Under the Dome Read online

  But that howling. The dog sounded hurt. A hurt pet was the sort of thing nice people like the Freemans saw to immediately ... so why weren't they?

  Henrietta got out of bed (wincing a little as her butt came out of the comforting hole in the foam doughnut) and went to the window. She could see the Freemans' split-level perfectly well, although the light was gray and listless instead of sharp and clear, as it usually was on mornings in late October. From the window she could hear Buddy even better, but she couldn't see anyone moving around over there. The house was entirely dark, not so much as a Coleman lantern glowing in a single window. She would have thought they'd gone somewhere, but both cars were parked in the driveway. And where was there to go, anyway?

  Buddy continued to howl.

  Henrietta got on her housecoat and slippers and went outside. As she was standing on the sidewalk, a car pulled up. It was Douglas Twitchell, no doubt on his way to the hospital. He looked puffy-eyed and was clutching a takeout cup of coffee with the Sweetbriar Rose logo on the side as he got out of his car.

  "You all right, Mrs. Clavard?"

  "Yes, but something's wrong at the Freemans'. Hear that?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then so must they. Their cars are there, so why don't they stop it?"

  "I'll take a look." Twitch took a sip of his coffee, then set it down on the hood of his car. "You stay here."

  "Nonsense," said Henrietta Clavard.

  They walked down twenty yards or so of sidewalk, then up the Freemans' driveway. The dog howled and howled. The sound of it made Henrietta's skin cold in spite of the morning's limp warmth.

  "The air's very bad," she said. "It smells like Rumford used to when I was just married and all the paper mills were still running. This can't be good for people."

  Twitch grunted and rang the Freemans' bell. When that brought no response, he first knocked on the door and then hammered.

  "See if it's unlocked," Henrietta said.

  "I don't know if I should, Mrs.--"

  "Oh, bosh." She pushed past him and tried the knob. It turned. She opened the door. The house beyond it was silent and full of deep early morning shadows. "Will?" she called. "Lois? Are you here?"

  No one answered but more howls.

  "The dog's out back," Twitch said.

  It would have been quicker to cut straight through, but neither of them liked to do that, so they walked up the driveway and along the breezeway between the house and the garage where Will stored not his cars but his toys: two snowmobiles, an ATV, a Yamaha dirtbike and a bloated Honda Gold Wing.

  There was a high privacy fence around the Freeman backyard. The gate was beyond the breezeway. Twitch pulled the gate open, and was immediately hit by seventy pounds of frantic Irish setter. He shouted in surprise and raised his hands, but the dog didn't want to bite him; Buddy was in full please-rescue-me mode. He put his paws on the front of Twitch's last clean tunic, smearing it with dirt, and began to slobber all over his face.

  "Stop it!" Twitch shouted. He pushed Buddy, who went down but popped right back up, laying fresh tracks on Twitch's tunic and swabbing his cheeks with a long pink tongue.

  "Buddy, down!" Henrietta commanded, and Buddy shrank onto his haunches at once, whining and rolling his eyes between them. A puddle of urine began to spread out beneath him.

  "Mrs. Clavard, this is not good."

  "No," Henrietta agreed.

  "Maybe you better stay with the d--"

  Henrietta once more said bosh and marched into the Freemans' backyard, leaving Twitch to catch up with her. Buddy slunk along behind them, head down and tail tucked, whining disconsolately.

  There was a stone-flagged patio with a barbecue on it. The barbecue was neatly covered with a green tarp that said THE KITCHEN'S CLOSED. Beyond this, on the edge of the lawn, was a redwood platform. On top of the platform was the Freemans' hot tub. Twitch supposed the high privacy fence was there so they could sit in it naked, maybe even pitch a little woo if the urge took them.

  Will and Lois were in it now, but their woo-pitching days were done. They were wearing clear plastic bags over their heads. The bags appeared to have been cinched at the necks with either twine or brown rubber bands. They had fogged up on the inside, but not so much that Twitch couldn't make out the empurpled faces. Sitting on the redwood apron between the earthly remains of Will and Lois Freeman was a whiskey bottle and a small medicine vial.

  "Stop," he said. He didn't know if he was talking to himself, or Mrs. Clavard, or possibly to Buddy, who had just voiced another bereft howl. Certainly he couldn't be talking to the Freemans.

  Henrietta didn't stop. She walked to the hot tub, marched up the two steps with her back as straight as a soldier's, looked at the dis-colored faces of her perfectly nice (and perfectly normal, she would have said) neighbors, glanced at the whiskey bottle, saw it was Glenlivet (at least they'd gone out in style), then picked up the medicine vial with its Sanders Hometown Drug label.

  "Ambien or Lunesta?" Twitch asked heavily.

  "Ambien," she said, and was gratified the voice emerging from her dry throat and mouth sounded normal. "Hers. Although I'd guess she shared it last night."

  "Is there a note?"

  "Not here," she said. "Maybe inside."

  But there wasn't, at least not in any of the obvious places, and neither of them could think of a reason to hide a suicide note. Buddy followed them from room to room, not howling but whining deep in his throat.

  "I guess I'll bring him back t'house with me," Henrietta said.

  "You'll have to. I can't take him to the hospital. I'll call Stewart Bowie to come and get ... them." He hooked a thumb back over his shoulder. His stomach was roiling, but that wasn't the bad part; the bad part was the depression that came stealing into him, putting a shadow across his normally sunny soul.

  "I don't understand why they would do it," Henrietta said. "If we'd been a year under the Dome ... or even a month ... yes, maybe. But less than a week ? This is not how stable people respond to trouble."

  Twitch thought he understood, but didn't want to say it to Henrietta: it was going to be a month, it was going to be a year. Maybe longer. And with no rain, fewer resources, and fouler air. If the most technologically hip country in the world hadn't been able to get a handle on what had happened to Chester's Mill by now (let alone solve the problem), it probably wasn't going to happen soon. Will Freeman must have understood that. Or maybe it had been Lois's idea. Maybe when the generator had died, she'd said Let's do it before the water in the hot tub gets cold, honey. Let's get out from under the Dome while our bellies are still full. What do you say? One more dip, with a few drinks to see us off.

  "Maybe it was the plane that pushed them over the edge," Twitch said. "The Air Ireland that hit the Dome yesterday."

  Henrietta didn't answer with words; she hawked back and spat snot into the kitchen sink. It was a somehow shocking gesture of repudiation. They went back outside.

  "More people will do this, won't they?" she asked when they had reached the end of the driveway. "Because suicide gets in the air sometimes. Like a cold germ."

  "Some already have." Twitch didn't know if suicide was painless, as the song said, but under the right circumstances, it could certainly be catching. Maybe especially catching when the situation was unprecedented and the air started to smell as foul as it did on this windless, unnaturally warm morning.

  "Suicides are cowards," Henrietta said. "A rule to which there are no exceptions, Douglas."

  Twitch, whose father had died a long and lingering death as a result of stomach cancer, wondered about that but said nothing.

  Henrietta bent to Buddy with her hands on her bony knees. Buddy stretched his neck up to sniff her. "Come next door, my furry friend. I have three eggs. You may eat them before they go bad."

  She started away, then turned back to Twitch. "They are cowards," she said, giving each word its own special emphasis.

  5

  Jim Rennie checked out of Cathy Rus
sell, slept soundly in his own bed, and woke refreshed. Although he would not have admitted it to anyone, part of the reason was knowing Junior was out of the house.

  Now, at eight o'clock, his black Hummer was parked a door or two up from Rosie's (in front of a fire hydrant, but what the hell; currently there was no fire department). He was having breakfast with Peter Randolph, Mel Searles, Freddy Denton, and Carter Thibodeau. Carter had taken up what was becoming his usual station, at Big Jim's right hand. He wore two guns this morning: his own on his hip, and Linda Everett's recently returned Beretta Taurus in a shoulder rig.

  The quintet had taken over the bullshit table at the back of the restaurant, deposing the regulars without a qualm. Rose wouldn't come near; she sent Anson to deal with them.

  Big Jim ordered three fried eggs, double sausage, and home toast fried in bacon grease, the way his mother used to serve it. He knew he was supposed to be cutting down on his cholesterol, but today he was going to need all the energy he could pack in. The next few days, actually; after that, things would be under control. He could go to work on his cholesterol then (a fable he had been telling himself for ten years).

  "Where's the Bowies?" he asked Carter. "I wanted the goshdarn Bowies here, so where are they?"

  "Had to roll on a call out to Battle Street," Carter said. "Mr. and Mrs. Freeman committed suicide."

  "That cotton-picker topped himself?" Big Jim exclaimed. The few patrons--most at the counter, watching CNN--looked around, then looked away. "Well, there! I'm not a bit surprised!" It occurred to him that now the Toyota dealership could be his for the taking ... but why would he want it? A much bigger plum had fallen into his lap: the whole town. He had already started drafting a list of executive orders, which he would begin putting into effect as soon as he was granted full executive powers. That would happen tonight. And besides, he had hated that smarmy sonofabuck Freeman and his titsy rhymes-with-witch wife for years.

  "Boys, he and Lois are eating breakfast in heaven." He paused, then burst out laughing. Not very political, but he just couldn't help it. "In the servants' quarters, I have no doubt."

  "While the Bowies were out there, they got another call," Carter said. "Dinsmore farm. Another suicide."

  "Who?" Chief Randolph asked. "Alden?"

  "No. His wife. Shelley."

  That actually was sort of a shame. "Let's us bow our heads for a minute," Big Jim said, and extended his hands. Carter took one; Mel Searles took the other; Randolph and Denton linked up.

  "Ohgod pleaseblessthesepoorsouls, Jesussakeamen," Big Jim said, and raised his head. "Little business, Peter."

  Peter hauled out his notebook. Carter's was already laid beside his plate; Big Jim liked the boy more and more.

  "I've found the missing propane," Big Jim announced. "It's at WCIK."

  "Jesus!" Randolph said. "We have to send some trucks out there to get it!"

  "Yes, but not today," Big Jim said. "Tomorrow, while everyone's visiting their relatives. I've already started working on that. The Bowies and Roger will go out again, but we'll need a few officers, too. Fred, you and Mel. Plus I'm going to say four or five more. Not you, Carter, I want you with me."

  "Why do you need cops to get a bunch of propane tanks?" Randolph said.

  "Well," Jim said, mopping up egg yolk with a piece of fried toast, "that goes back to our friend Dale Barbara and his plans to destabilize this town. There are a couple of armed men out there, and it looks like they may be protecting some kind of drug lab. I think Barbara had that in place long before he actually showed up in person; this was well planned. One of the current caretakers is Philip Bushey."

  "That loser," Randolph grunted.

  "The other one, I'm sorry to say, is Andy Sanders."

  Randolph had been spearing fried potatoes. Now he dropped his fork with a clatter. "Andy!"

  "Sad but true. It was Barbara who set him up in business--I have that on good authority, but don't ask me for my source; he's requested anonymity." Big Jim sighed, then stuffed a yolk-smeared chunk of fried bread into his cakehole. Dear Lord but he felt good this morning! "I suppose Andy needed the money. I understand the bank was on the verge of foreclosing his drugstore. He never did have a head for business."

  "Or town government, either," Freddy Denton added.

  Big Jim ordinarily did not enjoy being interrupted by inferiors, but this morning he was enjoying everything. "Unfortunately true," he said, then leaned over the table as far as his large belly would allow. "He and Bushey shot at one of the trucks I sent out there yesterday. Blew the front tires. Those cotton-pickers are dangerous."

  "Drug addicts with guns," Randolph said. "A law-enforcement nightmare. The men who go out there will have to wear vests."

  "Good idea."

  "And I can't vouch for Andy's safety."

  "God love you, I know that. Do what you have to do. We need that propane. The town's crying for it, and I intend to announce at the meeting tonight that we've discovered a fresh source."

  "Are you sure I can't go, Mr. Rennie?" Carter asked.

  "I know it's a disappointment to you, but I want you with me tomorrow, not out where they're having their visitors' party. Randolph, too, I think. Someone has to coordinate this business, which is apt to be a clustermug. We'll have to try to keep people from being trampled. Although some probably will be, because people don't know how to behave. Better tell Twitchell to get his ambulance out there."

  Carter wrote this down.

  While he did, Big Jim turned back to Randolph. His face was long with sorrow. "I hate to say this, Pete, but my informant has suggested Junior may also have been involved with the drug lab."

  "Junior?" Mel said. "Naw, not Junior. "

  Big Jim nodded, and wiped a dry eye with the heel of his palm. "It's hard for me to believe, too. I don't want to believe it, but you know he's in the hospital?"

  They nodded.

  "Drug overdose," Rennie whispered, leaning even further over the table. "That seems to be the most likely explanation for what's wrong with him." He straightened and focused on Randolph again. "Don't try going in from the main road, they'll be expecting that. About a mile east of the radio station, there's an access road--"

  "I know the one," Freddy said. "That used to be Sloppy Sam Verdreaux's woodlot out there, 'fore the bank took it back. I think now all that land belongs to Holy Redeemer."

  Big Jim smiled and nodded, although the land actually belonged to a Nevada corporation of which he was president. "Go in that way, then approach the station from the rear. It's mostly old growth out there, and you should have no trouble."

  Big Jim's cell phone rang. He looked at the display, almost let the phone ring over to voice mail, then thought: What the heck. Feeling as he did this morning, listening to Cox foam at the mouth might be enjoyable.

  "This is Rennie. What do you want, Colonel Cox?"

  He listened, his smile fading a little.

  "How do I know you're telling the truth about this?"

  He listened some more, then ended the call without saying goodbye. He sat frowning for a moment, processing whatever he'd heard. Then he raised his head and spoke to Randolph. "Do we have a Geiger counter? In the fallout shelter, maybe?"

  "Gee, I don't know. Al Timmons probably would."

  "Find him and have him check that out."

  "Is it important?" Randolph asked, and at the same time Carter asked, "Is it radiation, boss?"

  "It's nothing to worry about," Big Jim said. "As Junior would say, he's just trying to freak me out. I'm sure of it. But check on that Geiger counter. If we do have one--and it still works--bring it to me."

  "Okay," Randolph said, looking frightened.

  Big Jim wished now that he'd let the call go to voice mail after all. Or kept his mouth shut. Searles was apt to blab about this, start a rumor. Heck, Randolph was apt to. And it was probably nothing, just that brass-hat cotton-picker trying to spoil a good day. The most important day of his life, maybe.

  Freddy D
enton, at least, had kept what mind he had on the issue at hand. "What time do you want us to hit the radio station, Mr. Rennie?"

  Big Jim mentally reran what he knew about the Visitors Day schedule, then smiled. It was a genuine smile, wreathing his slightly greasy chops with good cheer and revealing his tiny teeth. "Twelve o'clock. Everybody will be schmoozing out on highway 119 by then and the rest of the town will be empty. So you go in and take out those cotton-pickers sitting on our propane at high noon. Just like in one of those old Western movies."

  6

  At quarter past eleven on that Thursday morning, the Sweetbriar Rose van went trundling south along Route 119. Tomorrow the highway would be clogged with cars and stinking of exhaust, but today it was eerily deserted. Sitting behind the wheel was Rose herself. Ernie Calvert was in the passenger bucket. Norrie sat between them on the engine housing, clutching her skateboard, which was covered with stickers bearing the logos of long-gone punk bands like Stalag 17 and the Dead Milkmen.

  "The air smells so bad, " Norrie said.

  "It's the Prestile, honey," Rose said. "It's turned into a big old stinky marsh where it used to run into Motton." She knew it was more than just the smell of the dying river, but didn't say so. They had to breathe, so there was no point in worrying about what they might be breathing in. "Have you talked to your mother?"

  "Yeah," Norrie said glumly. "She'll come, but she's not crazy about the idea."

  "Will she bring whatever groceries she has, when it's time?"

  "Yes. In the trunk of our car." What Norrie didn't add was that Joanie Calvert would load in her booze supply first; food supplies would play second fiddle to that. "What about the radiation, Rose? We can't plaster every car that goes up there with lead roll."