Under the Dome: A Novel Read online

  “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. ”

  “Try the Geiger counter on the bear,” Norrie said.

  Joe held the sensor tube out toward the bear’s carcass. The needle didn’t drop, but it didn’t rise either.

  Norrie pointed east. Ahead of them, the road emerged from the thick band of black oak that gave the ridge its name. Once they were out of the trees, Joe thought they’d be able to see the apple orchard at the top.

  “Let’s at least keep going until we’re out of the trees,” she said. “We’ll take a reading from there, and if it’s still going up, we’ll head back to town and tell Dr. Everett or that guy Barbara or both of them. Let them figure it out.”

  Benny looked doubtful. “I don’t know.”

  “If we feel anything weird, we’ll turn back right away,” Joe said.

  “If it might help, we should do it,” Norrie said. “I want to get out of The Mill before I go completely stircrazy.”

  She smiled to show this was a joke, but it didn’t sound like a joke, and Joe didn’t take it as one. Lots of people kidded about what a small burg The Mill was—it was probably why the James McMurtry song had been so popular—and it was, intellectually speaking, he supposed. Demographically, too. He could think of only one Asian American—Pamela Chen, who sometimes helped Lissa Jamieson out at the library—and there were no black people at all since the Laverty family had moved to Auburn. There was no McDonald’s, let alone a Starbucks, and the movie theater was closed down. But until now it had always felt geographically big to him, with plenty of room to roam. It was amazing how much it shrank in his mind once he realized that he and his mom and dad couldn’t just pile into the family car and drive to Lewiston for fried clams and ice cream at Yoder’s. Also, the town had plenty of resources, but they wouldn’t last forever.

  “You’re right,” he said. “It’s important. Worth the risk. At least I think so. You can stay here if you want to, Benny. This part of the mission is strictly volunteer.”

  “No, I’m in,” Benny said. “If I let you guys go without me, you’d rank me to the dogs and back.”

  “You’re already there!” Joe and Norrie yelled in unison, then looked at each other and laughed.

  17

  “That’s right, cry !”

  The voice was coming from far away. Barbie struggled toward it, but it was hard to open his burning eyes.

  “You’ve got a lot to cry about !”

  The person making these declarations sounded like he was crying himself. And the voice was familiar. Barbie tried to see, but his lids felt swollen and heavy. The eyes beneath were pulsing with his heartbeat. His sinuses were so full his ears crackled when he swallowed.

  “Why did you kill her? Why did you kill my baby?”

  Some sonofabitch Maced me. Denton? No, Randolph.

  Barbie managed to open his eyes by placing the heels of his hands over his eyebrows and shoving upward. He saw Andy Sanders standing outside the cell with tears rolling down his cheeks. And what was Sanders seeing? A guy in a cell, and a guy in a cell always looked guilty.

  Sanders screamed, “She was all I had!”

  Randolph stood behind him, looking embarrassed and shuffling like a kid twenty minutes overdue for a bathroom pass. Even with his eyes burning and his sinuses pounding, Barbie wasn’t surprised that Randolph had let Sanders come down here. Not because Sanders
was the town’s First Selectman, but because Peter Randolph found it almost impossible to say no.

  “Now, Andy,” Randolph said. “That’s enough. You wanted to see him and I let you, even though it was against my better judgment. He’s jugged good and proper, and he’ll pay the price for what he did. So now come on upstairs and I’ll pour you a cup of—”

  Andy grabbed the front of Randolph’s uniform. He was four inches shorter, but Randolph still looked scared. Barbie didn’t blame him. He was viewing the world through a deep red film, but he could see Andy Sanders’s fury clearly enough.

  “Give me your gun! A trial’s too good for him! He’s apt to get off, anyway! He’s got friends in high places, Jim says so! I want some satisfaction! I deserve some satisfaction, so give me your gun !”

  Barbie didn’t think Randolph’s desire to please would go so far as handing over his weapon so that Andy could shoot him in this cell like a rat in a rainbarrel, but he wasn’t entirely sure; there might be a reason other than the craven need to please that had caused Randolph to bring Sanders down here, and to bring him down alone.

  He struggled to his feet. “Mr. Sanders.” Some of the Mace had gotten into his mouth. His tongue and throat were swollen, his voice an unconvincing nasal croak. “I did not kill your daughter, sir. I did not kill anyone. If you think about this you’ll see that your friend Rennie needs a scapegoat and I’m the most convenient—”

  But Andy was in no shape to think about anything. He dropped his hands to Randolph’s holster and began clawing at the Glock there. Alarmed, Randolph struggled to keep it where it was.

  At that moment, a large-bellied figure descended the stairs, moving gracefully despite his bulk.

  “Andy!” Big Jim boomed. “Andy, pal—come here!”

  He opened his arms. Andy stopped struggling for the gun and rushed to him like a weeping child to the arms of his father. And Big Jim enfolded him.

  “I want a gun!” Andy babbled, lifting his tear-streaked, snot-creamy face to Big Jim’s. “Get me a gun, Jim! Now! Right now! I want to shoot him for what he did! It’s my right as a father! He killed my baby girl!”

  “Maybe not just her,” Big Jim said. “Maybe not just Angie, Lester, and poor Brenda, either.”

  This halted the verbal flood. Andy stared up into Big Jim’s slab of a face, dumbfounded. Fascinated.

  “Maybe your wife, too. Duke. Myra Evans. All the others.”

  “Wha …”

  “Somebody’s responsible for the Dome, pal—am I right?”

  “Ye …” Andy was capable of no more, but Big Jim nodded benignly.

  “And it seems to me that the people who did it had to have at least one inside man. Someone to stir the pot. And who’s better at pot-stirring than a short-order cook?” He put an arm around Andy’s shoulder and led him to Chief Randolph. Big Jim glanced back at Barbie’s red and swollen face as if looking at some species of bug. “We’ll find proof. I have no doubt of it. He’s already demonstrated he’s not smart enough to cover his tracks.”

  Barbie fixed his attention on Randolph. “This is a setup,” he said in his nasal foghorning voice. “It might have started just because Rennie needed to cover his ass, but now it’s just a naked power-grab. You may not be expendable yet, Chief, but when you are, you’ll go, too.”

  “Shut up,” Randolph said.

  Rennie was stroking Andy’s hair. Barbie thought of his mother and how she used to stroke their cocker spaniel, Missy, when Missy got old and stupid and incontinent. “He’ll pay the price, Andy—you have my word on that. But first we’re going to get all the details: the what, the when, the why, and who else was involved. Because he’s not in it alone, you can bet your rooty-toot on that. He’s got accomplices. He’ll pay the price, but first we’re going to wring him dry of information.”

  “What price?” Andy asked. He was looking up at Big Jim almost rapturously now. “What price will he pay?”

  “Well, if he knows how to lift the Dome—and I wouldn’t put it past him—I guess we’ll have to be satisfied with seeing him in Shawshank. Life without parole.”

  “Not good enough,” Andy whispered.

  Rennie was still stroking Andy’s head. “If the Dome doesn’t let go?” He smiled. “In that case, we’ll have to try him ourselves. And when we find him guilty, we’ll execute him. Do you like that better?”

  “Much,” Andy whispered.

  “So do I, pal.”

  Stroking. Stroking.

  “So do I.”

  18

  They came out of the woods three abreast and stopped, looking up at the orchard.

  “There’s something up there!” Benny said. “I see it!” His voice sounded excited, but to Joe it also sounded strangely far away.

  “So do I,” Norrie said. “It looks like a … a …” Radio beacon were the words she wanted to say, but she never got them out. She managed only an rrr-rrr-rrr sound, like a toddler playing trucks in a sandpile. Then she fell off her bike and lay on the road with her arms and legs jerking.

  “Norrie?” Joe looked down at her—more with bemusement than alarm—then up at Benny. Their eyes met for just a moment and then Benny also toppled, pulling his bike over on top of him. He began to thrash, kicking the High Plains off to one side. The Geiger counter flew into the ditch dial-side down.

  Joe tottered toward it and reached out an arm that seemed to stretch like rubber. He turned the yellow box over. The needle had jumped to +200, just below the red danger zone. He saw this, then fell into a black hole full of orange flames. He thought they were coming from a huge heap of pumpkins—a funeral pyre of blazing jack-o-lanterns. Somewhere voices were calling: lost and terrified. Then the darkness swallowed him.

  19

  When Julia came into the Democrat office after leaving the supermarket, Tony Guay, the former sports reporter who was now the entire news department, was typing on his laptop. She handed him the camera and said, “Stop what you’re doing and print these.”

  She sat down at her computer to write her story. She’d been holding the open in her head all the way up Main Street: Ernie Calvert, the former manager of Food City, called for people to come in the back. He said he had opened the doors for them. But by then it was too late. The riot was on. It was a good lead. The problem was, she couldn’t write it. She kept hitting all the wrong keys.

  “Go upstairs and lie down,” Tony said.

  “No, I have to write—”

  “You’re not going to write anything like you are. You’re shaking like a leaf. It’s shock. Lie down for an hour. I’ll print the pictures and send them to your computer desktop. Transcribe your notes, too. Go on up.”

  She didn’t like what he was saying, but recognized the wisdom of it. Only it turned out to be more than an hour. She hadn’t slept well since Friday night, which seemed a century ago, and she had no more than put her head on the pillow before she fell into a deep sleep.

  When she woke up, she saw with panic that the shadows in her bedroom had grown long. It was late afternoon. And Horace! He would’ve wet in some corner and would give her his most shame-faced look, as though it were his fault instead of hers.

  She slipped on her sneakers, hurried into the kitchen, and found her Corgi not by the door, whining to go out, but peacefully asleep on his blanket bed between the stove and the refrigerator. There was a note on the kitchen table, propped up against the salt and pepper shakers.

  3 PM

  Julia—

  Pete F. and I collaborated on the supermarket story. It ain’t great, but will be when you put your stamp on it. The pix you got aren’t bad, either. Rommie Burpee came by & says he still has plenty of paper, so we’re OK on that score. Also says you need to write an editorial about what happened. “Totally unnecessary,” he said. “And totally incompetent. Unless they wanted it to happen. I wouldn’t put it past that guy, and I don’t mean Randolph.” Pete and I agree that there should be an editorial, but we need to watch our step until all the facts are k
nown. We also agreed that you needed some sleep in order to write it the way it needs to be written. Those were suitcases under your eyes, boss! I’m going home to spend some time with my wife & kids. Pete’s gone to the PD. Says “something big” has happened, and he wants to find out what.

  Tony G.

  PS! I walked Horace. He did all his business.

  Julia, not wanting Horace to forget she was a part of his life, woke him up long enough for him to gobble half a Beggin’ Strip, then went downstairs to punch up the news story and write the editorial Tony and Pete were suggesting. Just as she was starting, her cell rang.

  “Shumway, Democrat. ”

  “Julia!” It was Pete Freeman. “I think you better get down here. Marty Arsenault’s on the desk and he won’t let me in. Told me to wait out-goddam-side! He’s no cop, just a dumb pulp-jockey who picks up a little side-money directing traffic in the summertime, but now he’s acting like Chief Big Dick of Horny Mountain.”

  “Pete, I’ve got a ton of stuff to do here, so unless—”

  “Brenda Perkins is dead. So are Angie McCain, Dodee Sanders—”

  “What?” She stood up so suddenly her chair tipped over.

  “—and Lester Coggins. They were killed. And get this—Dale Barbara’s been arrested for the murders. He’s in jail downstairs.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Ahh, fuck,” Pete said. “Here comes Andy Sanders, and he’s cryin his goddam eyes out. Should I try for a comment, or—”

  “Not if the man lost his daughter three days after losing his wife. We’re not the New York Post. I’ll be right there.”

  She broke the connection without waiting for a reply. Initially she felt calm enough; she even remembered to lock up the office. But once she was on the sidewalk, in the heat and under that tobacco-stained sky, her calm broke and she began to run.

  20