Stephen King - Under the Dome

“Hello, Not-There,” she said. “It’s me again, back for another helping of Your love and mercy.” A tear trickled from beneath one swollen eyelid and ran down one swollen (not to mention colorful) cheek. “Is my dog anywhere around? I only ask because I miss him so much. If he is, I hope you’ll give him the spiritual equivalent of a chewbone. He deserves one.”

More tears now, slow and hot and stinging.

“Probably he’s not. Most major religions agree that dogs don’t go to heaven, although certain offshoot sects—and The Reader’s Digest, I believe—disagree.”

Of course if there was no heaven, the question was moot, and the idea of this heavenless existence, this heavenless cosmology, was where what remained of her faith seemed more and more at home. Maybe oblivion; maybe something worse. A vast trackless plain under a white sky, say—a place where none was always the hour, nowhere the destination, and nobody your companions. Just a big old Not-There, in other words: for bad cops, lady preachers, kids who accidentally shot themselves, and galoot German shepherds who died trying to protect their mistresses. No Being to sort the wheat from the chaff. There was something histrionic about praying to such a concept (if not downright blasphemous), but occasionally it helped.

“But heaven’s not the point,” she resumed. “The point right now is trying to figure out how much of what happened to Clover was my fault. I know I have to own some of it—my temper got the best of me. Again. My religious teaching suggests You put that short fuse in me to begin with, and it’s my job to deal with it, but I hate that idea. I don’t completely reject it, but I hate it. It makes me think of how, when you take your car to get repaired, the guys in the shop always find a way to blame the problem on you. You ran it too much, you didn’t run it enough, you forgot to release the handbrake, you forgot to close your windows and the rain got in the wiring. And you know what’s worse? If You’re Not-There, I can’t shove even a little of the blame off on You. What does that leave? Fucking genetics?”

She sighed.

“Sorry about the profanity; why don’t You just pretend it Wasn’t-There? That’s what my mother always used to do. In the meantime, I have another question: What do I do now? This town is in terrible trouble, and I’d like to do something to help, only I can’t decide what. I feel foolish and weak and confused. I suppose if I was one of those Old Testament eremites, I’d say I need a sign. At this point, even YIELD or REDUCE SPEED IN SCHOOL ZONE would look good.”

The moment she finished saying this, the outside door opened, then boomed shut. Piper looked over her shoulder, half-expecting to see an angel, complete with wings and blazing white robe. If he wants to wrestle, he’ll have to heal my arm first, she thought.

It wasn’t an angel; it was Rommie Burpee. Half his shirt was untucked, hanging down his leg almost to mid-thigh, and he looked almost as downcast as she felt. He started down the center aisle, then saw her and stopped, as surprised to see Piper as she was him.

“Oh, gee,” he said, only with his Lewiston on parle accent, it came out Oh, shee. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you was dere. I’ll come back later.”

“No,” she said, and struggled to her feet, once more using just her right arm. “I’m done, anyway.”

“I’m actually a Cat’lick,” he said ( No shit, Piper thought), “but there isn’t a Cat’lick church in The Mill… which acourse you know, bein a minister… and you know what they say bout any port in a storm. I thought I’d come in and say a little prayer for Brenda. I always liked dat woman.” He rubbed a hand up one cheek. The rasp of his palm on the beard-stubble there seemed very loud in the hollow silence of the church. His Elvis ‘do was drooping around his ears. “Loved her, really. I never said, but I t’ink she knew.”

Piper stared at him with growing horror. She hadn’t been out of the parsonage all day, and although she knew about what had happened at Food City—several of her parishioners had called her—she had heard nothing about Brenda Perkins.

“Brenda? What happened to her?”

“Murdered. Others, too. They’re sayin that guy Barbie did it. He been arrested.”

Piper clapped a hand over her mouth and swayed on her feet. Rommie hurried forward and put a steadying arm around her waist. And that was how they were standing before the altar, almost like a man and woman about to be married, when the vestibule door opened again and Jackie led Linda and Julia inside.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good place, after all,” Jackie said.

The church was a soundbox, and although she didn’t speak loudly, Piper and Romeo Burpee heard her perfectly.

“Don’t leave,” Piper said. “Not if it’s about what happened. I can’t believe Mr. Barbara… I would have said he was incapable. He put my arm back in after it was dislocated. He was very gentle about it.” She paused to think about that. “As gentle as he could be, under the circumstances. Come down front. Please come down front.”

“People can fix a dislocated arm and still be capable of murder,” Linda said, but she was biting her lip and twisting her wedding ring.

Jackie put a hand on her wrist. “We were going to keep this quiet, Lin—remember?”

“Too late for that,” Linda said. “They’ve seen us with Julia. If she writes a story and those two say they saw us with her, we’ll get blamed.”

Piper had no clear idea what Linda was talking about, but she got the general gist. She raised her right arm and swept it around. “You’re in my church, Mrs. Everett, and what’s said here stays here.”

“Do you promise?” Linda asked.

“Yes. So why don’t we talk about it? I was just praying for a sign, and here you all are.”

“I don’t believe in stuff like that,” Jackie said.

“Neither do I, actually,” Piper said, and laughed.

“I don’t like it,” Jackie said. It was Julia she was addressing. “No matter what she says, this is too many people. Losing my job like Marty is one thing. I could deal with that, the pay sucks, anyway. Getting Jim Rennie mad at me, though…” She shook her head. “Not a good idea.”

“It isn’t too many,” Piper said. “It’s just the right number. Mr. Burpee, can you keep a secret?”

Rommie Burpee, who had done any number of questionable deals in his time, nodded and put a finger over his lips. “Mum’s the word,” he said. Word came out woid.

“Let’s go in the parsonage,” Piper said. When she saw that Jackie still looked doubtful, Piper held out her left hand to her… very carefully. “Come, let us reason together. Maybe over a little tot of whiskey?”

And with this, Jackie was at last convinced.

The three men crammed into the cab of the rumbling Public Works truck looked at this cryptic message with some wonder. It had been painted on the storage building behind the WCIK studios, black on red and in letters so large they covered almost the entire surface.

The man in the middle was Roger Killian, the chicken farmer with the bullet-headed brood. He turned to Stewart Bowie, who was behind the wheel of the truck. “What’s it mean, Stewie?”