Stephen King - Under the Dome

“You’re crazy,” Cox said wonderingly.

“So unbelievers always call the religious. It’s their final defense against faith. We’re used to it, and I don’t hold it against you.” This was a lie. “May I ask a question?”

“Go on.”

“Are you going to cut off our phones and computers?”

“You’d sort of like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course not.” Another lie.

“The phones and Internet stay. So does the press conference on Friday. At which you’ll be asked some difficult questions, I assure you.”

“I won’t be attending any press conferences in the foreseeable future, Colonel. Neither will Andy. And Mrs. Grinnell wouldn’t make much sense, poor thing. So you can just cancel your—”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Was that a smile in Cox’s voice? “The press conference will be held at noon on Friday, in plenty of time to sell lots of hemorrhoid cream on the evening news.”

“And who do you expect will be attending from our town?”

“Everyone, Rennie. Absolutely everyone. Because we’re going to allow their relatives to come to the Dome at the Motton town line—site of the airplane crash in which Mr. Sanders’s wife died, you may remember. The press will be there to record the whole thing. It’s going to be like visiting day at the state prison, only no one’s guilty of anything. Except maybe you.”

Rennie was infuriated all over again. “You can’t do that!”

“Oh, but I can.” The smile was there. “You can sit on your side of the Dome and thumb your nose at me; I can sit on mine and do the same. The visitors will be lined up, and as many as will agree to do so will be wearing tee-shirts reading DALE BARBARA IS INNOCENT and FREE DALE BARBARA and IMPEACH JAMES RENNIE. There will be tearful reunions, hands pressing against hands with the Dome in between, maybe even attempts to kiss. It will make excellent TV footage, and it will make excellent propaganda. Most of all, it’s going to make people in your town wonder what they’re doing with an incompetent like you at the controls.”

Big Jim’s voice descended to a thick growl. “I won’t allow it.”

“How are you going to stop it? Over a thousand people. You couldn’t shoot them all.” When he spoke again, his voice was calm and reasonable. “Come on, Selectman, let’s work this out. You can still come out of it clean. You only need to let go of the controls.”

Big Jim saw Junior drifting down the hall toward the front door like a ghost, still wearing his pajama pants and slippers, and barely noticed. Junior could have dropped dead in the hallway and Big Jim would have remained hunched over his desk, the gold baseball clutched in one hand and the telephone in the other. One thought beat in his head: putting Andrea Grinnell in charge, with Officer Tiddies as her second.

It was a joke.

A bad joke.

“Colonel Cox, you can go fuck yourself.”

He hung up, swiveled his desk chair, and hurled the gold baseball. It hit the signed photo of Tiger Woods. The glass shattered, the frame fell to the floor, and Carter Thibodeau, who was used to striking fear into hearts but who rarely had fear struck into his own, jumped to his feet.

“Mr. Rennie? Are you all right?”

He didn’t look all right. Irregular purple patches flared on his cheeks. His small eyes were wide and bulging from their sockets of hard fat. The vein in his forehead pulsed.

“They will never take this town from me,” Big Jim whispered.

“Course they won’t,” Carter said. “Without you, we’re sunk.”

This relaxed Big Jim to some degree. He reached for the telephone, then remembered Randolph had gone home to bed. The new Chief had gotten precious little rack-time since the crisis began, and had told Carter that he intended to sleep until at least noon. And that was okay. The man was useless, anyway.

“Carter, make a note. Show it to Morrison, if he’s running things at the PD this morning, then leave it on Randolph’s desk. After that, come right back here.” He paused to consider for a moment, frowning. “And see if Junior’s headed there. He went out while I was talking to Colonel Do-What-I-Want on the telephone. Don’t go looking for him if he’s not, but if he is, make sure he’s all right.”

“Sure. What’s the message?”

“ ‘Dear Chief Randolph: Jacqueline Wettington is to be severed from the Chester’s Mill PD immediately.’”

“Does that mean fired?”

“Yes indeed.”

Carter was scribbling in his book, and Big Jim gave him time to catch up. He was okay again. Better than okay. He was feeling it. “Add, ‘Dear Officer Morrison: When Wettington comes in today, please inform her she is relieved of duty and tell her to clean out her locker. If she asks you for cause, tell her we are reorganizing the department and her services will no longer be required.’”

“Does required have a c in it, Mr. Rennie?”

“The spelling doesn’t matter. The message matters.”

“Okay. Right.”

“If she has further questions, she can see me.”

“Got it. Is that all?”

“No. Tell whichever one sees her first to take her badge and gun. If she gets poopy and says the gun’s her personal property, they can give her a receipt and tell her it will either be returned or she’ll be reimbursed when this crisis is over.”

Carter scribbled some more, then looked up. “What do you think is wrong with Junes, Mr. Rennie?”

“I don’t know. Just megrims, I imagine. Whatever it is, I don’t have time to deal with it right now. There are more pressing matters at hand.” He pointed at the notebook. “Bring me that.”

Carter did. His handwriting was the looping scrawl of a third-grader, but everything was there. Rennie signed it.

Carter took the fruits of his secretarial labor to the PD. Henry Morrison greeted them with an incredulity that fell just short of mutiny. Carter also looked around for Junior, but Junior wasn’t there, and no one had seen him. He asked Henry to keep an eye out.

Then, on impulse, he went downstairs to visit Barbie, who was lying on his bunk with his hands behind his head.

“Your boss called,” he said. “That guy Cox. Mr. Rennie calls him Colonel Do-What-I-Want.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Barbie said.

“Mr. Rennie gave him the big fuck you. And you know what? Your Army pal had to eat it and smile. What do you think of that?”

“I’m not surprised.” Barbie kept looking at the ceiling. He sounded calm. It was irritating. “Carter, have you thought about where all this is going? Have you tried taking the long view?”

“There isn’t any long view, Baaarbie. Not anymore.”

Barbie just kept looking at the ceiling with a little smile dimpling the corners of his mouth. As if he knew something Carter did not. It made Carter want to unlock the cell door and punch the shitlicker’s lights out. Then he remembered what had happened in Dipper’s parking lot. Let Barbara see if he could fight a firing squad with his dirty tricks. Let him try that.

“I’ll see you around, Baaaarbie. ”

“I’m sure,” Barbie said, still not bothering to look at him. “It’s a small town, son, and we all support the team.”

When the parsonage doorbell rang, Piper Libby was still in the Bruins tee-shirt and shorts that served as her nightwear. She opened the door, assuming her visitor would be Helen Roux, an hour early for her ten o’clock appointment to discuss Georgia’s funeral and burial arrangements. But it was Jackie Wettington. She was wearing her uniform, but there was no badge over her left breast and no gun on her hip. She looked stunned.