Under the Dome: A Novel (30 page)

“What she
told
me is she said no and you went ahead and fucked her anyway. What do you outweigh her by? Hunnert pounds? That sounds like rape to me.”

“I didn’t.” Knowing it was probably hopeless.

“You want to go outside, motherfuck, or are you too chicken?”

“Too chicken,” Barbie said, and to his surprise, Frankie went away. Barbie decided he’d had enough beer and music for one night and was getting up to go when Frankie returned, this time not with a glass but a pitcher.

“Don’t do that,” Barbie said, but of course Frankie paid no attention. Splash, in the face. A Bud Light shower. Several people laughed and applauded drunkenly.

“You can come out now and settle this,” Frankie said, “or I can wait. Last call’s comin,
Baaarbie.
”

Barbie went, realizing it was then or later, and believing that if he decked Frankie fast, before a lot of people could see, that would end it. He could even apologize and repeat that he’d never been with Angie. He wouldn’t add that Angie had been coming on to him, although he supposed a lot of people knew it (certainly Rose and Anson did). Maybe, with a bloody nose to wake him up, Frankie would see what seemed so obvious to Barbie: this was the little twit’s idea of payback.

At first it seemed that it might work out that way. Frankie stood flat-footed on the gravel, his shadow cast two different ways by the glare of the sodium lights at either end of the parking lot, his fists held up like John L. Sullivan. Mean, strong, and stupid: just one more smalltown brawler. Used to putting his opponents down with one big blow, then picking them up and hitting them a bunch of little ones until they cried uncle.

He shuffled forward and uncorked his not-so-secret weapon: an uppercut Barbie avoided by the simple expedient of cocking his head slightly to one side. Barbie countered with a straight jab to the solar plexus. Frankie went down with a stunned expression on his face.

“We don’t have to—” Barbie began, and that was when Junior Rennie hit him from behind, in the kidneys, probably with his hands laced together to make one big fist. Barbie stumbled forward. Carter Thibodeau was there to meet him, stepping from between two parked cars and throwing a roundhouse. It might have broken Barbie’s jaw if it had connected, but Barbie got his arm up in time. That accounted for the worst of his bruises, still an unlovely yellow when he tried to leave town on Dome Day.

He twisted to one side, understanding this had been a planned ambush, knowing he had to get out before someone was really hurt. Not necessarily him. He was willing to run; he wasn’t proud. He got three steps before Melvin Searles tripped him up. Barbie sprawled in the gravel on his belly and the kicking started. He covered his head, but a squall of bootleather pounded his legs, ass, and arms. One caught him high in the rib cage just before he managed to knee-scramble behind Stubby Norman’s used-furniture panel truck.

His good sense left him then, and he stopped thinking about running away. He got up, faced them, then held out his hands to them, palms up and fingers wiggling. Beckoning. The slot he was standing in was narrow. They’d have to come one by one.

Junior tried first; his enthusiasm was rewarded with a kick in the belly. Barbie was wearing Nikes rather than boots, but it was a hard kick and Junior folded up beside the panel truck, woofing for breath. Frankie scrambled over him and Barbie popped him twice in the face—stinging shots, but not quite hard enough to break anything. Good sense had begun to reassert itself.

Gravel crunched. He turned in time to catch incoming from Thibodeau, who had cut behind him. The blow connected with his temple. Barbie saw stars. (“Or maybe one was a comet,” he told Brenda, opening the valve on the new gas canister.) Thibodeau moved in. Barbie pistoned a hard kick to his ankle, and Thibodeau’s grin turned to a grimace. He dropped to one knee, looking like a football player holding the ball for a field goal attempt. Except ball-holders usually don’t clutch their ankles.

Absurdly, Carter Thibodeau cried: “Fuckin dirty-fighter!”

“Look who’s ta—” Barbie got that far before Melvin Searles locked an elbow around his throat. Barbie drove his own elbow back into Searles’s midsection and heard the grunt of escaping air. Smelled it, too: beer, cigarettes, Slim Jims. He was turning, knowing that Thibodeau would probably be on him again before he could fight his way entirely clear of the aisle between vehicles into which he had retreated, no longer caring. His face was throbbing, his ribs were throbbing, and he suddenly decided—it seemed quite reasonable—that he was going to put all four of them in the hospital. They could discuss what constituted dirty fighting and what did not as they signed each other’s casts.

That was when Chief Perkins—called by either Tommy or Willow Anderson, the roadhouse proprietors—drove into the parking lot with his jackpots lit and his headlights winking back and forth. The combatants were illuminated like actors on a stage.

Perkins hit the siren once; it blipped half a whoop and died. Then he got out, hitching his belt up over his considerable girth.

“Little early in the week for this, isn’t it, fellas?”

To which Junior Rennie replied

11

Brenda didn’t need Barbie to tell her that; she’d heard it from Howie, and hadn’t been surprised. Even as a child, Big Jim’s boy had been a fluent confabulator, especially when his self-interest was at stake.

“To which he replied, ‘The cook started it.’ Am I right?”

“Yep.” Barbie pushed the gennie’s start button and it roared into life. He smiled at her, although he could feel a flush warming his cheeks. What he’d just told was not his favorite story. Although he supposed he’d pick it over the one of the gym in Fallujah any day. “There you go—lights, camera, action.”

“Thank you. How long will it last?”

“Only a couple of days, but this may be over by then.”

“Or not. I suppose you know what saved you from a trip to the county lockup that night?”

“Sure,” Barbie said. “Your husband saw it happening. Four-onone. It was kind of hard to miss.”

“Any other cop might
not
have seen it, even if it was right in front of his eyes. And it was just luck Howie was on that night; George Frederick was supposed to have the duty, but he called in with stomach flu.” She paused. “You might call it providence instead of luck.”

“So I might,” Barbie agreed.

“Would you like to come inside, Mr. Barbara?”

“Why don’t we sit out here? If you don’t mind. It’s pleasant.”

“Fine by me. The weather will turn cold soon enough. Or will it?”

Barbie said he didn’t know.

“When Howie got you all to the station, DeLesseps told Howie that you raped Angie McCain. Isn’t that how it went?”

“That was his first story. Then he said maybe it wasn’t quite rape, but when she got scared and told me to stop, I wouldn’t. That would make it rape in the second degree, I guess.”

She smiled briefly. “Don’t let any feminists hear you say there are degrees of rape.”

“I guess I better not. Anyway, your husband put me in the interrogation room—which seems to be a broom closet when it’s doing its day job—”

Brenda actually laughed.

“—then hauled Angie in. Sat her where she had to look me in the eye. Hell, we were almost rubbing elbows. It takes mental preparation to lie about something big, especially for a young person. I found that out in the Army. Your husband knew it, too. Told her it would go to court. Explained the penalties for perjury. Long story short, she recanted. Said there’d been no intercourse, let alone rape.”

“Howie had a motto: ‘Reason before law.’ It was the basis for the way he handled things. It will
not
be the way Peter Randolph handles things, partially because he’s a foggy thinker but mostly because
he won’t be able to handle Rennie. My husband could. Howie said that when news of your … altercation … got back to Mr. Rennie, he insisted that you be tried for
something.
He was furious. Did you know that?”

“No.” But he wasn’t surprised.

“Howie told Mr. Rennie that if any of it made it into court, he’d see that
all
of it made it into court, including the four-on-one in the parking lot. He added that a good defense attorney might even be able to get some of Frankie and Junior’s high school escapades into the record. There were several, although nothing quite like what happened to you.”

She shook her head.

“Junior Rennie was never a
great
kid, but he used to be relatively harmless. Over the last year or so, he’s changed. Howie saw it, and was troubled by it. I’ve discovered that Howie knew things about both the son
and
the father …” She trailed off. Barbie could see her debating whether or not to go on and deciding not to. She had learned discretion as the wife of a small-town police official, and it was a hard habit to unlearn.

“Howie advised you to leave town before Rennie found some other way to make trouble for you, didn’t he? I imagine you got caught by this Dome thing before you could do it.”

“Yes to both. Can I have that Diet Coke now, Mrs. Perkins?”

“Call me Brenda. And I’ll call you Barbie, if that’s what you go by. Please help yourself to a soft drink.”

Barbie did.

“You want a key to the fallout shelter so you can get the Geiger counter. I can and will help you there. But it sounded like you were saying Jim Rennie has to know, and with that idea I have trouble. Maybe it’s grief clouding my mind, but I don’t understand why you’d want to get into any kind of head-butting contest with him. Big Jim freaks out when
anybody
challenges his authority, and you he doesn’t like to begin with. Nor does he owe you any favors. If my husband were still Chief, maybe the two of you could go see Rennie together. I would rather have enjoyed that, I think.” She leaned forward,
looking at him earnestly from her dark-circled eyes. “But Howie’s gone and you’re apt to wind up in a cell instead of looking around for some mystery generator.”

“I know all that, but something new has been added. The Air Force is going to shoot a Cruise missile at the Dome tomorrow at thirteen hundred hours.”

“Oh-my-Jesus.”

“They’ve shot other missiles at it, but only to determine how high the barrier goes. Radar doesn’t work. Those had dummy warheads. This one will have a very live one. A bunker-buster.”

She paled visibly.

“What part of our town are they going to shoot it at?”

“Point of impact will be where the Dome cuts Little Bitch Road. Julia and I were out there just last night. It’ll explode about five feet off the ground.”

Her mouth dropped open in an unladylike gape. “Not possible!”

“I’m afraid it is. They’ll release in from a B-52, and it’ll fly a preprogrammed course. I mean
really
programmed. Down to every ridge and dip, once it descends to target height. Those things are
eerie.
If it explodes and doesn’t break through, it means everyone in town just gets a bad scare—it’s going to sound like Armageddon. If it
does
break through, though—”

Her hand had gone to her throat. “How much damage? Barbie, we have no firetrucks!”

“I’m sure they’ll have fire equipment standing by. As to how much damage?” He shrugged. “The whole area will have to be evacuated, that’s for sure.”

“Is it wise? Is what they’re planning wise?”

“It’s a moot question, Mrs.—Brenda. They’ve made their decision. But it gets worse, I’m afraid.” And, seeing her expression: “For me, not the town. I’ve been promoted to Colonel. By Presidential order.”

She rolled her eyes. “How nice for you.”

“I’m supposed to declare martial law and basically take over Chester’s Mill. Won’t Jim Rennie enjoy hearing that?”

She surprised him by bursting into laughter. And Barbie surprised himself by joining her.

“You see my problem? The town doesn’t have to know about me borrowing an old Geiger counter, but they
do
need to know about the bunker-buster coming their way. Julia Shumway will spread the news if I don’t, but the town fathers ought to hear it from me. Because—”

“I know why.” Thanks to the reddening sun, Brenda’s face had lost its pallor. But she was rubbing her arms absently. “If you’re to establish any authority here … which is what your superior wants you to do …”

“I guess Cox is more like my colleague now,” Barbie said.

She sighed. “Andrea Grinnell. We’ll take this to her. Then we’ll talk to Rennie and Andy Sanders together. At least we’ll outnumber them, three to two.”

“Rose’s sister? Why?”

“You don’t know she’s the town’s Third Selectman?” And when he shook his head: “Don’t look so chagrined. Many don’t, although she’s held the job for several years. She’s usually little more than a rubber-stamp for the two men—which means for Rennie, since Andy Sanders is a rubber-stamp himself—and she has … problems … but there’s a core of toughness there. Or was.”

“What problems?”

He thought she might keep that to herself too, but she didn’t. “Drug dependency. Pain pills. I don’t know how bad it is.”

“And I suppose she gets her scrips filled at Sanders’s pharmacy.”

“Yes. I know it’s not a perfect solution, and you’ll have to be very careful, but … Jim Rennie may be forced by simple expediency to accept your input for a while. Your actual leadership?” She shook her head. “He’ll wipe his bottom with any declaration of martial law, whether it’s signed by the President or not. I—”

She ceased. Her eyes were looking past him, and widening.

“Mrs. Perkins? Brenda? What is it?”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, my
God.
”

Barbie turned to look, and was stunned to silence himself. The
sun was going down red as it often did after warm, fair days unsullied by late showers. But never in his life had he seen a sunset like this one. He had an idea the only people who ever had were those in the vicinity of violent volcanic eruptions.

No,
he thought.
Not even them. This is brand new.

The declining sun wasn’t a ball. It was a huge red bowtie shape with a burning circular center. The western sky was smeared as if with a thin film of blood that shaded to orange as it climbed. The horizon was almost invisible through that blurry glare.