Stephen King - Under the Dome

“The Honey House,” Julia said. “I went there, too.”

“George and I, we’d go past the monkey bars to the fence. There were anthills there, and we’d set the ants on fire.”

“Don’t take on about it, Doc,” Ernie said. “Lots of kids have done that, and worse.” Ernie himself, along with a couple of friends, had once dipped a stray cat’s tail in kerosene and put a match to it. This was a memory he would share with the others no more than he would tell them about the details of his wedding night.

Mostly because of how we laughed when that cat took off, he thought. Gosh, how we did laugh.

“Go on,” Julia said.

“I’m done.”

“You’re not,” she said.

“Look,” said Joanie Calvert. “I’m sure this is all very psychological, but I don’t think this is the time—”

“Hush, Joanie,” Claire said.

Julia had never taken her eyes from Rusty’s face.

“Why does it matter to you?” Rusty asked. He felt, at that moment, as though there were no onlookers. As if it were only the two of them.

“Just tell me.”

“One day while we were doing… that… it occurred to me that ants also have their little lives. I know that sounds like sentimental slop—”

Barbie said, “Millions of people all over the world believe that very thing. They live by it.”

“Anyway, I thought ‘We’re hurting them. We’re burning them on the ground and maybe broiling them alive in their underground houses.’ About the ones who were getting the direct benefit of Georgie’s magnifying glass there was no question. Some just stopped moving, but most actually caught fire.”

“That’s awful,” Lissa said. She was twisting her ankh again.

“Yes, ma’am. And this one day I told Georgie to stop. He wouldn’t. He said, ‘It’s jukular war.’ I remember that. Not nuclear but jukular. I tried to take the magnifying glass away from him. Next thing you know, we were fighting, and his magnifying glass got broken.”

He stopped. “That’s not the truth, although it’s what I said at the time and not even the hiding my father gave me could make me change my story. The one George told his folks was the true one: I broke the goddam thing on purpose.” He pointed into the dark. “The way I’d break that box, if I could. Because now we’re the ants and that’s the magnifying glass.”

Ernie thought again of the cat with the burning tail. Claire McClatchey remembered how she and her third-grade best friend had sat on a bawling girl they both hated. The girl was new in school and had a funny southern accent that made her sound like she was talking through mashed potatoes. The more the new girl cried, the harder they laughed. Romeo Burpee remembered getting drunk the night Hillary Clinton cried in New Hampshire, toasting the TV screen and saying, “Dat’s it for you, you goddam baby, get out the way and let a man do a man’s job.”

Barbie remembered a certain gymnasium: the desert heat, the smell of shit, and the sound of laughter.

“I want to see it for myself,” he said. “Who’ll go with me?” Rusty sighed. “I will.”

While Barbie and Rusty were approaching the box with its strange symbol and brilliant pulsing light, Selectman James Rennie was in the cell where Barbie had been imprisoned until earlier this evening.

Carter Thibodeau had helped him lift Junior’s body onto the bunk. “Leave me with him,” Big Jim said.

“Boss, I know how bad you must feel, but there are a hundred things that need your attention right now.”

“I’m aware of that. And I’ll take care of them. But I need a little time with my son first. Five minutes. Then you can get a couple of fellows to take him to the funeral parlor.”

“All right. I’m sorry for your loss. Junior was a good guy.”

“No he wasn’t,” Big Jim said. He spoke in a mild just-telling-it-like-it-is tone of voice. “But he was my son and I loved him. And this isn’t all bad, you know.”

Carter considered. “I know.”

Big Jim smiled. “I know you know. I’m starting to think you’re the son I should have had.”

Carter’s face flushed with pleasure as he trotted up the stairs to the ready room.

When he was gone, Big Jim sat on the bunk and lowered Junior’s head into his lap. The boy’s face was unmarked, and Carter had closed his eyes. If you ignored the blood matting his shirt, he could have been sleeping.

He was my son and I loved him.

It was true. He had been ready to sacrifice Junior, yes, but there was precedent for that; you only had to look at what had happened on Calvary Hill. And like Christ, the boy had died for a

cause. Whatever damage had been caused by Andrea Grinnell’s raving would be repaired when the town realized that Barbie had killed several dedicated police officers, including their leader’s only child. Barbie on the loose and presumably planning new deviltry was a political plus.

Big Jim sat awhile longer, combing Junior’s hair with his fingers and looking raptly into Junior’s reposeful face. Then, under his breath, he sang to him as his mother had when the boy was an infant lying in his crib, looking up at the world with wide, wondering eyes. “Baby’s boat’s a silver moon, sailing o’er the sky; sailing o’er the sea of dew, while the clouds float by… sail, baby, sail… out across the sea…”

There he stopped. He couldn’t remember the rest. He lifted Junior’s head and stood up. His heart did a jagged taradiddle and he held his breath… but then it settled again. He supposed he would eventually have to get some more of that verapa-whatsis from Andy’s pharmacy supplies, but in the meantime, there was work to do.

He left Junior and went slowly up the stairs, holding the railing. Carter was in the ready room. The bodies had been removed, and a double spread of newspapers was soaking up Mickey Wardlaw’s blood.

“Let’s go over to the Town Hall before this place fills up with cops,” he told Carter. “Visitors Day officially starts in”—he looked at his watch—“about twelve hours. We’ve got a lot to do before then.”

“I know.”

“And don’t forget my son. I want the Bowies to do it right. A respectful presentation of the remains and a fine coffin. You tell Stewart if I see Junior in one of those cheap things from out back, I’ll kill him.”

Carter was scribbling in his notebook. “I’ll take care of it.”

“And tell Stewart that I’ll be talking to him soon.” Several officers came in the front door. They looked subdued, a little scared, very young and green. Big Jim heaved himself out of the chair he’d been sitting in while he recovered his breath. “Time to move.”

“Okay by me,” Carter said. But he paused.

Big Jim looked around. “Something on your mind, son?”

Son. Carter liked the sound of that son. His own father had been killed five years previous when he crashed his pickup into one of the twin bridges in Leeds, and no great loss. He had abused his wife and both sons (Carter’s older brother was currently serving in the Navy), but Carter didn’t care about that so much; his mother had her coffee brandy to numb her up, and Carter himself had always been able to take a few licks. No, what he hated about the old man was that he was a whiner, and he was stupid. People assumed Carter was also stupid—hell, even Junes had assumed it—but he wasn’t. Mr. Rennie understood that, and Mr. Rennie was sure no whiner.

Carter discovered that he was no longer undecided about what to do next.

“I’ve got something you may want.”

“Is that so?”

Big Jim had preceded Carter downstairs, giving Carter a chance to visit his locker. He opened it now and took out the envelope with VADER printed on it. He held it out to Big Jim. The bloody footprint stamped on it seemed to glare.