Under the Dome: A Novel Read online

  Andy took the note from the boy and caught up to Rennie before he could get to the trio sitting on the steps. “You better look at this.”

  What Big Jim looked at first was Andy’s face, more pinched and worried than ever. Then he took the note.

  James—

  I must see you tonight. God has spoken to me. Now I must speak to you before I speak to the town. Please reply. Richie Killian will carry your message to me.

  Reverend Lester Coggins

  Not Les; not even Lester. No. Reverend Lester Coggins. This was not good. Why oh why did everything have to happen at the same time?

  The boy was standing in front of the bookstore, looking in his faded shirt and baggy, slipping-down jeans like a gosh-darn orphan. Big Jim beckoned to him. The kid raced forward eagerly. Big Jim took his pen from his pocket (written in gold down the barrel: YOU’LL LUV THE FEELIN’ WHEN BIG JIM’S DEALIN’) and scribbled a three-word reply: Midnight. My house. He folded it over and handed it to the boy.

  “Take that back to him. And don’t read it.”

  “I won’t! No way! God bless you, Mr. Rennie.”

  “You too, son.” He watched the boy speed off.

  “What’s that about?” Andy asked. And before Big Jim could answer: “The factory? Is it the meth—”

  “Shut up.”

  Andy fell back a step, shocked. Big Jim had never told him to shut up before. This could be bad.

  “One thing at a time,” Big Jim said, and marched forward toward the next problem.

  3

  Watching Rennie come, Barbie’s first thought was He walks like a man who’s sick and doesn’t know it. He also walked like a man who has spent his life kicking ass. He was wearing his most carnivorously sociable smile as he took Brenda’s hands and gave them a squeeze. She allowed this with calm good grace.

  “Brenda,” he said. “My deepest condolences. I would have been over to see you before now … and of course I’ll be at the funeral … but I’ve been a little busy. We all have.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “We miss Duke so much,” Big Jim said.

  “That’s right,” Andy put in, pulling up behind Big Jim: a tugboat in the wake of an ocean liner. “We sure do.”

  “Thank you both so much.”

  “And while I’d love to discuss your concerns … I can see that you have them….” Big Jim’s smile widened, although it did not come within hailing distance of his eyes. “We have a very important meeting. Andrea, I wonder if you’d like to run on ahead and set out those files.”

  Although pushing fifty, Andrea at that moment looked like a child who has been caught sneaking hot tarts off a windowsill. She started to get up (wincing at the pain in her back as she did so), but Brenda took her arm, and firmly. Andrea sat back down.

  Barbie realized that both Grinnell and Sanders looked frightened to death. It wasn’t the Dome, at least not at this moment; it was Rennie. Again he thought: This is not as bad as it gets.

  “I think you’d better make time for us, James,” Brenda said pleasantly. “Surely you understand that if this wasn’t important—very—I’d be at home, mourning my husband.”

  Big Jim was at a rare loss for words. The people on the street who’d been watching the sunset were now watching this impromptu meeting instead. Perhaps elevating Barbara to an importance he did not deserve simply because he was sitting in close proximity to the town’s Third Selectman and the late Police Chief’s widow. Passing some piece of paper among themselves as if it were a letter from the Grand High Pope of Rome. Whose idea had this public display been? The Perkins woman’s, of course. Andrea wasn’t smart enough. Nor brave enough to cross him in such a public way.

  “Well, maybe we can spare you a few minutes. Eh, Andy?”

  “Sure,” Andy said. “Always a few minutes for you, Mrs. Perkins. I’m really sorry about Duke.”

  “And I’m sorry about your wife,” she said gravely.

  Their eyes met. It was a genuine Tender Moment, and it made Big Jim feel like tearing his hair out. He knew he wasn’t supposed to let such feelings grip him—it was bad for his blood pressure, and what was bad for his blood pressure was bad for his heart—but it was hard, sometimes. Especially when you’d just been handed a note from a fellow who knew far too much and now believed God wanted him to speak to the town. If Big Jim was right about what had gotten into Coggins’s head, this current business was piddling by comparison.

  Only it might not be piddling. Because Brenda Perkins had never liked him, and Brenda Perkins was the widow of a man who was now perceived in town—for absolutely no good reason—as a hero. The first thing he had to do—

  “Come on inside,” he said. “We’ll talk in the conference room.” His eyes flicked to Barbie. “Are you a part of this, Mr. Barbara? Because I can’t for the life of me understand why.”

  “This may help,” Barbie said, holding out the sheets of paper they’d been passing around. “I used to be in the Army. I was a lieutenant. It seems that I’ve had my term of service extended. I’ve also been given a promotion.”

  Rennie took the sheets, holding them by the corner as if they might be hot. The letter was considerably more elegant than the grubby note Richie Killian had handed him, and from a rather more well-known correspondent. The heading read simply: FROM THE WHITE HOUSE. It bore today’s date.

  Rennie felt the paper. A deep vertical crease had formed between his bushy eyebrows. “This isn’t White House stationery.”

  Of course it is, you silly man, Barbie was tempted to say. It was delivered an hour ago by a member of the FedEx Elf Squad. Crazy little fucker just teleported through the Dome, no problem.

  “No, it’s not.” Barbie tried to keep his voice pleasant. “It came by way of the Internet, as a PDF file. Ms. Shumway downloaded it and printed it out.”

  Julia Shumway. Another troublemaker.

  “Read it, James,” Brenda said quietly. “It’s important.”

  Big Jim read it.

  4

  Benny Drake, Norrie Calvert, and Scarecrow Joe McClatchey stood outside the offices of the Chester’s Mill Democrat. Each had a flash-light. Benny and Joe held theirs in their hands; Norrie’s was tucked into the wide front pocket of her hoodie. They were looking up the street at the Town Hall, where several people—including all three selectmen and the cook from Sweetbriar Rose—appeared to be having a conference.

  “I wonder what that’s about,” Norrie said.

  “Grownup shit,” Benny said, with a supreme lack of interest, and knocked on the door of the newspaper office. When there was no response, Joe pushed past him and tried the knob. The door opened. He knew at once why Miz Shumway hadn’t heard them; her copier was going full blast while she talked with the paper’s sports reporter and the guy who had been taking pictures out at the field day.

  She saw the kids and waved them in. Single sheets were shooting rapidly in the copier’s tray. Pete Freeman and Tony Guay were taking turns pulling them out and stacking them up.

  “There you are,” Julia said. “I was afraid you kids weren’t coming. We’re almost ready. If the damn copier doesn’t shit the bed, that is.”

  Joe, Benny, and Norrie received this enchanting bon mot with silent appreciation, each resolving to put it to use as soon as possible.

  “Did you get permission from your folks?” Julia asked. “I don’t want a bunch of angry parents on my neck.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Norrie said. “All of us did.”

  Freeman was tying up a bundle of sheets with twine. Doing a bad job of it, too, Norrie observed. She herself could tie five different knots. Also fishing flies. Her father had shown her. She in turn had shown him how to do nosies on her rail, and when he fell off the first time he’d laughed until tears rolled down his face. She thought she had the best dad in the universe.

  “Want me to do that?” Norrie asked.

  “If you can do a better job, sure.” Pete stood aside.

  She started for
ward, Joe and Benny crowding close behind her. Then she saw the big black headline on the one-sheet extra, and stopped. “Holy shit!”

  As soon as the words were out she clapped her hands to her mouth, but Julia only nodded. “It’s an authentic holy shit, all right. I hope you all brought bikes, and I hope they all have baskets. You can’t haul these around town on skateboards.”

  “That’s what you said, that’s what we brought,” Joe replied. “Mine doesn’t have a basket, but it’s got a carrier.”

  “And I’ll tie his load on for him,” Norrie said.

  Pete Freeman, who was watching with admiration as the girl quickly tied up the bundles (with what looked like a sliding butter-fly), said, “I bet you will. Those are good.”

  “Yeah, I rock,” Norrie said matter-of-factly.

  “Got flashlights?” Julia asked.

  “Yes,” they all said together.

  “Good. The Democrat hasn’t used newsboys in thirty years, and I don’t want to celebrate the reintroduction of the practice with one of you getting hit on the corner of Main or Prestile.”

  “That would be a bummer, all right,” Joe agreed.

  “Every house and business on those two streets gets one, right? Plus Morin and St. Anne Avenue. After that, spread out. Do what you can, but when it gets to be nine o’clock, go on home. Drop any leftover papers on streetcorners. Put a rock on them to hold them down.”

  Benny looked at the headline again:

  CHESTER’S MILL, ATTENTION!

  EXPLOSIVES TO BE FIRED AT BARRIER!

  CRUISE MISSILE DELIVERY SYSTEM

  WESTERN BORDER EVACUATION RECOMMENDED

  “I bet this won’t work,” Joe said darkly, examining the map, obviously hand-drawn, at the bottom of the sheet. The border between Chester’s Mill and Tarker’s Mills had been highlighted in red. There was a black X where Little Bitch Road cut across the town line. The X had been labeled Point of Impact.

  “Bite your tongue, kiddo,” Tony Guay said.

  5

  FROM THE WHITE HOUSE

  Greetings and salutations

  to the CHESTER’S MILL BOARD OF SELECTMEN:

  Andrew Sanders

  James P. Rennie

  Andrea Grinnell

  Dear Sirs and Madam:

  First and foremost, I send you greetings, and want to express our nation’s deep concern and good wishes. I have designated tomorrow as a national Day of Prayer; across America, churches will be open as people of all faiths pray for you and for those working to understand and reverse what has happened at the borders of your town. Let me assure you that we will not rest until the people of Chester’s Mill are freed and those responsible for your imprisonment are punished. That this situation will be resolved—and soon—is my promise to you and to the people of Chester’s Mill. I speak with all the solemn weight of my office, as your Commander in Chief.

  Second, this letter will introduce Colonel Dale Barbara, of the U.S. Army. Col. Barbara served in Iraq, where he was awarded the Bronze Star, a Merit Service Medal, and two Purple Hearts. He has been recalled to duty and promoted so that he may serve as your conduit to us, and ours to you. I know that, as loyal Americans, you will afford him every assistance. As you aid him, so will we aid you.

  My original intent, in accordance with the advice given me by the Joint Chiefs and the Secretaries of Defense and Homeland Security, was to invoke martial law in Chester’s Mill and appoint Col. Barbara as interim military governor. Col. Barbara has assured me, however, that this will not be necessary. He tells me he expects full cooperation from Selectmen and local police. He believes his position should be one of “advise and consent.” I have agreed to his judgment, subject to review.

  Third, I know you are worried about your inability to call friends and loved ones. We understand your concern, but it is imperative that we maintain this “telephonic blackout” to lower the risk of classified information passing into and out of Chester’s Mill. You may think this a specious concern; I assure you it is not. It may very well be that someone in Chester’s Mill has information regarding the barrier surrounding your town. “In-town” calls should go through.

  Fourth, we will continue to maintain a press blackout for the time being, although this matter will remain subject to review. There may come a time when it would be beneficial for town officials and Col. Barbara to hold a press conference, but at present our belief is that a speedy end to this crisis will render such a meeting with the press moot.

  My fifth point concerns Internet communications. The Joint Chiefs are strongly in favor of a temporary blackout on e-mail communications, and I was inclined to agree. Col. Barbara, however, has argued strongly in favor of allowing the citizens of Chester’s Mill continued Internet access. He points out that e-mail traffic can be legally monitored by the NSA, and as a practical matter such communications can be vetted more easily than cell transmissions. Since he is our “man on the spot,” I have agreed to this point, partly on humanitarian grounds. This decision, however, will also be subject to review; changes in policy may occur. Col. Barbara will be a full participant in such reviews, and we look forward to a smooth working relationship between him and all town officials.

  Sixth, I offer you the strong possibility that your ordeal may end as early as tomorrow, at 1 PM, EDT. Col. Barbara will explain the military operation that will occur at that time, and he assures me that between the good offices of yourselves and Ms. Julia Shumway, who owns and operates the local newspaper, you will be able to inform the citizens of Chester’s Mill what to expect.

  And last: you are citizens of the United States of America, and we will never abandon you. Our firmest promise, based on our finest ideals, is simple: No man, woman, or child left behind. Every resource we need to employ in order to end your confinement will be employed. Every dollar we need to spend will be spent. What we expect from you in return is faith and cooperation. Please give us both.

  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: Sof
tly, 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.”