Stephen King - Under the Dome

“Li’l Walter,” the woman whispered. She stood swaying, head down, hair hanging in her face, while Piper opened the passenger door and then eased her inside.

Piper got the bottle of Poland Spring out of the center console and took off the cap. The woman snatched it from her before Piper could offer it, and drank greedily, water overspilling the neck and dripping off her chin to darken the top of her tee-shirt.

“What’s your name?” Piper asked.

“Sammy Bushey.” And then, even as her stomach cramped from the water, that black rose began to open in front of Sammy’s eyes again. The bottle dropped out of her hand and fell to the floormat, gurgling, as she passed out.

Piper drove as fast as she could, which was pretty fast, since Motton Road remained deserted, but when she got to the hospital, she discovered that Dr. Haskell had died the day before and the physician’s assistant, Everett, was not there.

Sammy was examined and admitted by that famed medical expert, Dougie Twitchell.

While Ginny was trying to stop Sammy Bushey’s vaginal bleeding and Twitch was giving the badly dehydrated Little Walter IV fluids, Rusty Everett was sitting quietly on a park bench at the Town Hall edge of the common. The bench was beneath the spreading arms of a tall blue spruce, and he thought he was in shade deep enough to render him effectively invisible. As long as he didn’t move around much, that was.

There were interesting things to look at.

He had planned to go directly to the storage building behind the Town Hall (Twitch had called it a shed, but the long wooden building, which also housed The Mill’s four snowplows, was actually quite a bit grander than that) and check the propane situation there, but then one of the police cars pulled up, with Frankie DeLesseps at the wheel. Junior Rennie had emerged from the passenger side. The two had spoken for a moment or two, then DeLesseps had driven away.

Junior went up the PD steps, but instead of going in, he sat down there, rubbing his temples as if he had a headache. Rusty decided to wait. He didn’t want to be seen checking up on the town’s energy supply, especially not by the Second Selectman’s son.

At one point Junior took his cell phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, listened, said something, listened some more, said something else, then flipped it closed again. He went back to rubbing his temples. Dr. Haskell had said something about that young man. Migraine headaches, was it? It certainly looked like a migraine. It wasn’t just the temple-rubbing; it was the way he was keeping his head down.

Trying to minimize the glare, Rusty thought. Must have left his Imitrex or Zomig home. Assuming Haskell prescribed it, that is.

Rusty had half-risen, meaning to cut across Commonwealth Lane to the rear of the Town Hall—Junior clearly not being at his most observant—but then he spotted someone else and sat down again. Dale Barbara, the short-order cook who had reputedly been elevated to the rank of colonel (by the President himself, according to some), was standing beneath the marquee of the Globe, even deeper in the shadows than Rusty was himself. And Barbara also appeared to be keeping an eye on young Mr. Rennie.

Interesting.

Barbara apparently came to the conclusion that Rusty had already drawn: Junior wasn’t watching but waiting. Possibly for someone to pick him up. Barbara hustled across the street and—once he was blocked from Junior’s potential view by the Town Hall itself—paused to scan the message board out front. Then he went inside.

Rusty decided to sit where he was awhile longer. It was nice under the tree, and he was curious about whom Junior might be waiting for. People were still straggling back from Dipper’s (some would have stayed much longer had the booze been flowing). Most of them, like the young man sitting on the steps over yonder, had their heads down. Not in pain, Rusty surmised, but in dejection. Or maybe they were the same. It was certainly a point to ponder.

Now here came a boxy black gas-gobbler Rusty knew well: Big Jim Rennie’s Hummer. It honked impatiently at a trio of townsfolk who were walking in the street, shunting them aside like sheep.

The Hummer pulled in at the PD. Junior looked up but didn’t stand up. The doors opened. Andy Sanders got out from behind the wheel, Rennie from the passenger side. Rennie, allowing Sanders to drive his beloved black pearl? Sitting on his bench, Rusty raised his eyebrows. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone but Big Jim himself behind the wheel of that monstrosity. Maybe he’s decided to promote Andy from dogsbody to chauffeur, he thought, but when he watched Big Jim mount the steps to where his son still sat, he changed his mind.

Like most veteran medicos, Rusty was a pretty fair long-distance diagnostician. He would never have based a course of treatment on it, but you could tell a man who’d had a hip replacement six months ago from one currently suffering with hemorrhoids simply by the way he walked; you could tell a neck strain by the way a woman would turn her whole body instead of just looking back over her shoulder; you could tell a kid who’d picked up a good crop of lice at summer camp by the way he kept scratching his head. Big Jim held his arm against the upper slope of his considerable gut as he went up the steps, the classic body language of a man who has recently suffered either a shoulder strain, an upper arm strain, or both. Not so surprising that Sanders had been delegated to pilot the beast after all.

The three of them talked. Junior didn’t get up but Sanders sat down beside him, rummaged in his pocket, and brought out something that twinkled in the hazy afternoon sunlight. Rusty’s eyes were good, but he was at least fifty yards too far away to make out what the object might have been. Either glass or metal; that was all he could tell for sure. Junior put it in his pocket, then the three of them talked some more. Rennie gestured to the Hummer—he did it with his good arm—and Junior shook his head. Then Sanders pointed to the Hummer. Junior declined it again, dropped his head, and went back to working his temples. The two men looked at each other, Sanders craning his neck because he was still sitting on the steps. And in Big Jim’s shadow, which Rusty thought appropriate. Big Jim shrugged and opened his hands—a what can you do gesture. Sanders stood up and the two men went into the PD building, Big Jim pausing long enough to pat his son’s shoulder. Junior gave no response to that. He went on sitting where he was, as if he intended to sit out the age. Sanders played doorman for Big Jim, ushering him inside before following.

The two selectmen had no more than left the scene when a quartet came out of the Town Hall: an oldish gent, a young woman, a girl and a boy. The girl was holding the boy’s hand and carrying a checkerboard. The boy looked almost as disconsolate as Junior, Rusty thought… and damned if he wasn’t also rubbing one temple with his free hand. The four of them cut across Comm Lane, then passed directly in front of Rusty’s bench.

“Hello,” the little girl said brightly. “I’m Alice. This is Aidan.”

“We’re going to live at the passionage,” the little boy named Aidan said dourly. He was still rubbing his temple, and he looked very pale.

“That will be exciting,” Rusty said. “Sometimes I wish I lived in a passionage.”

The man and woman caught up with the kids. They were holding hands. Father and daughter, Rusty surmised.

“Actually, we just want to talk to the Reverend Libby,” the woman said. “You wouldn’t know if she’s back yet, would you?”

“No idea,” Rusty said.

“Well, we’ll just go over and wait. At the passionage.” She smiled up at the older man when she said this. Rusty decided they might not be father and daughter, after all. “That’s what the janitor said to do.”