Stephen King - Under the Dome

“Busy?” Randolph rolled his eyes. “Son, you don’t know the half of it. You did the right thing calling your dad. He’s practically a member of the department.”

“Dad grabbed two officers, Fred Denton and Jackie Wettington, and they came on over to the McCains’ house. Linda Everett joined us while Freddy was photographing the crime scene. Then Stewart Bowie and his brother showed up with the funeral hack. My dad thought that was best, things being so busy at the hospital with the riot and all.”

Randolph nodded. “Just right. Help the living, store the dead. Who found the dog tags?”

“Jackie. She pushed Angie’s hand open with a pencil and they fell right out on the floor. Freddy took pictures of everything.”

“Helpful at a trial,” Randolph said. “Which we’ll have to handle ourselves, if this Dome thing doesn’t clear up. But we can. You know what the Bible says: With faith, we can move mountains. What time did you find the bodies, son?”

“Around noon.” After I took some time to say goodbye to my girlfriends.

“And you called your father right away?”

“Not right away.” Junior gave Randolph a frank stare. “First I had to go outside and vomit. They were beaten up so bad. I never saw anything like that in my life.” He let out a long sigh, being careful to put a small tremble in it. The tape recorder probably wouldn’t pick up that tremble, but Randolph would remember it. “When I was done heaving, that was when I called Dad.”

“Okay, I think that’s all I need.” No more questions about the timeline or about his “morning patrol”; not even a request for Junior to write up a report (which was good, since writing inevitably gave him a headache these days). Randolph leaned forward to snap off the tape recorder. “Thank you, Junior. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Go home and rest. You look beat.”

“I’d like to be here when you question him, sir. Barbara.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about missing that today. We’re going to give him twenty-four hours to stew in his own juices. Your dad’s idea, and a good one. We’ll question him tomorrow afternoon or tomorrow night, and you’ll be there. I give you my word. We’re going to question him vigorously. ”

“Yes, sir. Good.”

“None of this Miranda stuff.”

“No, sir.”

“And thanks to the Dome, no turning him over to the County Sheriff, either.” Randolph looked at Junior keenly. “Son, this is going to be a true case of what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

Junior didn’t know whether to say yes, sir or no, sir to that, because he had no idea what the idiot behind the desk was talking about.

Randolph held him with that keen glance a moment or two longer, as if to assure himself that they understood one another, then clapped his hands together once and stood up. “Go home, Junior. You’ve got to be shaken up a bit.”

“Yes, sir, I am. And I think I will. Rest, that is.”

“I had a pack of cigarettes in my pocket when Reverend Coggins dipped me,” Randolph said in a tone of fond-hearted reminiscence. He put an arm around Junior’s shoulders as they walked to the door. Junior retained his respectful, listening expression, but felt like screaming at the weight of that heavy arm. It was like wearing a meat necktie. “They were ruined, of course. And I never bought another pack. Saved from the devil’s weed by the Son of God. How’s that for grace?”

“Awesome,” Junior managed.

“Brenda and Angie will get most of the attention, of course, and that’s normal—prominent town citizen and young girl with her life ahead of her—but Reverend Coggins had his fans, too. Not to mention a large and loving congregation.”

Junior could see Randolph’s blunt-fingered hand from the corner of his left eye. He wondered what Randolph would do if he suddenly cocked his head around and bit it. Bit one of those fingers right off, maybe, and spat it on the floor.

“Don’t forget Dodee.” He had no idea why he said it, but it worked. Randolph’s hand dropped from his shoulder. The man looked thunderstruck. Junior realized he had forgotten Dodee.

“Oh God,” Randolph said. “Dodee. Has anyone called Andy and told him?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Your father will have, surely?”

“He’s been awfully busy.”

That was true. Big Jim was at home in his study, drafting his speech for the town meeting on Thursday night. The one that he’d give just before the townsfolk voted the Selectmen emergency governing powers for the duration of the crisis.

“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.

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.”

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.