Stephen King - Under the Dome

She did so. Andy listened with surprising calmness, considering he’d known the DeLesseps family all his life and had in high school once taken Georgia Roux’s mother on a date (Helen had kissed with her mouth open, which was nice, but had stinky breath, which wasn’t). He thought his current emotional flatness had everything to do with knowing that if his phone hadn’t rung when it did, he’d be unconscious by now. Maybe dead. A thing like that put the world in perspective.

“Two of our brand-new officers,” he said. To himself he sounded like the recording you got when you called a movie theater to get showtimes. “One already badly hurt trying to clean up that supermarket mess. Dear, dear.”

“This is probably not the time to say so, but I’m not very fond of your police department,” Thurston said. “Although since the officer who actually punched me is now dead, lodging a complaint would be moot.”

“Which officer? Frank or the Roux girl?”

“The young man. I recognized him in spite of his… his mortal disfigurement.”

“Frank DeLesseps punched you?” Andy simply didn’t believe this. Frankie had delivered his Lewiston Sun for four years and never missed a day. Well, yes, one or two, now that he thought of it, but those had come during big snowstorms. And once he’d had the measles. Or had it been the mumps?

“If that was his name.”

“Well gosh… that’s…” It was what? And did it matter? Did anything? Yet Andy pushed gamely forward. “That’s regrettable, sir. We believe in living up to our responsibilities in Chester’s Mill. Doing the right thing. It’s just that right now we’re kind of under the gun. Circumstances beyond our control, you know.”

“I do know,” Thurse said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s water over the dam. But sir… those officers were awfully young. And very out of line.” He paused. “The lady I’m with was also assaulted.”

Andy just couldn’t believe this fellow was telling the truth. Chester’s Mill cops didn’t hurt people unless they were provoked ( severely provoked); that was for the big cities, where folks didn’t know how to get along. Of course, he would have said a girl killing two cops and then taking her own life was also the kind of thing that didn’t happen in The Mill.

Never mind, Andy thought. He’s not just an out-of-towner, he’s an outof-stater. Put it down to that.

Ginny said, “Now that you’re here, Andy, I’m not sure what you can do. Twitch is taking care of the bodies, and—”

Before she could go on, the door opened. A young woman came in, leading two sleepy-looking children by the hands. The old fellow—Thurston—hugged her while the children, a girl and a boy, looked on. Both of them were barefooted and wearing tee-shirts as nightshirts. The boy’s, which came all the way down to his ankles, read PRISONER 9091 and PROPERTY OF SHAWSHANK STATE PRISON. Thurston’s daughter and grandchildren, Andy supposed, and that made him miss Claudette and Dodee all over again. He pushed the thought of them away. Ginny had called him for help, and it was clear she needed some herself. Which would no doubt mean listening while she told the whole story again—not for his benefit but for her own. So she could get the truth of it and start making peace with it. Andy didn’t mind. Listening was a thing he’d always been good at, and it was better than looking at three dead bodies, one the discarded husk of his old paperboy. Listening was such a simple thing, when you got right down to it, even a moron could listen, but Big Jim had never gotten the hang of it. Big Jim was better at talking. And planning—that, too. They were lucky to have him at a time like this.

As Ginny was winding up her second recitation, a thought came to Andy. Possibly an important one. “Has anyone—”

Thurston returned with the newcomers in tow. “Selectman Sanders—Andy—this is my partner, Carolyn Sturges. And these are the children we’re taking care of. Alice and Aidan.”

“I want my binkie,” Aidan said morosely.

Alice said, “You’re too old for a binkie,” and elbowed him.

Aidan’s face scrunched, but he didn’t quite cry.

“Alice,” Carolyn Sturges said, “that’s mean. And what do we know about mean people?”

Alice brightened. “Mean people suck!” she cried, and collapsed into giggles. After considering a moment, Aidan joined her.

“I’m sorry,” Carolyn said to Andy. “I had no one to watch them, and Thurse sounded so distraught when he called….”

It was hard to believe, but it seemed possible the old guy was bumping sweet spots with the young lady. The idea was only of passing interest to Andy, although under other circumstances he might have considered it deeply, pondering positions, wondering about whether she frenched him with that dewy mouth of hers, etc., etc. Now, however, he had other things on his mind.

“Has anyone told Sammy’s husband that she’s dead?” he asked.

“Phil Bushey?” It was Dougie Twitchell, coming down the hall and into the reception area. His shoulders were slumped and his complexion was gray. “Sonofabitch left her and left town. Months ago.” His eyes fell on Alice and Aidan Appleton. “Sorry, kids.”

“That’s all right,” Caro said. “We have an open-language house. It’s much more truthful.”

“That’s right,” Alice piped up. “We can say shit and piss all we want, at least until Ma gets back.”

“But not bitch,” Aidan amplified. “Bitch is ex -ist.”

Caro took no notice of this byplay. “Thurse? What happened?”

“Not in front of the kids,” he said. “Open language or no open language.”

“Frank’s parents are out of town,” Twitch said, “but I got in touch with Helen Roux. She took it quite calmly.”

“Drunk?” Andy asked.

“As a skunk.”

Andy wandered a little way up the hall. A few patients, clad in hospital johnnies and slippers, were standing with their backs to him. Looking at the scene of the slaughter, he presumed. He had no urge to do likewise, and was glad Dougie Twitchell had taken care of whatever needed taking care of. He was a pharmacist and a politician. His job was to help the living, not process the dead.

And he knew something these people did not. He couldn’t tell them that Phil Bushey was still in town, living like a hermit out at the radio station, but he could tell Phil that his estranged wife was dead. Could and should. Of course it was impossible to predict what Phil’s reaction might be; Phil wasn’t himself these days. He might lash out. He might even kill the bearer of bad tidings. But would that be so awful? Suicides might go to hell and dine on hot coals for eternity, but murder victims, Andy was quite sure, went to heaven and ate roast beef and peach cobbler at the Lord’s table for all eternity.

With their loved ones.

In spite of the nap she’d had earlier in the day, Julia was more tired than ever in her life, or so it felt. And unless she took Rosie up on her offer, she had nowhere to go. Except her car, of course.

She went back to it, unclipped Horace’s leash so he could jump onto the passenger seat, and then sat behind the wheel trying to think. She liked Rose Twitchell just fine, but Rosie would want to rehash the entire long and harrowing day. And she’d want to know what, if anything, was to be done about Dale Barbara. She would look to Julia for ideas, and Julia had none.

Meanwhile Horace was staring at her, asking with his cocked ears and bright eyes what came next. He made her think of the woman who had lost her dog: Piper Libby. Piper would take her in and give her a bed without talking her ear off. And after a night’s sleep, Julia might be able to think again. Even plan a little.