Under the Dome: A Novel Read online

“Yes, but unless this is an emergency, I’m a little busy right n—”

  “I don’t know if it’s an emergency, but it’s very, very important. And since Mr. Barbara—or Colonel Barbara, I guess—has been arrested, you’re the one who has to deal with it.”

  “Mrs. McClatchey?”

  “Yes, but Joe’s the one you need to talk to. Here he is.”

  “Dr. Rusty?” The voice was urgent, almost breathless.

  “Hi, Joe. What is it?”

  “I think we found the generator. Now what are we supposed to do?”

  The evening went dark so suddenly that all three of them gasped and Linda seized Rusty’s arm. But it was only the big smoke-smudge on the western side of the Dome. The sun had gone behind it.

  “Where?”

  “Black Ridge.”

  “Was there radiation, son?” Knowing there must have been; how else had they found it?

  “The last reading was plus two hundred,” Joe said. “Not quite into the danger zone. What do we do?”

  Rusty ran his free hand through his hair. Too much happening. Too much, too fast. Especially for a smalltown fixer-upper who had never considered himself much of a decision-maker, let alone a leader.

  “Nothing tonight. It’s almost dark. We’ll deal with this tomorrow. In the meantime, Joe, you have to make a promise. Keep quiet about this. You know, Benny and Norrie know, and your mom knows. Keep it that way.”

  “Okay.” Joe sounded subdued. “We have a lot to tell you, but I guess it can wait until tomorrow.” He took a breath. “It’s a little scary, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, son,” Rusty agreed. “It’s a little scary.”

  14

  The man in charge of The Mill’s fate and fortunes was sitting in his study and eating a corned beef on rye in big snaffling bites when Junior came in. Earlier, Big Jim had caught a forty-five-minute power nap. Now he felt refreshed and once more ready for action. The surface of his desk was littered with sheets of yellow legal paper, notes he would later burn in the incinerator out back. Better safe than sorry.

  The study was lit with hissing Coleman lanterns that threw a bright white glare. God knew he had access to plenty of propane—enough to light the house and run the appliances for fifty years—but for now the Colemans were better. When people passed by, he wanted them to see that bright white glare and know that Selectman Rennie wasn’t getting any special perks. That Selectman Rennie was just like them, only more trustworthy.

  Junior was limping. His face was drawn. “He didn’t confess.”

  Big Jim hadn’t expected Barbara to confess so soon and ignored this. “What’s wrong with you? You look peaky as hell.”

  “Another headache, but it’s letting go now.” This was true, although it had been very bad during his conversation with Barbie. Those blue-gray eyes either saw too much or seemed to.

  I know what you did to them in the pantry, they said. I know everything.

  It had taken all his will not to pull the trigger of his gun after he’d drawn it, and darken that damnable prying stare forever.

  “You’re limping, too.”

  “That’s because of those kids we found out by Chester Pond. I was carrying one of them around and I think I pulled a muscle.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it is? You and Thibodeau have a job to do in”—Big Jim looked at his watch—“in about three and a half hours, and you can’t mess it up. It has to go off perfectly.”

  “Why not as soon as it’s dark?”

  “Because the witch is putting her paper together there with her two little trolls. Freeman and the other one. The sports reporter who’s always down on the Wildcats.”

  “Tony Guay.”

  “Yes, him. I don’t particularly care about them being hurt, especially her”—Big Jim’s upper lip lifted in his doglike imitation smile—“but there must not be any witnesses. No eyeball witnesses, I mean. What people hear … that’s a very different kettle of cod.”

  “What do you want them to hear, Dad?”

  “Are you sure you’re up to this? Because I can send Frank with Carter instead.”

  “No! I helped you with Coggins and I helped you with the old lady this morning and I deserve to do this!”

  Big Jim seemed to measure him. Then he nodded. “All right. But you must not be caught, or even seen.”

  “Don’t worry. What do you want the … the earwitnesses to hear?”

  Big Jim told him. Big Jim told him everything. It was good, Junior thought. He had to admit it: his dear old dad didn’t miss a trick.

  15

  When Junior went upstairs to “rest his leg,” Big Jim finished his sandwich, wiped the grease from his chin, then called Stewart Bowie’s cell. He began with the question everybody asks when calling a cell phone. “Where are you?”

  Stewart said they were on their way to the funeral home for a drink. Knowing Big Jim’s feeling about alcoholic beverages, he said this with a workingman’s defiance: I did my job, now let me take my pleasure.

  “That’s all right, but make sure it’s only the one. You aren’t done for the night. Fern or Roger, either.”

  Stewart protested strenuously.

  After he’d finished having his say, Big Jim went on. “I want the three of you at the Middle School at nine-thirty. There’ll be some new officers there—including Roger’s boys, by the way—and I want you there, too.” An inspiration occurred. “In fact, I’m going to make you fellows sergeants in the Chester’s Mill Hometown Security Force.”

  Stewart reminded Big Jim he and Fern had four new corpses to deal with. In his strong Yankee accent, the word came out cawpses.

  “Those folks from the McCains’ can wait,” Big Jim said. “They’re dead. We’ve got an emergency situation on our hands here, in case you didn’t notice. Until it’s over, we’ve all got to pull our weight. Do our bit. Support the team. Nine thirty at the Middle School. But I’ve got something else for you to do first. Won’t take long. Put Fern on.”

  Stewart asked why Big Jim wanted to talk to Fern, whom he regarded—with some justification—as the Dumb Brother.

  “None of your beeswax. Just put him on.”

  Fern said hello. Big Jim didn’t bother.

  “You used to be with the Volunteers, didn’t you? Until they were disbanded?”

  Fern said he had indeed been with this unofficial adjunct to the Chester’s Mill FD, not adding that he had quit a year before the Vols had been disbanded (after the Selectmen recommended no money be allocated to them in the 2008 town budget). He also did not add that he found the Volunteers’ weekend fund-raising activities were cutting into his drinking time.

  Big Jim said, “I want you go to the PD and get the key to the FD. Then see if those Indian pumps Burpee used yesterday are in the barn. I was told that was where he and the Perkins woman put them, and that better be right.”

  Fern said he believed the Indian pumps had come from Burpee’s in the first place, which sort of made them Rommie’s property. The Volunteers had had a few, but sold them on eBay when the outfit disbanded.

  “They might have been his, but they aren’t anymore,” Big Jim said. “For the duration of the crisis, they’re town property. We’ll do the same with anything else we need. It’s for the good of everyone. And if Romeo Burpee thinks he’s going to start up the Vols again, he’s got another think coming.”

  Fern said—cautiously—that he’d heard Rommie did a pretty good job putting out the contact fire on Little Bitch after the missiles hit.

  “That wasn’t much more than cigarette butts smoldering in an ashtray,” Big Jim scoffed. A vein was pulsing in his temple and his heart was beating too hard. He knew he’d eaten too fast—again—but he just couldn’t help it. When he was hungry, he gobbled until whatever was in front of him was gone. It was his nature. “Anyone could have put it out. You could have put it out. Point is, I know who voted for me last time, and I know who didn’t. Those who didn’t get no cotton-picking candy.”

 
Fern asked Big Jim what he, Fern, was supposed to do with the pumps.

  “Just make sure they’re in the firebarn. Then come on over to the Middle School. We’ll be in the gym.”

  Fern said Roger Killian wanted to say something.

  Big Jim rolled his eyes but waited.

  Roger wanted to know which of his boys was goin on the cops.

  Big Jim sighed, scrabbled through the litter of papers on his desk, and found the one with the list of new officers on it. Most were high-schoolers, and all were male. The youngest, Mickey Wardlaw, was only fifteen, but he was a bruiser. Right tackle on the football team until he’d been kicked off for drinking. “Ricky and Randall.”

  Roger protested that them was his oldest and the only ones who could be reliably counted on for chorin. Who, he asked, was going to help out with them chickens?

  Big Jim closed his eyes and prayed to God for strength.

  16

  Sammy was very aware of the low, rolling pain in her stomach—like menstrual cramps—and much sharper twinges coming from lower down. They would have been hard to miss, because another one came with each step. Nevertheless, she kept plodding along 119 toward the Motton Road. She would keep on no matter how much it hurt. She had a destination in mind, and it wasn’t her trailer, either. What she wanted wasn’t in the trailer, but she knew where it could be found. She’d walk to it even if it took her all night. If the pain got really bad, she had five Percocet tablets in her jeans pocket and she could chew them up. They worked faster when you chewed them. Phil had told her that.

  Do her.

  We’d come back and really fuck you up.

  Do that bitch.

  You better learn to keep your mouth for when you’re on your knees.

  Do her, do that bitch.

  No one would believe you, anyway.

  But the Reverend Libby had, and look what happened to her. Dislocated shoulder; dead dog.

  Do that bitch.

  Sammy thought she would hear that pig’s squealing, excited voice in her head until she died.

  So she walked. Overhead the first pink stars glimmered, sparks seen through a dirty pane of glass.

  Headlights appeared, making her shadow jump long on the road ahead. A clattery old farm truck pulled up and stopped. “Hey, there, climb in,” the man behind the wheel said. Only it came out Hey-yere-lime-in, because it was Alden Dinsmore, father of the late Rory, and Alden was drunk.

  Nevertheless, Sammy climbed in—moving with an invalid’s care.

  Alden didn’t appear to notice. There was a sixteen-ounce can of Bud between his legs and a half-empty case beside him. Empties rolled and rattled around Sammy’s feet. “Where you goin?” Alden asked. “Porrun? Bossum?” He laughed to show that, drunk or not, he could make a joke.

  “Only out Motton Road, sir. Are you going that way?”

  “Any way you want,” Alden said. “I’m just drivin. Drivin and thinkin bout my boy. He died on Sarraday.”

  “I’m real sorry for your loss.”

  He nodded and drank. “M’dad died las’ winner, you know it? Gasped himself to death, poor old fella. Empha-seeme. Spent the last year of his life on oxygen. Rory used to change his tanks. He loved that ol’ bassid.”

  “I’m sorry.” She’d already said that, but what else was there to say?

  A tear crept down his cheek. “I’ll go any way you want, Missy Lou. Gonna keep drivin till the beer’s gone. You wa’m beer?”

  “Yes, please.” The beer was warm but she drank greedily. She was very thirsty. She fished one of the Percs out of her pocket and swallowed it with another long gulp. She felt the buzz hit her in the head. It was fine. She fished out another Perc and offered it to Alden. “Want one of these? They make you feel better.”

  He took it and swallowed it with beer, not bothering to ask what it was. Here was the Motton Road. He saw the intersection late and swung wide, knocking the Crumleys’ mailbox flat. Sammy didn’t mind.

  “Grab another, Missy Lou.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She took another beer and popped the top.

  “Wa’m see my boy?” In the glow of the dashboard lights, Alden’s eyes looked yellow and wet. They were the eyes of a dog who’d stepped in a hole and went legbroke. “Wa’m see my boy Rory?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sammy said,

  “I sure do. I was there, you know.”

  “Everybody was. I rented my fiel. Prolly helped to kill im. Din know. We never know, do we?”

  “No,” Sammy said.

  Alden dug into the bib pocket of his overalls and pulled out a battered wallet. He took both hands off the wheel to pull it open, squinting and flipping through the little celluloid pockets. “My boys gay me this warret,” he said. “Ro’y and Orrie. Orrie’s still ’live.”

  “That’s a nice wallet,” Sammy said, leaning across to take hold of the steering wheel. She had done the same for Phil when they were living together. Many times. Mr. Dinsmore’s truck went from side to side in slow and somehow solemn arcs, barely missing another mailbox. But that was all right; the poor old guy was only doing twenty, and Motton Road was deserted. On the radio, WCIK was playing low: “Sweet Hope of Heaven,” by the Blind Boys of Alabama.

  Alden thrust the wallet at her. “There e is. There’s my boy. Wif his grampa.”

  “Will you drive while I look?” Sammy asked.

  “Sure.” Alden took the wheel back. The truck began to move a little faster and a little straighter, although it was more or less straddling the white line.

  The photograph was a faded color shot of a young boy and an old man with their arms around each other. The old man was wearing a Red Sox cap and an oxygen mask. The boy had a big grin on his face. “He’s a beautiful boy, sir,” Sammy said.

  “Yeah, beauful boy. Beauful smart boy.” Alden let out a tearless bray of pain. He sounded like a donkey. Spittle flew from his lips. The truck plunged, then came right again.

  “I have a beautiful boy, too,” Sammy said. She began to cry. Once, she remembered, she had taken pleasure in torturing Bratz. Now she knew how it felt to be in the microwave herself. Burning in the microwave. “I’m going to kiss him when I see him. Kiss him once more.”

  “You kiss im,” Alden said.

  “I will.”

  “You kiss im and hug im and hold im.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “I’d kiss my boy if I could. I’d kiss his cole-cole cheek.”

  “I know you would, sir.”

  “But we burrit him. This morning. Right on the place.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Have another beer.”

  “Thank you.” She had another beer. She was getting drunk. It was lovely to be drunk.

  In this fashion they progressed as the pink stars grew brighter overhead, flickering but not falling: no meteor showers tonight. They passed Sammy’s trailer, where she’d never go again, without slowing.

  17

  It was about quarter to eight when Rose Twitchell knocked on the glass panel of the Democrat ’s door. Julia, Pete, and Tony were standing at a long table, creating copies of the newspaper’s latest four-page broadside. Pete and Tony put them together; Julia stapled them and added them to the pile.

  When she saw Rose, Julia waved her in energetically. Rose opened the door, then staggered a little. “Jeez, it’s hot in here.”

  “Turned off the AC to save juice,” Pete Freeman said, “and the copier gets hot when it’s overused. Which it has been tonight.” But he looked proud. Rose thought they all looked proud.

  “Thought you’d be overwhelmed at the restaurant,” Tony said.

  “Just the opposite. Could’ve shot deer in there tonight. I think a lot of people don’t want to face me because my cook’s been arrested for murder. And I think a lot of people don’t want to face each other because of what happened at Food City this morning.”

  “Come on over here and grab a copy of the paper,” Julia said. “You’re a cover girl, Rose.”<
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  At the top, in red, were the words FREE DOME CRISIS EDITION FREE. And below that, in sixteen-point type Julia had never used until the last two editions of the Democrat :

  RIOT AND MURDERS AS CRISIS DEEPENS

  The picture was of Rose herself. She was in profile. The bullhorn was to her lips. An errant lock of hair lay on her forehead and she looked extraordinarily beautiful. In the background was the pasta and juices aisle, with several bottles of what looked like spaghetti sauce smashed on the floor. The caption read: Quiet Riot: Rose Twitchell, owner and proprietor of Sweetbriar Rose, quells food riot with the help of Dale Barbara, who has been arrested for murder (see story below and Editorial, p. 4).

  “Holy God,” Rose said. “Well … at least you got my good side. If I can be said to have one.”

  “Rose,” Tony Guay said solemnly, “you look like Michelle Pfieffer.”

  Rose snorted and flipped him the bird. She was already turning to the editorial.

  PANIC NOW, SHAME LATER

  By Julia Shumway

  Not everybody in Chester’s Mill knows Dale Barbara—he is a relative newcomer to our town—but most people have eaten his cooking in Sweetbriar Rose. Those who do know him would have said, before today, that he was a real addition to the community, taking his turn at umpiring softball games in July and August, helping out with the Middle School Book Drive in September, and picking up trash on Common Cleanup Day just two weeks ago.

  Then, today, “Barbie” (as he is known by those who do know him) was arrested for four shocking murders. Murders of people who are well known and well loved in this town. People who, unlike Dale Barbara, have lived here most or all of their lives.

  Under ordinary circumstances, “Barbie” would have been taken to the Castle County Jail, offered his one phone call, and provided with a lawyer if he couldn’t afford one. He would have been charged, and the evidence-gathering—by experts who know what they are doing—would have begun.

  None of that has happened, and we all know why: because of the Dome that has now sealed our town off from the rest of the world. But have due process and common sense also been sealed off? No matter how shocking the crime, unproved accusations are not enough to excuse the way Dale Barbara has been treated, or to explain the new Police Chief’s refusal to answer questions or allow this correspondent to verify that Dale Barbara is still alive, although the father of Dorothy Sanders—First Selectman Andrew Sanders—was allowed to not only visit this uncharged prisoner but to vilify him …