Under the Dome: A Novel (67 page)

“Lemons,” Benny said.

“Lem-
mings,
birdbrain,” Joe said.

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

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

“Go on?” Joe asked.

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“Try the Geiger counter again,” Joe said.

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

14

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

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

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

And so it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

“Who told you that?”

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

“Go on.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you see the dog tags then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you called your father right away?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir. Good.”

“None of this Miranda stuff.”

“No, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Awesome,” Junior managed.

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Your father will have, surely?”

“He’s been awfully busy.”

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

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

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

“All right, son. That’s good advice.”

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

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

15

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

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

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

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

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

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

16

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pi,” Norrie said. “Octopi.”

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

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

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

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

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

Joe shrugged.

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