Stephen King - Under the Dome

Junior got his bloody clothes, raked the shit out of his jeans—wallet, change, keys, comb, an extra headache pill—and redistributed it in the pockets of his clean pants. He hurried downstairs, stuck the incriminating garments in the washer, set it for hot, then reconsidered, remembering something his mother had told him when he was no more than ten: cold water for bloodstains. As he moved the dial to COLD WASH/COLD RINSE, Junior wondered idly if his dad had started his hobby of secretary-fucking way back then, or if he was still keeping his cotton-picking penis at home.

He started the washer going and thought about what to do next. With the headache gone, he found that he could think.

He decided he should go back to Angie’s house after all. He didn’t want to—God almighty, it was the last thing he wanted to do—but he probably should scope out the scene. Walk past and see how many police cars were there. Also whether or not the Castle County forensics van was there. Forensics was key. He knew that from watching CSI. He’d seen the big blue-and-white van before, while visiting the county courthouse with his dad. And if it was at the McCains’…

I’ll run.

Yes. As fast and far as he could. But before he did, he’d come back here and visit the safe in his dad’s study. His dad didn’t think Junior knew the combo to that safe, but Junior did. Just as he knew the password to his dad’s computer, and thus about his dad’s penchant for watching what Junior and Frank DeLesseps called Oreo sex: two black chicks, one white guy. There was plenty of money in that safe. Thousands of dollars.

What if you see the van and come back and he’s here?

The money first, then. The money right now.

He went into the study and for a moment thought he saw his father sitting in the high-backed chair where he watched the news and nature programs. He’d fallen asleep, or… what if he’d had a heart attack? Big Jim had had heart problems off and on for the last three years; mostly arrhythmia. He usually went up to Cathy Russell and either Doc Haskell or Doc Rayburn buzzed him with something, got him back to normal. Haskell would have been content to keep on doing that forever, but Rayburn (whom his father called “an overeducated cotton-picker”) had finally insisted that Big Jim see a cardiologist at CMG in Lewiston. The cardiologist said he needed a procedure to knock out that irregular heartbeat once and for all. Big Jim (who was terrified of hospitals) said he needed to talk to God more, and you called that a prayer procedure. Meantime, he took his pills, and for the last few months he’d seemed fine, but now… maybe…

“Dad?”

No answer. Junior flipped the light switch. The overhead gave that same unsteady glow, but it dispelled the shadow Junior had taken for the back of his father’s head. He wouldn’t be exactly heartbroken if his dad vaporlocked, but on the whole he was glad it hadn’t happened tonight. There was such a thing as too many complications.

Still, he walked to the wall where the safe was with big soft steps of cartoon caution, watching for the splash of headlights across the window that would herald his father’s return. He set aside the picture that covered the safe (Jesus giving the Sermon on the Mount), and ran the combination. He had to do it twice before the handle would turn, because his hands were shaking.

The safe was stuffed with cash and stacks of parchment-like sheets with the words BEARER BONDSstamped on them. Junior gave a low whistle. The last time he’d opened this—to filch fifty for last year’s Fryeburg Fair—there had been plenty of cash, but nowhere near this much. And no BEARER BONDS.He thought of the plaque on his father’s desk at the car store: WOULD JESUS APPROVE OF THIS DEAL? Even in his distress and fear, Junior found time to wonder if Jesus would approve of whatever deal his dad had going on the side these days.

“Never mind his business, I gotta run mine,” he said in a low voice. He took five hundred in fifties and twenties, started to close the safe, reconsidered, and took some of the hundreds as well. Given the obscene glut of cash in there, his dad might not even miss it. If he did, it was possible he’d understand why Junior had taken it. And might approve. As Big Jim always said, “The Lord helps those who help themselves.”

In that spirit, Junior helped himself to another four hundred. Then he closed the safe, spun the combo, and hung Jesus back on the wall. He grabbed a jacket from the front hall closet and went out while the generator roared and the Maytag sudsed Angie’s blood from his clothes.

There was no one at the McCains’ house.

Fucking no one.

Junior lurked on the other side of the street, in a moderate shower of maple leaves, wondering if he could trust what he was seeing: the house dark, Henry McCain’s 4Runner and LaDonna’s Prius still not in evidence. It seemed too good to be true, far too good.

Maybe they were on the town common. A lot of people were tonight. Possibly they were discussing the power failure, although Junior couldn’t remember any such gatherings before when the lights went out; people mostly went home and went to bed, sure that—unless there’d been a whopper of a storm—the lights would be back on when they got up for breakfast.

Maybe this power failure had been caused by some spectacular accident, the kind of thing the TV news broke into regular coverage to report. Junior had a vague memory of some geezer asking him what was going on not long after Angie had her own accident. In any case, Junior had taken care to speak to nobody on his way over here. He had walked along Main Street with his head down and his collar turned up (he had, in fact, almost bumped into Anson Wheeler as Anse left Sweetbriar Rose). The streetlights were out, and that helped preserve his anonymity. Another gift from the gods.

And now this. A third gift. A gigantic one. Was it really possible that Angie’s body hadn’t been discovered yet? Or was he looking at a trap?

Junior could picture the Castle County Sheriff or a state police detective saying, We only have to keep out of sight and wait, boys. The killer always revisits the scene of his crime. It’s a well-known fact.

TV bullshit. Still, as he crossed the street (drawn, it seemed, by a force outside himself), Junior kept expecting spotlights to go on, pinning him like a butterfly on a piece of cardboard; kept expecting someone to shout—probably through a bullhorn: “Stop where you are and get those hands in the air!”

Nothing happened.

When he reached the foot of the McCain driveway, heart skittering in his chest and blood thumping in his temples (still no headache, though, and that was good, a good sign), the house remained dark and silent. Not even a generator roaring, although there was one at the Grinnells’ next door.

Junior looked over his shoulder and saw a vast white bubble of light rising above the trees. Something at the south end of town, or perhaps over in Motton. The source of the accident that had killed the power? Probably.

He went to the back door. The front door would still be unlocked if no one had returned since Angie’s accident, but he didn’t want to go in the front. He would if he had to, but maybe he wouldn’t. He was, after all, on a roll.

The doorknob turned.

Junior stuck his head into the kitchen and smelled the blood at once—an odor a little like spray starch, only gone stale. He said, “Hi? Hello? Anybody home?” Almost positive there wasn’t, but if someone was, if by some crazy chance Henry or LaDonna had parked over by the common and returned on foot (somehow missing their daughter lying dead on the kitchen floor), he would scream. Yes! Scream and “discover the body.” That wouldn’t do anything about the dreaded forensics van, but it would buy him a little time.