Stephen King - Under the Dome

“Happy to,” Andrea said. “And now… if you’ll excuse me… I think I’d better get off my feet. But I’m not going to sleep!” she added, as if Brenda had objected to this plan. “I’ll hear you when you come back.”

“Thank you,” Brenda said. “Are you drinking juices?”

“By the gallon. Take your time, hon—I’ll babysit your envelope.”

Brenda was going to thank her again, but The Mill’s Third Selectman had already closed the door.

Toward the end of her conversation with Brenda, Andrea’s stomach began to flutter. She fought it, but this was a fight she was going to lose. She blathered something about drinking juice, told Brenda to take her time, then closed the door in the poor woman’s face and sprinted for her stinking bathroom, making gutteral urk-urk noises deep down in her throat.

There was an end table beside the living room couch, and she tossed the manila envelope at it blindly as she rushed past. The envelope skittered across the polished surface and fell off the other side, into the dark space between the table and the couch.

Andrea made it to the bathroom but not to the toilet… which was just as well; it was nearly filled with the stagnant, stinking brew that had been her body’s output during the endless night just past. She leaned over the basin instead, retching until it seemed to her that her very esophagus would come loose and land on the splattery porcelain, still warm and pulsing.

That didn’t happen, but the world turned gray and teetered away from her on high heels, growing smaller and less tangible as she swayed and tried not to faint. When she felt a little better, she walked slowly down the hall on elastic legs, sliding one hand along the wood to keep her balance. She was shivering and she could hear the jittery clitter of her teeth, a horrible sound she seemed to pick up not with her ears but with the backs of her eyes.

She didn’t even consider trying to reach her bedroom upstairs but went out onto the screened-in back porch instead. The porch should have been too cold to be comfortable this late in October, but today the air was sultry. She did not lie down on the old chaise longue so much as collapse into its musty but somehow comforting embrace.

I’ll get up in a minute, she told herself. Get the last bottle of Poland Spring out of the fridge and wash that foul taste out of my mou…

But here her thoughts slipped away. She fell into a deep and profound sleep from which not even the restless twitching of her feet and hands could wake her. She had many dreams. One was of a terrible fire people ran from, coughing and retching, looking for anyplace where they might find air that was still cool and clean. Another was of Brenda Perkins coming to her door and giving her an envelope. When Andrea opened it, a never-ending stream of pink OxyContin pills poured out. By the time she woke up it was evening, and the dreams were forgotten.

So was Brenda Perkins’s visit.

“Come into my study,” Big Jim said cheerfully. “Or would you like something to drink, first? I have Cokes, although I’m afraid they’re a little warm. My generator died last night. Out of propane.”

“But I imagine you know where you can get more,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“The methamphetamine you’re making,” she said patiently. “My understanding—based on Howie’s notes—is that you’ve been cooking it in large batches. ‘Amounts that boggle the mind’ is how he put it. That must take a lot of propane gas.”

Now that she was actually into this, she found her jitters had melted away. She even took a certain cold pleasure in watching the color mount in his cheeks and go dashing across his forehead.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I think your grief…” He sighed, spread his blunt-fingered hands. “Come inside. We’ll discuss this and I’ll set your mind at rest.”

She smiled. That she could smile was sort of a revelation, and it helped more to imagine Howie watching her—from somewhere. Also telling her to be careful. That was advice she planned to heed.

On the Rennie front lawn, two Adirondack chairs sat amid the fallen leaves. “It’s nice enough out here for me,” she said.

“I prefer to talk business inside.”

“Would you prefer to see your picture on the front page of the Democrat ? Because I can arrange that.”

He winced as if she had struck him, and for just a moment she saw hate in those small, deepset, piggy eyes. “Duke never liked me, and I suppose it’s natural that his feelings should have been communicated to—”

“His name was Howie !”

Big Jim threw up his hands as if to say there was no reasoning with some women, and led her to the chairs overlooking Mill Street.

Brenda Perkins talked for almost half an hour, growing colder and angrier as she spoke. The meth lab, with Andy Sanders and—almost certainly—Lester Coggins as silent partners. The staggering size of the thing. Its probable location. The mid-level distributors who had been promised immunity in exchange for information. The money trail. How the operation had gotten so big the local pharmacist could no longer safely supply the necessary ingredients, necessitating import from overseas.

“The stuff came into town in trucks marked Gideon Bible Society,” Brenda said. “Howie’s comment on that was ‘too clever by half.’”

Big Jim sat looking out at the silent residential street. She could feel the anger and hate baking off him. It was like heat from a casserole dish.

“You can’t prove any of this,” he said at last.

“That won’t matter if Howie’s file turns up in the Democrat. It’s not due process, but if anyone can understand bypassing a little thing like that, it would be you.”

He flapped a hand. “Oh, I’m sure you had a file, ” he said, “but my name is on nothing.”

“It’s on the Town Ventures paperwork,” she said, and Big Jim rocked in his chair as if she had lashed out with her fist and hit him in the temple. “Town Ventures, incorporated in Carson City. And from Nevada, the money trail leads to Chongqing City, the pharma capital of the People’s Republic of China.” She smiled. “You thought you were smart, didn’t you? So smart.”

“Where is this file?”

“I left a copy with Julia this morning.” Bringing Andrea into it was the last thing she wanted to do. And thinking it was in the newspaper editor’s hands would bring him to heel that much quicker. He might feel that he or Andy Sanders could jawbone Andrea.

“There are other copies?”

“What do you think?”

He considered a moment, then said: “I kept it out of the town.”

She said nothing.

“It was for the good of the town.”

“You’ve done a lot of good for the town, Jim. We’ve got the same sewer system we had in nineteen sixty, Chester Pond is filthy, the business district is moribund….” She was sitting straight now, gripping the arms of her chair. “You fucking self-righteous turdworm.”

“What do you want?” He was staring straight ahead at the empty street. A large vein beat in his temple.

“For you to announce your resignation. Barbie takes over as per the President’s—”

“I’ll never resign in favor of that cotton-picker.” He turned to look at her. He was smiling. It was an appalling smile. “You didn’t leave anything with Julia, because Julia’s at the market, watching the food fight. You might have Duke’s file locked away somewhere, but you didn’t leave a copy with anyone. You tried Rommie, then you tried Julia, then you came here. I saw you walking up Town Common Hill.”