Under the Dome: A Novel (33 page)

With every prayer and every good wish,
I remain most sincerely yours,

6

Whatever scribble-dee-dee dogsbody might have written it, the bastard had signed it himself, and using all three of his names, including the terrorist one in the middle. Big Jim hadn’t voted for him, and at this moment, had he teleported into existence in front of him, Rennie felt he could cheerfully have strangled him.

And Barbara.

Big Jim’s fondest wish was that he could whistle up Pete Randolph and have Colonel Fry Cook slammed into a cell. Tell him he could run his gosh-darned martial law command from the basement of the cop-shop with Sam Verdreaux serving as his aide-de-camp. Maybe Sloppy Sam could even hold the DTs at bay long enough to salute without sticking his thumb in his eye.

But not now. Not yet. Certain phrases from the Blackguard in Chief’s letter stood out:

As you aid him, so will we aid you.

A smooth working relationship with all town officials.

This decision will be subject to review.

What we expect is faith and cooperation.

That last one was the most telling. Big Jim was sure the pro-abortion son-of-a-buck knew nothing about faith—to him it was just a buzzword—but when he spoke of cooperation, he knew
exactly
what he was saying, and so did Jim Rennie:
It’s a velvet glove, but don’t forget the iron fist inside it.

The President offered sympathy and support (he saw the drug-addled Grinnell woman actually tear up as she read the letter), but if you looked between the lines, you saw the truth. It was a threat letter, pure and simple. Cooperate or you lose your Internet. Cooperate because we’ll be making a list of who’s naughty and who’s nice, and you don’t want to be on the naughty side of the ledger when we break through. Because we
will
remember.

Cooperate, pal. Or else.

Rennie thought:
I will never turn my town over to a short-order cook who dared to lay a hand on my son and then dared to challenge my authority. That will never happen, you monkey. Never.

He also thought:
Softly, calmly.

Let Colonel Fry Cook explain the military’s big plan. If it worked, fine. If it didn’t, the U.S. Army’s newest colonel was going to discover whole new meanings to the phrase
deep in enemy territory.

Big Jim smiled and said, “Let’s go inside, shall we? Seems we have a lot to talk about.”

7

Junior sat in the dark with his girlfriends.

It was strange, even
he
thought so, but it was also soothing.

When he and the other new deputies had gotten back to the police station after the colossal fuckup in Dinsmore’s field, Stacey Moggin (still in uniform herself, and looking tired) had told them they could have another four duty-hours if they wanted. There was going to be plenty of overtime on offer, at least for a while, and when it came time for the town to pay, Stacey said, she was sure there’d be bonuses, as well … probably provided by a grateful United States government.

Carter, Mel, Georgia Roux, and Frank DeLesseps had all agreed to work the extra hours. It wasn’t really the money; they were getting off on the job. Junior was too, but he’d also been hatching another of his headaches. This was depressing after feeling absolutely tip-top all day.

He told Stacey he’d pass, if that was all right. She assured him it was, but reminded him he was scheduled back on duty tomorrow at seven o’clock. “There’ll be plenty to do,” she said.

On the steps, Frankie hitched up his belt and said, “I think I’ll swing by Angie’s house. She probably went someplace with Dodee,
but I’d hate to think she slipped in the shower—that she’s lying there all paralyzed, or something.”

Junior felt a throb go through his head. A small white spot began to dance in front of his left eye. It seemed to be jigging and jagging with his heartbeat, which had just speeded up.

“I’ll go by, if you want,” he told Frankie. “It’s on my way.”

“Really? You don’t mind?”

Junior shook his head. The white spot in front of his eye darted crazily, sickeningly, when he did. Then it settled again.

Frankie lowered his voice. “Sammy Bushey gave me some lip out at the field day.”

“
That
hole,” Junior said.

“No doubt. She goes, ‘What are you going to do, arrest me?’ ” Frankie raised his voice to a snarky falsetto that scraped Junior’s nerves. The dancing white spot actually seemed to turn red, and for a moment he considered putting his hands around his old friend’s neck and choking the life out of him so that he, Junior, would never have to be subjected to that falsetto again.

“What I’m thinking,” Frankie continued, “is I might go out there after I’m off. Teach her a lesson. You know, Respect Your Local Police.”

“She’s a skank. Also a lesboreenie.”

“That might make it even better.” Frankie had paused, looking toward the weird sunset. “This Dome thing could have an upside. We can do pretty much whatever we want. For the time being, anyway. Consider it, chum.” Frankie squeezed his crotch.

“Sure,” Junior had replied, “but I’m not particularly horny.”

Except now he
was.
Well, sort of. It wasn’t like he was going to
fuck
them, or anything but—

“But you’re still my girlfriends,” Junior said in the darkness of the pantry. He’d used a flashlight at first, but then had turned it off. The dark was better. “Aren’t you?”

They didn’t reply.
If they did,
Junior thought,
I’d have a major miracle to report to my dad and Reverend Coggins.

He was sitting against a wall lined with shelves of canned goods.
He had propped Angie on his right and Dodee on his left.
Menagerie a trios,
as they said in the
Penthouse
Forum. His girls hadn’t looked too good with the flashlight on, their swollen faces and bulging eyes only partially obscured by their hanging hair, but once he turned it off … hey! They could have been a couple of live chicks!

Except for the smell, that was. A mixture of old shit and decay just starting to happen. But it wasn’t too bad, because there were other, more pleasant smells in here: coffee, chocolate, molasses, dried fruit, and—maybe—brown sugar.

Also a faint aroma of perfume. Dodee’s? Angie’s? He didn’t know. What he knew was that his headache was better again and that disturbing white spot had gone away. He slid his hand down and cupped Angie’s breast.

“You don’t mind me doing that, do you, Ange? I mean, I know you’re Frankie’s girlfriend, but you guys sort of broke up and hey, it’s only copping a feel. Also—I hate to tell you this, but I think he’s got cheating on his mind tonight.”

He groped with his free hand, found one of Dodee’s. It was chilly, but he put it on his crotch anyway. “Oh my, Dodes,” he said. “That’s pretty bold. But you do what you feel, girl; get down with your bad self.”

He’d have to bury them, of course. Soon. The Dome was apt to pop like a soap bubble, or the scientists would find a way to dissolve it. When that happened, the town would be flooded with investigators. And if the Dome stayed in place, there would likely be some sort of food-finding committee going house to house, looking for supplies.

Soon. But not right now. Because this was soothing.

Also sort of exciting. People wouldn’t understand, of course, but they wouldn’t
have
to understand. Because—

“This is our secret,” Junior whispered in the dark. “Isn’t it, girls?”

They did not reply (although they would, in time).

Junior sat with his arms around the girls he had murdered, and at some point he drifted off to sleep.

8

When Barbie and Brenda Perkins left the Town Hall at eleven, the meeting was still going on. The two of them walked down Main to Morin without speaking much at first. There was still a small stack of the
Democrat
one-page extras on the corner of Main and Maple. Barbie slid one out from beneath the rock anchoring the pile. Brenda had a Penlite in her purse and shone the beam on the headline.

“Seeing it in print should make it easier to believe, but it doesn’t,” she said.

“No,” he agreed.

“You and Julia collaborated on this to make sure James couldn’t cover it up,” she said. “Isn’t that so?”

Barbie shook his head. “He wouldn’t try, because it can’t be done. When that missile hits, it’s going to make one hell of a bang. Julia just wanted to make sure Rennie doesn’t get to spin the news his way, whatever way that might be.” He tapped the one-sheet. “To be perfectly blunt, I see this as insurance. Selectman Rennie’s got to be thinking, ‘If he was ahead of me on this, what other information is he ahead of me on?’”

“James Rennie can be a very dangerous adversary, my friend.” They began walking again. Brenda folded the paper and tucked it under her arm. “My husband was investigating him.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know how much to tell you,” she said. “The choices seem to come down to all or nothing. And Howie had no absolute proof—that’s one thing I
do
know. Although he was close.”

“This isn’t about proof,” Barbie said. “It’s about me staying out of jail if tomorrow doesn’t go well. If what you know might help me with that—”

“If staying out of jail is the only thing you’re worried about, I’m disappointed in you.”

It wasn’t all, and Barbie guessed the widow Perkins knew it. He
had listened carefully at the meeting, and although Rennie had taken pains to be at his most ingratiating and sweetly reasonable, Barbie had still been appalled. He thought that, beneath the goshes and gollies and doggone-its, the man was a raptor. He would exert control until it was wrested from him; he would take what he needed until he was stopped. That made him dangerous for everybody, not just for Dale Barbara.

“Mrs. Perkins—”

“Brenda, remember?”

“Brenda, right. Put it this way, Brenda: if the Dome stays in place, this town is going to need help from someone other than a used-car salesman with delusions of grandeur. I can’t help anybody if I’m in the calabozo.”

“What my husband believed is that Big Jim was helping himself.”

“How? To what? And how much?”

She said, “Let’s see what happens with the missile. If it doesn’t work, I’ll tell you everything. If it does, I’ll sit down with the County Attorney when the dust settles … and, in the words of Ricky Ricardo, James Rennie will have some ’splainin to do.”

“You’re not the only one waiting to see what happens with the missile. Tonight, butter wouldn’t melt in Rennie’s mouth. If the Cruise bounces off instead of punching through, I think we may see his other side.”

She snapped off the Penlite and looked up. “See the stars,” she said. “So bright. There’s the Dipper … Cassiopeia … the Great Bear. All just the same. I find that comforting. Do you?”

“Yes.”

They said nothing for a little while, only looked up at the glimmering sprawl of the Milky Way. “But they always make me feel very small and very … very brief.” She laughed, then said—rather timidly: “Would you mind if I took your arm, Barbie?”

“Not at all.”

She grasped his elbow. He put his hand over hers. Then he walked her home.

9

Big Jim adjourned the meeting at eleven twenty. Peter Randolph bade them all good night and left. He planned to start the evacuation on the west side of town at seven AM sharp, and hoped to have the entire area around Little Bitch Road clear by noon. Andrea followed, walking slowly, with her hands planted in the small of her back. It was a posture with which they had all become familiar.

Although his meeting with Lester Coggins was very much on his mind (and sleep; he wouldn’t mind getting a little damned sleep), Big Jim asked her if she could stay behind a moment or two.

She looked at him questioningly. Behind him, Andy Sanders was ostentatiously stacking files and putting them back in the gray steel cabinet.

“And close the door,” Big Jim said pleasantly.

Now looking worried, she did as he asked. Andy went on doing the end-of-meeting housework, but his shoulders were hunched, as if against a blow. Whatever it was Jim wanted to talk to her about, Andy knew already. And judging by his posture, it wasn’t good.

“What’s on your mind, Jim?” she asked.

“Nothing serious.” Which meant it was. “But it
did
seem to me, Andrea, that you were getting pretty chummy with that Barbara fellow before the meeting. With Brenda, too, for that matter.”

“Brenda? That’s just …” She started to say
ridiculous,
but that seemed a little strong. “Just silly. I’ve known Brenda for thirty yea—”

“And Mr. Barbara for three months. If, that is, eating a man’s waffles and bacon is a basis for knowing him.”

“I think he’s Colonel Barbara now.”

Big Jim smiled. “Hard to take that seriously when the closest thing he can get to a uniform is a pair of bluejeans and a tee-shirt.”

“You saw the President’s letter.”

“I saw something Julia Shumway could have composed on her own gosh-darn computer. Isn’t that right, Andy?”

“Right,” Andy said without turning around. He was still filing. And then refiling what he’d already filed, from the look of it.

“And suppose it
was
from the President?” Big Jim said. The smile she hated was spreading on his broad, jowly face. Andrea observed with some fascination that she could see stubble on those jowls, maybe for the first time, and she understood why Jim was always so careful to shave. The stubble gave him a sinister Nixonian look.

“Well …” Worry was now edging into fright. She wanted to tell Jim she’d only been being polite, but it had actually been a little more, and she guessed Jim had seen that. He saw a great deal. “Well, he
is
the Commander in Chief, you know.”

Big Jim made a
pshaw
gesture. “Do you know what a commander is, Andrea? I’ll tell you. Someone who merits loyalty and obedience because he can provide the resources to help those in need. It’s supposed to be a fair trade.”