Stephen King - Under the Dome

“Long shot. You know what would be better? If someone saw Brenda alive after Barbie reported to work at five fifty this morning. That would put a hole in their boat too big to plug.”

Judy and Janelle, dressed in their pajamas, came flying up for hugs. Rusty did his duty in this regard. Jackie Wettington, following along behind them, heard Rusty’s last comment and said, “I’ll ask around.”

“But quietly,” he said.

“You bet. And for the record, I’m still not entirely convinced. His dog tags were in Angie’s hand.”

“And he never noticed they were gone during the time between losing them and the bodies being found?”

“What bodies, Dad?” Jannie asked.

He sighed. “It’s complex, honey. And not for little girls.”

Her eyes said that was good. Her younger sister, meanwhile, had gone off to pick a few late flowers but came back empty-handed. “They’re dying,” she reported. “All brown and yucky at the edges.”

“It’s probably too warm for them,” Linda said, and for a moment Rusty thought she was going to cry. He stepped into the breach.

“You girls go in and brush your teeth. Get a little water from the jug on the counter. Jannie, you’re the designated water-pourer. Now go.” He turned back to the women. To Linda in particular. “You okay?”

“Yes. It’s just that… it keeps hitting me in different ways. I think, ‘Those flowers have no business dying,’ and then I think, ‘None of this has any business happening in the first place.’”

They were silent for a moment, thinking about this. Then Rusty spoke up.

“We should wait and see if Randolph asks me to examine the bodies. If he does, I’ll get my look without any risk of hot water for you two. If he doesn’t, it tells us something.”

“Meanwhile, Barbie’s in jail,” Linda said. “They could be trying to get a confession out of him right now.”

“Suppose you flashed your badges and got me into the funeral parlor?” Rusty asked. “Further suppose I found something that exonerates Barbie. Do you think they’d just say ‘Oh shit, our bad’ and let him out? And then let him take over? Because that’s what the government wants; it’s all over town. Do you think Rennie would allow—”

His cell phone went off. “These things are the worst invention ever,” he said, but at least it wasn’t the hospital.

“Mr. Everett?” A woman. He knew the voice but couldn’t put a name to it.

“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.”

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.

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.”