Stephen King - Under the Dome

“I’m fine.”

“Go home.”

“Are you kidding ?” Sounding aghast.

“No. Go home. Sleep. No setting the alarm, either.” Then an idea struck him. “But stop by Sweetbriar Rose on the way, why don’t you? They’re having chicken. I heard it from a reliable source.”

“The Bushey girl—”

“I’ll be checking on her in five minutes. What you’re going to do is make like a bee and buzz.”

He closed his phone before she could protest again.

Big Jim Rennie felt remarkably good for a man who had committed murder the night before. This was partially because he did not see it as murder, no more than he had seen the death of his late wife as murder. It was cancer that had taken her. Inoperable. Yes, he had probably given her too many of the pain pills over the last week, and in the end he’d still had to help her with a pillow over her face (but lightly, ever so lightly, slowing her breathing, easing her into the arms of Jesus), but he had done it out of love and kindness. What had happened to Reverend Cog-gins was a bit more brutal—admittedly—but the man had been so bullish. So completely unable to put the town’s welfare ahead of his own.

“Well, he’s eating dinner with Christ the Lord tonight,” Big Jim said. “Roast beef, mashed with gravy, apple crisp for dessert.” He himself was eating a large plate of fettuccini alfredo, courtesy of the Stouffer’s company. A lot of cholesterol, he supposed, but there was no Dr. Haskell around to nag him about it.

“I outlasted you, you old poop,” Big Jim told his empty study, and laughed goodnaturedly. His plate of pasta and a glass filled with milk (Big Jim Rennie did not drink alcohol) were set on his desk blotter. He often ate in the study, and he saw no need to change that simply because Lester Coggins had met his end here. Besides, the room was once more squared away and spandy-clean. Oh, he supposed one of those investigation units like the ones on TV would be able to find plenty of blood-spatter with their luminol and special lights and things, but none of those people was going to be here in the immediate future. As for Pete Randolph doing any sleuthing in the matter… the idea was a joke. Randolph was an idiot.

“But,” Big Jim told the empty room in a lecturely tone, “he’s my idiot.”

He slurped up the last few strands of pasta, mopped his considerable chin with a napkin, then once more began to jot notes on the yellow legal pad beside the blotter. He had jotted plenty of notes since Saturday; there was so much to do. And if the Dome stayed in place, there would be more still.

Big Jim sort of hoped it would remain in place, at least for a while. The Dome offered challenges to which he felt certain he could rise (with God’s help, of course). The first order of business was to consolidate his hold on the town. For that he needed more than a scapegoat; he needed a bogeyman. The obvious choice was Barbara, the man the Democrat Party’s Commie-in-Chief had tapped to replace James Rennie.

The study door opened. When Big Jim looked up from his notes, his son was standing there. His face was pale and expressionless. There was something not quite right about Junior lately. As busy as he was with the town’s affairs (and their other enterprise; that had also kept him busy), Big Jim realized this. But he felt confident in the boy just the same. Even if Junior let him down, Big Jim was sure he could handle it. He’d spent a lifetime making his own luck; that wasn’t going to change now.

Besides, the boy had moved the body. That made him part of this. Which was good—the essence of smalltown life, in fact. In a small town, everybody was supposed to be a part of everything. How did that silly song put it? We all support the team.

“Son?” he asked. “All right?”

“I’m fine,” Junior said. He wasn’t, but he was better, the latest poisonous headache finally lifting. Being with his girlfriends had helped, as he’d known it would. The McCain pantry didn’t smell so good, but after he’d sat there awhile, holding their hands, he’d gotten used to it. He thought he could even come to like that smell.

“Did you find anything in his apartment?”

“Yes.” Junior told him what he had found.

“That’s excellent, Son. Really excellent. And are you ready to tell me where you put the… where you put him?”

Junior shook his head slowly back and forth, but his eyes stayed in exactly the same place while he did it—pinned on his father’s face. It was a little eerie. “You don’t need to know. I told you that. It’s a safe place, and that’s enough.”

“So now you’re telling me what I need to know.” But he said it without his usual heat.

“In this case, yes.”

Big Jim considered his son carefully. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look pale.”

“I’m fine. Just a headache. It’s going now.”

“Why not have something to eat? There are a few more fettuccinis in the freezer, and the microwave does a great job on them.” He smiled. “Might as well enjoy them while we can.”

The dark, considering eyes dropped for a moment to the puddle of white sauce on Big Jim’s plate, then rose again to his father’s face. “Not hungry. When should I find the bodies?”

“ Bodies? ” Big Jim stared. “What do you mean, bodies ?”

Junior smiled, lips lifting just enough to show the tips of his teeth. “Never mind. It’ll help your cred if you’re surprised like everyone else. Let’s put it this way—once we pull the trigger, this town will be ready to hang Baaarbie from a sour apple tree. When do you want to do it? Tonight? Because that’ll work.”

Big Jim considered the question. He looked down at his yellow pad. It was crammed with notes (and splattered with alfredo sauce), but only one was circled: newspaper bitch.

“Not tonight. We can use him for more than Coggins if we play this right.”

“And if the Dome comes down while you’re playing it?”

“We’ll be fine,” Big Jim said. Thinking, And if Mr. Barbara is somehow able to squirm free of the frame—not likely, but cockroaches have a way of finding cracks when the lights go on—there’s always you. You and those other bodies. “Now get yourself something to eat, even if it’s only a salad.”

But Junior didn’t move. “Don’t wait too long, Dad,” he said. “I won’t.”

Junior considered it, considered him with those dark eyes that seemed so strange now, then seemed to lose interest. He yawned. “I’m going up to my room and sleep awhile. I’ll eat later.”

“Just make sure you do. You’re getting too thin.”

“Thin is in,” his son replied, and offered a hollow smile that was even more disquieting than his eyes. To Big Jim, it looked like a skull’s smile. It made him think of the fellow who now just called himself The Chef—as if his previous life as Phil Bushey had been canceled. When Junior left the room, Big Jim breathed a sigh of relief without even being aware of it.

He picked up his pen: so much to do. He would do it, and do it well. It was not impossible that when this thing was over, his picture would be on the cover of Time magazine.

With her generator still running—although it wouldn’t be for much longer unless she could find some more LP canisters—Brenda Perkins was able to fire up her husband’s printer and make a hard copy of everything in the VADER file. The incredible list of offenses Howie had compiled—and which he had apparently been about to act on at the time of his death—seemed more real to her on paper than they had on the computer screen. And the more she looked at them, the more they seemed to fit the Jim Rennie she’d known for most of her life. She had always known he was a monster; just not how big a monster.