a false world (hadn’t he seen what dope had done to Andi Grinnell?), but it was better than the shitty world he’d been living in.

God, please let them just go away, he prayed. Please.

The trucks appeared, rolling slow and blowing dark smoke into the muted remains of the day. Peeking from behind his tree, Andy could see two men in the lead truck. Probably the Bowies.

For a long time Chef didn’t move. Andy was beginning to think he’d changed his mind and meant to let them take the propane after all. Then Chef stepped out and triggered off two quick rounds.

Stoned or not, Chef’s aim was good. Both front tires of the lead truck went flat. The front end pogoed up and down three or four times, and then the truck came to a halt. The one behind almost rear-ended it. Andy could hear the faint sound of music, some hymn, and guessed that whoever was driving the second truck hadn’t heard the gunshots over the radio. The cab of the lead truck, meanwhile, looked empty. Both men had ducked down out of sight.

Chef Bushey, still barefooted and wearing nothing but his RIBBIT pjs (the garage door opener was hooked over the sagging waist-band like a beeper), stepped out from behind his tree. “Stewart Bowie!” he called. “Fern Bowie! Come on out of there and talk to me!” He leaned GOD’S WARRIOR against the oak.

Nothing from the cab of the lead truck, but the driver’s door of the second truck opened and Roger Killian got out. “What’s the holdup?” he bawled. “I got to get back and feed my chick—” Then he saw Chef. “Hey there, Philly, what’s up?”

“Get down!” one of the Bowies bawled. “Crazy sonofabitch is shooting!”

Roger looked at Chef, then at the AK-47 leaning against the tree. “Maybe he was, but he’s put the gun down. Besides, it’s just him. What’s the deal, Phil?”

“I’m Chef now. Call me Chef.”

“Okay, Chef, what’s the deal?”

“Come on out, Stewart,” Chef called. “You too, Fern. Nobody’s going to get hurt here, I guess.”

The doors of the lead truck opened. Without turning his head, Chef said: “Sanders! If either of those two fools has a gun, you open up. Never mind single-shot; turn em into taco cheese.”

But neither Bowie had a gun. Fern had his hands hoisted.

“Who you talkin to, buddy?” Stewart asked.

“Step out here, Sanders,” Chef said.

Andy did. Now that the threat of immediate carnage seemed to have passed, he was starting to enjoy himself. If he’d thought to bring one of Chef’s fry-daddies with him, he was sure he’d be enjoying himself even more.

“Andy?” Stewart said, astounded. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been drafted into the Lord’s army. And you are bitter men. We know all about you, and you have no place here.”

“Huh?” Fern said. He lowered his hands. The nose of the lead truck was slowly canting toward the road as the big front tires continued to deflate.

“Well said, Sanders,” Chef told him. Then, to Stewart: “All three of you get in that second truck. Turn it around and haul your sorry asses back to town. When you get there, tell that apostate son of the devil that WCIK is ours now. That includes the lab and all the supplies.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Phil?”

“Chef. ”

Stewart made a flapping gesture with one hand. “Call yourself whatever you want, just tell me what this is ab—”

“I know your brother’s stupid,” Chef said, “and Mr. Chicken there probably can’t tie his own shoes without a blueprint—”

“Hey!” Roger cried. “Watch your mouth!”

Andy raised his AK. He thought that, when he got a chance, he would paint CLAUDETTE on the stock. “No, you watch yours.”

Roger Killian went pale and fell back a step. That had never happened when Andy spoke at a town meeting, and it was very gratifying.

Chef went on talking as if there had been no interruption. “But you’ve got at least half a brain, Stewart, so use it. Leave that truck setting right where it is and go back to town in t’other one. Tell Rennie this out here doesn’t belong to him anymore, it belongs to God. Tell him Star Wormwood has blazed, and if he doesn’t want the Apocalypse to come early, he better leave us alone.” He considered. “You can also tell him we’ll keep putting out the music. I doubt he’s worried about that, but there’s some in town might find it a comfort.”

“Do you know how many cops he’s got now?” Stewart asked.

“I don’t give a tin shit.”

“I think about thirty. By tomorrow it’s apt to be fifty. And half the damn town’s wearing blue support-armbands. If he tells em to posse up, it won’t be no trouble.”

“It won’t be no help, either,” Chef said. “Our faith is in the Lord, and our strength is that of ten.”

“Well,” Roger said, flashing his math skills, “that’s twenty, but you’re still outnumbered.”

“Shut up, Roger,” Fern said.

Stewart tried again. “Phil—Chef, I mean—you need to chill the fuck out, because this ain’t no thang. He don’t want the dope, just the propane. Half the gennies in town are out. By the weekend it’ll be three-quarters. Let us take the propane.”

“I need it to cook with. Sorry.”

Stewart looked at him as if he had gone mad. He probably has, Andy thought. We probably both have. But of course Jim Rennie was mad, too, so that was a wash.

“Go on, now,” Chef said. “And tell him that if he tries sending troops against us, he will regret it.”

Stewart thought this over, then shrugged. “No skin off my rosy red chinchina. Come on, Fern. Roger, I’ll drive.”

“Fine by me,” Roger Killian said. “I hate all them gears.” He gave Chef and Andy a final look rich with mistrust, then started back to the second truck.

“God bless you fellas,” Andy called.

Stewart threw a sour dart of a glance back over his shoulder. “God bless you, too. Because God knows you’re gonna need it.”

The new proprietors of the largest meth lab in North America stood side by side, watching the big orange truck back down the road, make a clumsy K-turn, and drive away.

“Sanders!”

“Yes, Chef?”

“I want to pep up the music, and immediately. This town needs some Mavis Staples. Also some Clark Sisters. Once I get that shit cued up, let’s smoke.”

Andy’s eyes filled with tears. He put his arm around the former Phil Bushey’s bony shoulders and hugged. “I love you, Chef.”

“Thanks, Sanders. Right back atcha. Just keep your gun loaded. From now on we’ll have to stand watches.”

15

Big Jim was sitting at his son’s bedside as approaching sunset turned the day orange. Douglas Twitchell had come in to give Junior a shot. Now the boy was deeply asleep. In some ways, Big Jim knew, it would be better if Junior died; alive and with a tumor pressing down on his brain, there was no telling what he might do or say. Of course the kid was his own flesh and blood, but there was the greater good to think about; the good of the town. One of the extra pillows in the closet would probably do it—

That was when his phone rang. He looked at the name in the window and frowned. Something had gone wrong. Stewart would hardly be calling so soon if it were otherwise. “What.”

He listened with growing astonishment. Andy out there? Andy with a gun?

Stewart was waiting for him to answer. Waiting to be told what to do. Get in line, pal, Big Jim thought, and sighed. “Give me a minute. I need to think. I’ll call you back.”

He ended the call and considered this new problem. He could take a bunch of cops out there tonight. In some ways it was an attractive idea: whip them up at Food City, then lead the raid himself. If Andy died, so much the better. That would make James Rennie, Senior, the entire town government.

On the other hand, the special town meeting was tomorrow night. Everyone would come, and there would be questions. He was sure he could lay the meth lab off on Barbara and the Friends of Barbara (in Big Jim’s mind, Andy Sanders had now become an official Friend of Barbara), but still… no.

No.

He wanted his flock scared, but not in an outright panic. Panic wouldn’t serve his purpose, which was to establish complete control of the town. And if he let Andy and Bushey stay where they were for a little while, what harm? It might even do some good. They’d grow complacent. They might fancy themselves forgotten, because drugs were full of Vitamin Stupid.

Friday, on the other hand—the day after tomorrow—was that cotton-picker Cox’s designated Visitors Day. Everybody would stream out to the Dinsmore farm again. Burpee would no doubt set up another hotdog stand. While that clustermug was going on, and while Cox was conducting his one-man press conference, Big Jim himself could lead a force of sixteen or eighteen police up to the radio station and wipe those two troublesome stoners out.

Yes. That was the answer.

He called Stewart back and told him to leave well enough alone.

“But I thought you wanted the propane,” Stewart said.

“We’ll get it,” Big Jim said. “And you can help us take care of those two, if you want to.”

“You’re damn right I want to. That sonofabitch—sorry, Big Jim—that sonofabuck Bushey needs a payback.”

“He’ll get it. Friday afternoon. Clear your schedule.”

Big Jim felt fine again, heart beating slowly and steadily in his chest, nary a stutter or flutter. And that was good, because there was so much to do, starting with tonight’s police pep talk at Food City: just the right environment in which to impress the importance of order on a bunch of new cops. Really, there was nothing like a scene of destruction to get people playing follow-the-leader.

He started out of the room, then went back and kissed his sleeping son’s cheek. Getting rid of Junior might become necessary, but for the time being, that too could wait.

16

Another night is falling on the little town of Chester’s Mill; another night under the Dome. But there is no rest for us; we have two meetings to attend, and we also ought to check up on Horace the Corgi before we sleep. Horace is keeping Andrea Grinnell company tonight, and although he is for the moment biding his time, he has not forgotten the popcorn between the couch and the wall.

So let us go then, you and I, while the evening spreads out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table. Let us go while the first discolored stars begin to show overhead. This is the only town in a four-state area where they’re out tonight. Rain has overspread northern New England, and cable-news viewers will soon be treated to some remarkable satellite photographs showing a hole in the clouds that exactly mimics the sock-shape of Chester’s Mill. Here the stars shine down, but now they’re dirty stars because the Dome is dirty.

Heavy showers fall in Tarker’s Mills and the part of Castle Rock known as The View; CNN’s meteorologist, Reynolds Wolf (no relation to Rose Twitchell’s Wolfie), says that while no one can as yet be entirely sure, it seems likely that the west-to-east airflow is pushing the clouds against the western side of the Dome and squeezing them like sponges before they can slide away to the north and south. He calls it “a fascinating phenomenon.”

Suzanne Malveaux, the anchor, asks him what the long-term weather under the Dome might be like, if the crisis continues.

“Suzanne,” Reynolds Wolf says, “that’s a great question. All we know for sure is that Chester’s Mill isn’t getting any rain tonight, although the surface of the Dome is permeable enough so that some moisture may be seeping through where the showers are heaviest. NOAA meteorologists tell me the long-term prospects of precip under the Dome aren’t good. And we know their principal waterway, Prestile Stream, has pretty much dried up.” He smiles, showing a great set of TV teeth. “Thank God for artesian wells!”

“You bet, Reynolds,” Suzanne says, and then the Geico gekko appears on the TV screens of America.

That’s enough cable news; let us float through certain half-deserted streets, past the Congo church and the parsonage (the meeting there hasn’t started yet, but Piper has loaded up the big coffee urn, and Julia is making sandwiches by the light of a hissing Coleman lamp), past the McCain house surrounded by its sad sag of yellow police tape, down Town Common Hill and past the Town Hall, where janitor Al Timmons and a couple of his friends are cleaning and sprucing up for the special town meeting tomorrow night, past War Memorial Plaza, where the statue of Lucien Calvert (Norrie’s great-grandfather; I probably don’t have to tell you that) keeps his long watch.

We’ll stop for a quick check on Barbie and Rusty, shall we? There’ll be no problem getting downstairs; there are only three cops in the ready room, and Stacey Moggin, who’s on the desk, is sleeping with her head pillowed on her forearm. The rest of the PD is at Food City, listening to Big Jim’s latest stemwinder, but it wouldn’t matter if they were all here, because we are invisible. They would feel no more than a faint draft as we glide past them.

There’s not much to see in the Coop, because hope is as invisible as we are. The two men have nothing to do but wait until tomorrow night, and hope that things break their way. Rusty’s hand hurts, but the pain isn’t as bad as he thought it might be, and the swelling isn’t as bad as he feared. Also, Stacey Moggin, God bless her heart, snuck him a couple of Excedrin around five PM.

For the time being, these two men—our heroes, I suppose—are sitting on their bunks and playing Twenty Questions. It’s Rusty’s turn to guess.

“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” he asks.

“None of them,” Barbie replies.

“How can it be none of them? It has to be one.”

“It’s not,” Barbie says. He is thinking of Poppa Smurf.

“You’re jacking me up.”

“I’m not.”

“You have to be.”

“Quit bitching and start asking.”

“Can I have a hint?”

“No. That’s your first no. Nineteen to go.”

“Wait a goddam minute. That’s not fair.”

We’ll leave them to shift the weight of the next twenty-four hours as best they can, shall we? Let us make our way past the still-simmering heap of ashes that used to be the Democrat (alas, no longer serving “The Little Town That Looks Like A Boot”), past Sanders Hometown Drug (scorched but still standing, although Andy Sanders will never pass through its doors again), past the bookstore and LeClerc’s Maison des Fleurs, where all the fleurs are now dead or dying. Let us pass under the dead stoplight marking the intersection of Routes 119 and 117 (we brush it; it sways slightly, then stills again), and cross the Food City parking lot. We are as silent as a child’s sleeping breath.

The supermarket’s big front windows have been covered with plywood requisitioned from Tabby Morrell’s lumberyard, and the worst of the gluck on the floor has been mopped up by Jack Cale and Ernie Calvert, but Food City is still a godawful mess, with boxes and dry goods strewn from hell to breakfast. The remaining merchandise (what hasn’t been carted away to various town pantries or stored in the motor pool behind the PD, in other words) is scattered helterskelter on the shelves. The soft-drink cooler, beer cooler, and ice cream freezer are busted in. There’s the high stink of spilled wine. This leftover chaos is exactly what Big Jim Rennie wants his new—and awfully young, for the most part—cadre of enforcement officers to see. He wants them to realize the whole town could look like this, and he’s canny enough to know he doesn’t need to say it right out loud. They will get the point: this is what happens when the shepherd fails in his duty and the flock stampedes.

Do we need to listen to his speech? Nah. We’ll be listening to Big Jim tomorrow night, and that should be enough. Besides, we all know how this one goes; America’s two great specialties are demagogues and rock and roll, and we’ve all heard plenty of both in our time.

Yet we should examine the faces of his listeners before we go. Notice how rapt they are, and then remind yourself that many of these (Carter Thibodeau, Mickey Wardlaw, and Todd Wendlestat, to name just three) are chumps who couldn’t get through a single week of school without scoring detention for causing trouble in class or fighting in the bathrooms. But Rennie has them hypnotized.

He’s never been much of a shake one-on-one, but when he’s in front of a crowd… rowdy-dow and a hot-cha-cha, as old Clayton Brassey used to say back in the days when he still had a few working brain cells. Big Jim’s telling them “thin blue line” and “the pride of standing with your fellow officers” and “the town is depending on you.” Other stuff, too. The good stuff that never loses its charm.

Big Jim switches to Barbie. He tells them that Barbie’s friends are still out there, sowing discord and fomenting dissension for their own evil purposes. Lowering his voice, he says: “They’ll try to discredit me. The lies they’ll tell have no bottom.”

A growl of displeasure greets this.

“Will you listen to the lies? Will you let them discredit me? Will you allow this town to go without a strong leader in its time of greatest need?”

The answer, of course, is a resounding NO! And although Big Jim continues (like most politicians, he believes in not just gilding the lily but spray-painting it), we can leave him now.

Let’s head up these deserted streets to the Congo parsonage. And look! Here’s someone we can walk with: a thirteen-year-old girl dressed in faded jeans and an old-school Winged Ripper skate-board tee. The tough riot grrrl pout that is her mother’s despair is gone from Norrie Calvert’s face this evening. It has been replaced by an expression of wonder that makes her look like the eight-year-old she not so long ago was. We follow her gaze and see a vast full moon climbing from the clouds to the east of town. It is the color and shape of a freshly cut pink grapefruit.

“Oh… my… God, ” Norrie whispers. One fisted hand is pressed between the scant nubs of her breasts as she looks at that pink freak of a moon. Then she walks on, not so amazed that she fails to look around herself from time to time to make sure she’s not being noticed. This is as per Linda Everett’s order: they were to go alone, they were to be unobtrusive, and they were to make absolutely sure they weren’t followed.

“This isn’t a game,” Linda told them. Norrie was more impressed by her pale, strained face than by her words. “If we get caught, they won’t just take away hit points or make us miss a turn. Do you kids understand that?”

“Can I go with Joe?” Mrs. McClatchey asked. She was almost as pale as Mrs. Everett.

Mrs. Everett shook her head. “Bad idea.” And that had impressed Norrie most of all. No, not a game; maybe life and death.

Ah, but there is the church, and the parsonage tucked in right beside it. Norrie can see the bright white light of Coleman lanterns around back, where the kitchen must be. Soon she’ll be inside, out from under the gaze of that awful pink moon. Soon she’ll be safe.

So she’s thinking when a shadow detaches itself from one of the thicker shadows and takes her by the arm.

17

Norrie was too startled to scream, which was just as well; when the pink moon lit the face of the man who had accosted her, she saw it was Romeo Burpee.

“You scared the crap out of me,” she whispered.

“Sorry. Just keepin an eye out, me.” Rommie let go of her arm, and looked around. “Where are your boyfriens?”

Norrie smiled at that. “Dunno. We were supposed to come by ourselves, and different ways. That’s what Mrs. Everett said.” She looked down the hill. “I think that’s Joey’s mom coming now. We should go in.”

They walked toward the light of the lanterns. The parsonage’s inner door was standing open. Rommie knocked softly on the side of the screen and said, “Rommie Burpee and a friend. If there’s a password, we didn’t get it.”

Piper Libby opened the door and let them in. She looked curiously at Norrie. “Who are you?”

“Damn if that isn’t my granddaughter,” Ernie said, coming into the room. He had a glass of lemonade in one hand and a grin on his face. “Come here, girl. I’ve been missing you.”

Norrie gave him a strong hug and kissed him as her mother had instructed. She hadn’t expected to obey those instructions so soon, but was glad to do so. And to him she could tell the truth that torture would not have dragged from her lips in front of the guys she hung with.

“Grampa, I’m so scared.”

“We all are, honey-girl.” He hugged her more tightly, then looked into her upturned face. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but now that you are, how about a glass of lemonade?”

Norrie saw the urn and said, “I’d rather have coffee.”

“So would I,” Piper said. “I got it all loaded with high-test and ready to go before I remembered I have no power.” She gave her head a little shake, as if to clear it. “This keeps hitting me in different ways.”

There was another knock at the back door and Lissa Jamieson came in, her cheeks high with color. “I stashed my bike in your garage, Reverend Libby. I hope that’s okay.”

“Fine. And if we’re engaging in criminal conspiracy here—as Rennie and Randolph would no doubt contend—you better call me Piper.”

18

They were all early, and Piper called the Chester’s Mill Revolutionary Committee to order at just past nine o’clock. What impressed her initially was how uneven the sexual division was: eight females and only four males. And of the four males, one was past retirement age and two weren’t old enough to get into an R-rated movie by themselves. She had to remind herself that a hundred guerrilla armies in various parts of the world had put guns in the hands of women and kids no older than these here tonight. That didn’t make it right, but sometimes what was right and what was necessary came into conflict.

“I’d like us to bow our heads for a minute,” Piper said. “I’m not going to pray because I’m no longer sure just who I’m talking to when I do that. But you might want to say a word to the God of your understanding, because tonight we need all the help we can get.”

They did as she asked. Some still had their heads down and their eyes closed when Piper raised her own head to look at them: two recently fired lady cops, a retired supermarket manager, a newspaperwoman who no longer had a newspaper, a librarian, the owner of the local restaurant, a Dome-widow who couldn’t stop spinning the wedding ring on her finger, the local department store tycoon, and three uncharacteristically solemn-faced kids sitting scrunched together on the sofa.

“Okay, amen,” Piper said. “I’m going to turn the meeting over to Jackie Wettington, who knows what she’s doing.”

“That’s probably too optimistic,” Jackie said. “Not to mention hasty. Because I’m going to turn the meeting over to Joe McClatchey.”

Joe looked startled. “Me?”

“But before he gets going,” she went on, “I’m going to ask his friends to serve as lookouts. Norrie in front and Benny in back.” Jackie saw the protest on their faces and raised a hand to forestall it. “This isn’t an excuse to get you out of the room—it’s important. I don’t need to tell you it might not be good if the powers that be caught us in conclave. You two are the smallest. Find some nice deep shadows and slide in. If you see someone coming who looks suspicious, or any of the town police cars, clap your hands like this.” She clapped once, then twice, then once more. “You’ll be filled in on everything later, I promise you. The new order of the day is pooled information, no secrets.”

When they were gone, Jackie turned to Joe. “This box you told Linda about. Tell everyone. From beginning to end.”

Joe did it on his feet, as if reciting in school. “Then we came back to town,” he finished. “And that bastard Rennie had Rusty arrested.” He wiped sweat from his forehead and sat back down on the couch.

Claire put an arm around his shoulders. “Joe says it would be bad for Rennie to find out about the box,” she said. “He thinks Rennie might want it to keep on doing what it’s doing instead of trying to turn it off or destroy it.”

“I think he’s right,” Jackie said. “So its existence and location is our first secret.”

“I don’t know…” Joe said.

“What?” Julia asked. “You think he should know?”

“Maybe. Sort of. I need to think.”

Jackie pushed on without questioning him further. “Here’s the second order of business. I want to try and break Barbie and Rusty out of jail. Tomorrow night, during the big town meeting. Barbie’s the guy the President designated to take over the town administration—”

“Anybody but Rennie,” Ernie growled. “Incompetent sonofabitch thinks he owns this burg.”

“He’s good at one thing,” Linda said. “Stirring up trouble when it suits him. The food riot and the newspaper being burned… I think both of those were done according to his orders.”

“Of course they were,” Jackie said. “Anyone who could kill his own pastor—”

Rose goggled at her. “Are you saying Rennie killed Coggins?”

Jackie told them about the basement workroom in the funeral parlor, and how the marks on Coggins’s face matched the gold baseball Rusty had seen in Rennie’s study. They listened with dismay but no disbelief.

“The girls, too?” Lissa Jamieson said in a small, horrified voice.

“I’ve got his son down for that.” Jackie spoke almost briskly. “And those murders were probably not related to Big Jim’s political machinations. Junior collapsed this morning. At the McCain house, incidentally, where the bodies were found. By him.”

“What a coincidence,” Ernie said.

“He’s in the hospital. Ginny Tomlinson says it’s almost certainly a brain tumor. Which can cause violent behavior.”

“A father-son murder team?” Claire was hugging Joe more tightly than ever.

“Not a team, exactly,” Jackie said, “Call it the same wild strain of behavior—something genetic—coming out under pressure.”

Linda said, “But the bodies being in the same place strongly suggests that if there were two murderers, they were working together. The point is, my husband and Dale Barbara are almost certainly being held by a killer who’s using them to build a grand conspiracy theory. The only reason they haven’t already been killed in custody is because Rennie wants to make an example of them. He wants them executed in public.” Her face cramped for a moment as she fought off tears.

“I can’t believe he’s gotten as far as he has,” Lissa said. She was twisting the ankh she wore back and forth. “He’s a used car dealer, for heaven’s sake.”

Silence greeted this.

“Now look,” Jackie said after it had stretched out a bit. “By telling you what Linda and I mean to do, I’ve made this a real conspiracy. I’m going to ask for a vote. If you want to be a part of this, raise your hand. Those who don’t raise their hands can leave, contingent on a promise not to blab about what we’ve discussed. Which you wouldn’t want to do, anyway; if you don’t tell anybody who was here and what was discussed, you won’t have to explain how you heard. This is dangerous. We might end up in jail, or even worse. So let’s see some hands. Who wants to stay?”

Joe raised his hand first, but Piper, Julia, Rose, and Ernie Calvert were not far behind. Linda and Rommie raised their hands together. Lissa looked at Claire McClatchey. Claire sighed and nodded. The two women raised their hands.

“Way to go, Mom,” Joe said.

“If you ever tell your father what I let you get into,” she said, “you won’t need James Rennie to execute you. I’ll do it myself.”

19

“Linda can’t go into the PD after them,” Rommie said. He was speaking to Jackie.

“Who, then?”

“You and me, hon. Linda’s gonna go to the big meeting. Where six or eight hundred people can testify that they saw her.”

“Why can’t I go?” Linda asked. “That’s my husband they’ve got.”

“That’s why,” Julia said simply.

“How do you want to do it?” Rommie asked Jackie.

“Well, I suggest we wear masks—”

“Duh,” Rose said, and made a face. They all laughed.

“Lucky us,” Rommie said. “I got a great selection of Halloween masks at the store.”

“Maybe I’ll be the Little Mermaid,” Jackie said, a little wistfully. She realized everyone was looking at her, and blushed. “Whatever. In any case, we’ll need guns. I have an extra at home—a Beretta. Do you have something, Rommie?”

“I put away some rifles and shotguns in the store safe. Got at least one wit’ a scope. I won’t say I saw this comin, but I saw somethin comin.”

Joe spoke up. “You’ll also need a getaway vehicle. And not your van, Rommie, because everyone knows it.”

“I got an idea about that,” Ernie said. “Let’s take a vehicle from Jim Rennie’s used car lot. He’s got half a dozen high-mileage phone company vans he picked up last spring. They’re out in the back. Using one of his’d be, whatdoyacallit, poetic justice.”

“And exactly how you gonna get the key?” Rommie asked. “Break into his office at the showroom?”

“If the one we pick doesn’t have an electronic ignition, I can hotwire it,” Ernie said. Fixing Joe with a frowning glance, he added: “I’d prefer you didn’t tell my granddaughter that, young man.”

Joe did a lip-zipping pantomime that made them all laugh again.

“The special town meeting is scheduled to start at seven tomorrow night,” Jackie said. “If we go into the PD around eight—”

“We can do better than that,” Linda said. “If I have to go to the damn meeting, I might as well do some good. I’ll wear a dress with big pockets and carry my police radio—the extra that’s still in my personal vehicle. You two be in the van, ready to go.”

Tension was creeping into the room; they all felt it. This was starting to be real.

“At the loadin dock behind my store,” Rommie said. “Out of sight.”

“Once Rennie really gets going on his speech,” Linda said, “I’ll give you a triple break on the radio. That’s your signal to roll.”

“How many police will there be at the station?” Lissa asked.

“I might be able to find out from Stacey Moggin,” Jackie said.

“There won’t be many, though. Why would there be? So far as Big Jim knows, there are no real Friends of Barbie—just the straw men he’s set up.”

“He’ll also want to make sure his tender ass is well protected,” Julia said.

There was some laughter at this, but Joe’s mother looked deeply troubled. “There’ll be some at the police station no matter what. What are you going to do if they resist you?”

“They won’t,” Jackie said. “We’ll have them locked in their own cells before they know what’s happening.”

“But if they do?”

“Then we’ll try not to kill them.” Linda’s voice was calm, but her eyes were those of a creature who has screwed its courage up in some final desperate effort to save itself. “There’s probably going to be killing anyway if the Dome stays up much longer. The execution of Barbie and my husband in War Memorial Plaza will only be the start of it.”

“Let’s say you get them out,” Julia said. “Where will you take them? Here?”

“No way,” Piper said, and touched her still-swollen mouth. “I’m already on Rennie’s shit list. Not to mention that guy who’s now his personal bodyguard. Thibodeau. My dog bit him.”

“Anywhere near the center of town’s not a great idea,” Rose said. “They could do a house-to-house. God knows they’ve got enough cops.”

“Plus all the people wearing the blue armbands,” Rommie added.

“What about one of the summer cabins out at Chester Pond?” Julia asked.

“Possible,” Ernie said, “but they could think of that, too.”

“It still might be the best bet,” Lissa said.

“Mr. Burpee?” Joe asked. “Have you got any more of that lead roll?”

“Sure, tons. And make it Rommie.”

“If Mr. Calvert can steal a van tomorrow, could you sneak it behind your store and put a bunch of precut pieces of lead roll in the back? Ones big enough to cover the windows?”

“I guess so….”

Joe looked at Jackie. “And could you get hold of this Colonel Cox, if you had to?”

“Yes.” Jackie and Julia answered together, then looked at each other in surprise.

Light was dawning on Rommie’s face. “You’re thinking about the old McCoy place, aren’t you? Up on Black Ridge. Where the box is.”

“Yeah. It might be a bad idea, but if we all had to run… if we were all up there… we could defend the box. I know that sounds crazy, since it’s the thing causing all the problems, but we can’t let Rennie get it.”

“I hope it don’t come to refighting the Alamo in an apple orchard,” Rommie said, “but I see your point.”

“There’s something else we could do, too,” Joe said. “It’s a little risky, and it might not work, but…”

“Spill it,” Julia said. She was looking at Joe McClatchey with a kind of bemused awe.

“Well… is the Geiger counter still in your van, Rommie?”

“I t’ink so, yeah.”

“Maybe someone could put it back in the fallout shelter where it came from.” Joe turned to Jackie and Linda. “Could either of you get in there? I mean, I know you got fired.”

“Al Timmons would let us in, I think,” Linda said. “And he’d let Stacey Moggin in for sure. She’s with us. The only reason she’s not here right now is because she’s got the duty. Why risk it, Joe?”

“Because…” He was speaking with uncharacteristic slowness, feeling his way. “Well… there’s radiation out there, see? Bad radiation. It’s just a belt—I bet you could drive right through it without any protection at all and not get hurt, if you drove fast and didn’t try it too often—but they don’t know that. The problem is, they don’t know there’s radiation out there at all. And they won’t, if they don’t have the Geiger counter.”

Jackie was frowning. “It’s a cool idea, kiddo, but I don’t like the idea of pointing Rennie right at where we’re going. That doesn’t fit with my idea of a safe house.”

“It wouldn’t have to be like that,” Joe said. He was still speaking slowly, testing for weak spots. “Not exactly, anyway. One of you could get in touch with Cox, see? Tell him to call Rennie and say they’re picking up spot radiation. Cox can say something like, ‘We can’t exactly pinpoint it because it comes and goes, but it’s pretty high, maybe even lethal, so watch out. You don’t happen to have a Geiger counter, do you?’”

There was a long silence as they considered this. Then Rommie said, “We take Barbara and Rusty out to the McCoy farm. We go there ourselves if we have to… which we probably will. And if they try to go out there—”

“They get a radiation spike on the Geiger counter that sends them running back to town with their hands over their worthless gonads,” Ernie rasped. “Claire McClatchey, you got a genius there.”

Claire hugged Joe tight, this time with both arms. “Now if I could only get him to pick up his room,” she said.

20

Horace lay on the rug in Andrea Grinnell’s living room with his snout on one paw and his eye on the woman his mistress had left him with. Ordinarily Julia took him everywhere; he was quiet and never caused trouble even if there were cats, which he didn’t care for because of their stinkweed smell. Tonight, however, it had occurred to Julia that seeing Horace alive when her own dog was dead might cause Piper Libby pain. She had also noticed that Andi liked Horace, and thought that the Corgi might take Andi’s mind off her withdrawal symptoms, which had abated but not disappeared.

For a while it worked. Andi found a rubber ball in the toybox she still kept for her one grandchild (who was now well past the toybox stage of life). Horace chased the ball obediently and brought it back as was required, although there wasn’t much challenge in it; he preferred balls that could be caught on the fly. But a job was a job, and he continued until Andi started shivering as if she were cold.

“Oh. Oh fuck, here it comes again.”

She lay down on the couch, shaking all over. She clutched one of the sofa-pillows against her chest and stared at the ceiling. Pretty soon her teeth started to clatter—a very annoying sound, in Horace’s opinion.

He brought her the ball, hoping to distract her, but she pushed him away. “No, honey, not now. Let me get through this.”

Horace took the ball back in front of the blank TV and lay down. The woman’s shaking moderated, and the sick-smell moderated along with it. The arms clutching the pillow loosened as she first began to drift and then to snore.

Which meant it was chowtime.

Horace slipped under the table again, walking over the manila envelope containing the VADER file. Beyond it was popcorn Nirvana. O lucky dog!

Horace was still snarking, his tailless rear end wagging with pleasure that was close to ecstasy (the scattered kernels were incredibly buttery, incredibly salty, and—best of all—aged to perfection), when the deadvoice spoke again.

Take that to her.

But he couldn’t. His mistress was gone.

The other her.

The deadvoice brooked no refusal, and the popcorn was almost gone, anyway. Horace marked the few remaining blossoms for later attention, then backed up until the envelope was in front of him. For a moment he forgot what he was supposed to do. Then he remembered and picked it up in his mouth.

Good dog.

21

Something cold licked Andrea’s cheek. She pushed it away and turned on her side. For a moment or two she almost escaped back into healing sleep, and then there was bark.

“Shurrup, Horace.” She put the sofa pillow over her head.

There was another bark, and then thirty-four pounds of Corgi landed on her legs.

“Ah!” Andi cried, sitting up. She looked into a pair of brilliant hazel eyes and a foxy, grinning face. Only there was something interrupting that grin. A brown manila envelope. Horace dropped it on her stomach and jumped back down. He wasn’t supposed to get on furniture other than his own, but the deadvoice had made this seem like an emergency.

Andrea picked up the envelope, which had been dented by the points of Horace’s teeth and was faintly marked with the tracks of his paws. There was also a kernel of popcorn stuck to it, which she brushed away. Whatever was inside felt fairly bulky. Printed on the front of the envelope in block letters were the words VADER FILE. Below that, also printed: JULIA SHUMWAY.

“Horace? Where did you get this?”

Horace couldn’t answer that, of course, but he didn’t have to. The kernel of popcorn told her where. A memory surfaced then, one so shimmery and unreal that it was more like a dream. Was it a dream, or had Brenda Perkins really come to her door after that first terrible night of withdrawal? While the food riot was going on at the other end of town?

Will you hold this for me, dear? Just for a little while? I have an errand to run and I don’t want to take it with me.

“She was here,” she told Horace, “and she had this envelope. I took it… at least I think I did… but then I had to throw up. Throw up again. I might have tossed it at the table while I was running for the john. Did it fall off? Did you find it on the floor?”

Horace uttered one sharp bark. It could have been agreement; it could have been I’m ready for more ball if you are.

“Well, thanks,” Andrea said. “Good pup. I’ll give it to Julia as soon as she comes back.”

She no longer felt sleepy, and she wasn’t—for the moment—shivery, either. What she was was curious. Because Brenda was dead. Murdered. And it must have happened not long after she delivered this envelope. Which might make it important.

“I’ll just have a tiny peek, shall I?” she said.

Horace barked again. To Andi Grinnell it sounded like Why not?

Andrea opened the envelope, and most of Big Jim Rennie’s secrets fell out into her lap.

22

Claire got home first. Benny came next, then Norrie. The three of them were sitting together on the porch of the McClatchey house when Joe arrived, cutting across lawns and keeping to the shadows. Benny and Norrie were drinking warm Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda. Claire was nursing a bottle of her husband’s beer as she rocked slowly to and fro on the porch glider. Joe sat down beside her, and Claire put an arm around his bony shoulders. He’s fragile, she thought. He doesn’t know it, but he is. No more to him than a bird.

“Dude,” Benny said, handing him the soda he’d saved for him. “We were startin to get a little worried.”

“Miz Shumway had a few more questions about the box,” Joe said. “More than I could answer, really. Gosh, it’s warm out, isn’t it? Warm as a summer night.” He turned his gaze upward. “And look at that moon. ”

“I don’t want to,” Norrie said. “It’s scary.”

“You okay, honey?” Claire asked.

“Yeah, Mom. You?”

She smiled. “I don’t know. Is this going to work? What do you guys think? I mean really think.”

For a moment none of them answered, and that scared her more than anything. Then Joe kissed her on the cheek and said, “It’ll work.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

She could always tell when he was lying—although she knew the talent might leave her when he was older—but she didn’t call him on it this time. She just kissed him back, her breath warm and somehow fatherly with beer. “Just as long as there’s no bloodshed.”

“No blood,” Joe said.

She smiled. “Okay; that’s good enough for me.”

They sat there in the dark a while longer, saying little. Then they went inside, leaving the town to sleep under the pink moon.

It was just past midnight.