Under the Dome: A Novel (88 page)

“Maybe, maybe,” Rommie said, but he doubted there would be any such sale. This morning he was much less interested than he had been in unloading shoddy goods at prices that looked like bargains. He felt that he had undergone big changes in the last three days—not so much of character as of perspective. Some of it had to do with fighting the fire and the camaraderie afterward. That had been the real town at work, he thought. The town’s better nature. And a lot of it had to do with the murder of his once-upon-a-time lover, Brenda Perkins … whom Rommie still thought of as Brenda Morse. One hot ticket she’d been, and if he discovered who had cooled her off—assuming that Rusty was right about it not being Dale Barbara—that person would pay. Rommie Burpee would see to that personally.

At the back of his cavernous store was the Home Repairs section, conveniently located next to the Do-It-Yourself section. Rommie grabbed a set of heavy-duty metal snips from the latter, then entered the former and proceeded to the farthest, darkest, and dustiest corner of his retail kingdom. Here he found two dozen fifty-pound rolls of Santa Rosa lead sheeting, ordinarily used for roofing, flashing, and chimney insulation. He loaded two of the rolls (and the metal snips) into a shopping cart and rolled the cart back through the store until he reached the sports department. Here he set to work picking and choosing. Several times he burst out laughing. It was going to work, but yes, Rusty Everett was going to look
très amusant.

When he was done, he straightened up to stretch the kinks out of his back and caught sight of a deer-in-the-crosshairs poster on the far side of the sports department. Printed above the deer was this reminder: HUNTING SEASON’S ALMOST HERE—TIME TO GUN UP!

Given the way things were going, Rommie thought that gunning up might be a good idea. Especially if Rennie or Randolph decided
that confiscating any weapons but those belonging to the cops would be a good idea.

He rolled another shopping cart over to the locked rifle cases, working through the considerable ring of keys hanging from his belt by touch alone. Burpee’s sold exclusively Winchester products, and given that deer season was only a week away, Rommie thought he could justify a few holes in his stock if he were asked. He selected a Wildcat.22, a speed-pump Black Shadow, and two Black Defenders, also with the speed-pump feature. To this he added a Model 70 Extreme Weather (with scope) and a 70 Featherweight (without). He took ammo for all the guns, then pushed the cart down to his office and stowed the guns in his old green Defender floor-safe.

This is paranoid, you know,
he thought as he twirled the dial.

But it didn’t
feel
paranoid. And as he went back out to wait for Rusty and the kids, he reminded himself to tie a blue rag around his arm. And to tell Rusty to do the same. Camouflage wasn’t a bad idea.

Any deer hunter knew that.

8

At eight o’clock that morning, Big Jim was back in his home study. Carter Thibodeau—now his personal bodyguard for the duration, Big Jim had decided—was deep in an issue of
Car and Driver,
reading a comparison of the 2012 BMW H-car and the 2011 Ford Vesper R/T. They both looked like awesome cars, but anybody who didn’t know that BMWs ruled was insane. The same was true, he thought, of anyone who didn’t understand that Mr. Rennie was now the BMW H-car of Chester’s Mill.

Big Jim was feeling quite well, partly because he’d gotten another hour of sleep after visiting Barbara. He was going to need lots of power naps in the days ahead. He had to stay sharp, on top. He would not quite admit to himself that he was also worried about more arrhythmias.

Having Thibodeau on hand eased his mind considerably, especially with Junior behaving so erratically (
That’s one way to put it,
he thought). Thibodeau looked like a thug, but he seemed to have a feel for the aide-de-camp role. Big Jim wasn’t completely sure yet, but he thought Thibodeau might actually turn out to be smarter than Randolph.

He decided to test that.

“How many men guarding the supermarket, son? Do you know?”

Carter put his magazine aside and drew a battered little notebook from his back pocket. Big Jim approved.

After thumbing through it a little, Carter said: “Five last night, three regular guys and two new ones. No problems. Today there’s only gonna be three. All new ones. Aubrey Towle—his brother owns the bookshop, y’know—Todd Wendlestat, and Lauren Conree.”

“And do you concur that that should be enough?”

“Huh?”

“Do you
agree,
Carter. Concur means agree.”

“Yeah, that should do it. Daylight and all.”

No pause to calculate what the boss might want to hear. Rennie liked that a bunch.

“Okay. Now listen. I want you to get with Stacey Moggin this morning. Tell her to call every officer we’ve got on our roster. I want them all at Food City tonight at seven. I’m going to talk to them.”

Actually he was going to make another speech, this time with all the stops out. Wind them up like Granddad’s pocketwatch.

“Okay.” Carter made a note in his little aide-de-camp book.

“And tell each of them to try and bring one more.”

Carter was running his gnawed-upon pencil down the list in his book. “We’ve already got … lemme see … twenty-six.”

“That still might not be enough. Remember the market yesterday morning, and the Shumway woman’s newspaper last night. It’s us or anarchy, Carter. Do you know the meaning of
that
word?”

“Uh, yessir.” Carter Thibodeau was pretty sure it meant an archery range, and he supposed his new boss was saying that The Mill could become a shooting gallery or something if they didn’t
take a good hard hold. “Maybe we ought to make a weapons sweep, or something.”

Big Jim grinned. Yes, in many ways a delightful boy. “That’s on the docket, probably starting next week.”

“If the Dome’s still up. You think it will be?”

“I think so.” It
had
to be. There was still so much to do. He had to see that the propane cache was disseminated back into town. All traces of the meth lab behind the radio station had to be erased. Also—and this was crucial—he hadn’t achieved his greatness yet. Although he was well on his way.

“In the meantime, have a couple of the officers—the
regular
officers—go on over to Burpee’s and confiscate the guns there. If Romeo Burpee gives the officers any grief, they’re to say we want to keep them out of the hands of Dale Barbara’s friends. Have you got that?”

“Yep.” Carter made another note. “Denton and Wettington? They okay?”

Big Jim frowned. Wettington, the gal with the big tiddies. He didn’t trust her. He wasn’t sure he would have liked any cop with tiddies, gals had no business in law enforcement, but it was more than that. It was the way she looked at him.

“Freddy Denton yes, Wettington no. Not Henry Morrison, either. Send Denton and George Frederick. Tell them to put the guns in the PD strong room.”

“Got it.”

Rennie’s phone rang, and his frown deepened. He picked it up and said, “Selectman Rennie.”

“Hello, Selectman. This is Colonel James O. Cox. I’m in charge of what’s being called the Dome Project. I thought it was time we spoke.”

Big Jim leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Well then you just go on then, Colonel, and God bless you.”

“My information is that you’ve arrested the man the President of the United States tapped to take charge of matters in Chester’s Mill.”

“That would be correct, sir. Mr. Barbara is charged with murder. Four counts. I hardly think the President would want a serial killer in charge of things. Wouldn’t do much for his standing in the polls.”

“Which puts you in charge.”

“Oh, no,” Rennie said, smiling more widely. “I’m nothing but a humble Second Selectman. Andy Sanders is the man in charge, and Peter Randolph—our new Police Chief, as you may know—was the arresting officer.”

“Your hands are clean, in other words. That’s going to be your position once the Dome is gone and the investigation starts.”

Big Jim enjoyed the frustration he heard in the cotton-picker’s voice. Pentagon son-of-a-buck was used to riding; being rode was a new experience for him.

“Why would they be dirty, Colonel Cox? Barbara’s dog tags were found with one of the victims. Can’t get much more cut-and-dried than that.”

“Convenient.”

“Call it what you want.”

“If you tune in the cable news networks,” Cox said, “you’ll see that serious questions are being raised about Barbara’s arrest, especially in light of his service record, which is exemplary. Questions are also being raised about your own record, which is not so exemplary.”

“Do you think any of that surprises me? You fellows are good at managing the news. You’ve been doing it since Vietnam.”

“CNN’s got a story about you being investigated for shady bait-and-switch practices back in the late nineties. NBC’s reporting that you were investigated for unethical loan practices in 2008. I believe you were accused of charging illegal rates of interest? Somewhere in the forty percent area? Then repo’ing cars and trucks that had already been paid for twice and sometimes three times over? Your constituents are probably seeing this on the news for themselves.”

All those charges had gone away. He had paid good money to
make
them go away. “The people in my town know those news shows will put on any ridiculous thing if it sells a few more tubes of hemorrhoid cream and a few more bottles of sleeping pills.”

“There’s more. According to the State of Maine Attorney General, the previous Police Chief—the one who died last Saturday—was investigating you for tax fraud, misappropriation of town funds and town property, and involvement in illegal drug activity. We have released none of this latest stuff to the press, and have no intention of doing so …
if
you’ll compromise. Step down as Town Selectman. Mr. Sanders should likewise step down. Name Andrea Grinnell, the Third Selectman, as the officer in charge, and Jacqueline Wettington as the President’s representative in Chester’s Mill.”

Big Jim was startled out of what remained of his good temper. “Man, are you insane? Andi Grinnell is a drug addict—hooked on OxyContin—and the Wettington woman doesn’t have a brain in her cotton-picking head!”

“I assure you that’s not true, Rennie.” No more
Mister
; the Era of Good Feelings seemed to be over. “Wettington was given a citation for helping to break up an illegal drug ring operating out of the Sixty-seventh Combat Support Hospital in Würzburg, Germany, and was personally recommended by a man named Jack Reacher, the toughest goddam Army cop that ever served, in my humble opinion.”

“There’s nothing humble about you, sir, and your sacrilegious language doesn’t go down well with me. I am a Christian.”

“A drug-selling Christian, according to my information.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”
Especially under the Dome,
Big Jim thought, and smiled. “Do you have any actual proof?”

“Come on, Rennie—as one hardass to another, does it matter? The Dome is a bigger press event than nine-eleven. And it’s
sympathetic
big press. If you don’t start compromising, I’ll tar you so thick you’ll never get it off. Once the Dome breaks, I’ll see you before a Senate subcommittee, a grand jury, and in jail. I promise you that. But step down and it all goes away. I promise you that, too.”

“Once the Dome breaks,” Rennie mused. “And when will that be?”

“Maybe sooner than you think. I plan to be the first one inside, and
my first order of business will be to snap handcuffs on you and escort you to an airplane which will fly you to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, where you will be held as a guest of the United States pending trial.”

Big Jim was rendered momentarily speechless by the boldfaced audacity of this. Then he laughed.

“If you really wanted what’s best for the town, Rennie, you’d step down. Look what’s happened on your watch: six murders—two at the hospital last night, we understand—a suicide, and a food riot. You’re not up to this job.”

Big Jim’s hand closed on the gold baseball and squeezed. Carter Thibodeau was looking at him with a worried frown.

If you were here, Colonel Cox, I’d give you a taste of what I gave Coggins. With God as my witness, I would.

“Rennie?”

“I’m here.” He paused. “And you’re there.” Another pause. “And the Dome isn’t coming down. I think we both know that. Drop the biggest A-bomb you’ve got on it, render the surrounding towns uninhabitable for two hundred years, kill everybody in Chester’s Mill with the radiation if the radiation goes through, and
still
it won’t come down.” He was breathing fast now, but his heart was beating strong and steady in his chest. “Because the Dome is God’s will.”

Which was, in his deepest heart, what he believed. As he believed it was God’s will that he take this town and carry it through the weeks, months, and years ahead.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Knowing he was wagering everything, his entire future, on the continued existence of the Dome. Knowing some people would think he was crazy for doing so. Also knowing those people were unbelieving heathens. Like Colonel James O. Cotton-Picker Cox.

“Rennie, be reasonable. Please.”

Big Jim liked that
please
; it brought his good humor back in a rush. “Let’s recap, shall we, Colonel Cox? Andy Sanders is in charge here, not me. Although I appreciate the courtesy call from such a high mucky-muck as yourself, naturally. And while I’m sure Andy
will appreciate your offer to manage things—by remote control, as it were—I think I can speak for him when I say you can take your offer and tuck it away where the sun doesn’t shine. We’re on our own in here, and we’re going to
handle
it on our own.”

“You’re crazy,” Cox said wonderingly.

“So unbelievers always call the religious. It’s their final defense against faith. We’re used to it, and I don’t hold it against you.” This was a lie. “May I ask a question?”

“Go on.”

“Are you going to cut off our phones and computers?”