Under the Dome: A Novel (104 page)

The quintet had taken over the bullshit table at the back of the restaurant, deposing the regulars without a qualm. Rose wouldn’t come near; she sent Anson to deal with them.

Big Jim ordered three fried eggs, double sausage, and home toast fried in bacon grease, the way his mother used to serve it. He knew he was supposed to be cutting down on his cholesterol, but today he was going to need all the energy he could pack in. The next few days, actually; after that, things would be under control. He could go to work on his cholesterol then (a fable he had been telling himself for ten years).

“Where’s the Bowies?” he asked Carter. “I wanted the goshdarn Bowies here, so where are they?”

“Had to roll on a call out to Battle Street,” Carter said. “Mr. and Mrs. Freeman committed suicide.”

“That cotton-picker topped himself?” Big Jim exclaimed. The few patrons—most at the counter, watching CNN—looked around, then looked away. “Well, there! I’m not a bit surprised!” It occurred to him that now the Toyota dealership could be his for the taking … but why would he want it? A much bigger plum had fallen into his lap: the whole town. He had already started drafting a list of executive orders, which he would begin putting into effect as soon as he was granted full executive powers. That would happen tonight. And besides, he had hated that smarmy sonofabuck Freeman and his titsy rhymes-with-witch wife for years.

“Boys, he and Lois are eating breakfast in heaven.” He paused, then burst out laughing. Not very political, but he just couldn’t help it. “In the servants’ quarters, I have no doubt.”

“While the Bowies were out there, they got another call,” Carter said. “Dinsmore farm. Another suicide.”

“Who?” Chief Randolph asked. “Alden?”

“No. His wife. Shelley.”

That actually
was
sort of a shame. “Let’s us bow our heads for a minute,” Big Jim said, and extended his hands. Carter took one; Mel Searles took the other; Randolph and Denton linked up.

“Ohgod pleaseblessthesepoorsouls, Jesussakeamen,” Big Jim said, and raised his head. “Little business, Peter.”

Peter hauled out his notebook. Carter’s was already laid beside his plate; Big Jim liked the boy more and more.

“I’ve found the missing propane,” Big Jim announced. “It’s at WCIK.”

“Jesus!” Randolph said. “We have to send some trucks out there to get it!”

“Yes, but not today,” Big Jim said. “Tomorrow, while everyone’s visiting their relatives. I’ve already started working on that. The Bowies and Roger will go out again, but we’ll need a few officers, too. Fred, you and Mel. Plus I’m going to say four or five more. Not you, Carter, I want you with me.”

“Why do you need cops to get a bunch of propane tanks?” Randolph said.

“Well,” Jim said, mopping up egg yolk with a piece of fried toast, “that goes back to our friend Dale Barbara and his plans to destabilize this town. There are a couple of armed men out there, and it looks like they may be protecting some kind of drug lab. I think Barbara had that in place long before he actually showed up in person; this was well planned. One of the current caretakers is Philip Bushey.”

“
That
loser,” Randolph grunted.

“The other one, I’m sorry to say, is Andy Sanders.”

Randolph had been spearing fried potatoes. Now he dropped his fork with a clatter.
“Andy!”

“Sad but true. It was Barbara who set him up in business—I have that on good authority, but don’t ask me for my source; he’s
requested anonymity.” Big Jim sighed, then stuffed a yolk-smeared chunk of fried bread into his cakehole. Dear
Lord
but he felt good this morning! “I suppose Andy needed the money. I understand the bank was on the verge of foreclosing his drugstore. He never
did
have a head for business.”

“Or town government, either,” Freddy Denton added.

Big Jim ordinarily did not enjoy being interrupted by inferiors, but this morning he was enjoying everything. “Unfortunately true,” he said, then leaned over the table as far as his large belly would allow. “He and Bushey shot at one of the trucks I sent out there yesterday. Blew the front tires. Those cotton-pickers are dangerous.”

“Drug addicts with guns,” Randolph said. “A law-enforcement nightmare. The men who go out there will have to wear vests.”

“Good idea.”

“And I can’t vouch for Andy’s safety.”

“God love you, I know that. Do what you have to do. We need that propane. The town’s crying for it, and I intend to announce at the meeting tonight that we’ve discovered a fresh source.”

“Are you sure I can’t go, Mr. Rennie?” Carter asked.

“I know it’s a disappointment to you, but I want you with me tomorrow, not out where they’re having their visitors’ party. Randolph, too, I think. Someone has to coordinate this business, which is apt to be a clustermug. We’ll have to try to keep people from being trampled. Although some probably will be, because people don’t know how to behave. Better tell Twitchell to get his ambulance out there.”

Carter wrote this down.

While he did, Big Jim turned back to Randolph. His face was long with sorrow. “I hate to say this, Pete, but my informant has suggested Junior may also have been involved with the drug lab.”

“Junior?” Mel said. “Naw, not
Junior.
”

Big Jim nodded, and wiped a dry eye with the heel of his palm. “It’s hard for me to believe, too. I don’t
want
to believe it, but you know he’s in the hospital?”

They nodded.

“Drug overdose,” Rennie whispered, leaning even further over the table. “That seems to be the most likely explanation for what’s wrong with him.” He straightened and focused on Randolph again. “Don’t try going in from the main road, they’ll be expecting that. About a mile east of the radio station, there’s an access road—”

“I know the one,” Freddy said. “That used to be Sloppy Sam Verdreaux’s woodlot out there, ’fore the bank took it back. I think now all that land belongs to Holy Redeemer.”

Big Jim smiled and nodded, although the land actually belonged to a Nevada corporation of which he was president. “Go in that way, then approach the station from the rear. It’s mostly old growth out there, and you should have no trouble.”

Big Jim’s cell phone rang. He looked at the display, almost let the phone ring over to voice mail, then thought:
What the heck.
Feeling as he did this morning, listening to Cox foam at the mouth might be enjoyable.

“This is Rennie. What do you want, Colonel Cox?”

He listened, his smile fading a little.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth about this?”

He listened some more, then ended the call without saying goodbye. He sat frowning for a moment, processing whatever he’d heard. Then he raised his head and spoke to Randolph. “Do we have a Geiger counter? In the fallout shelter, maybe?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Al Timmons probably would.”

“Find him and have him check that out.”

“Is it important?” Randolph asked, and at the same time Carter asked, “Is it radiation, boss?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Big Jim said. “As Junior would say, he’s just trying to freak me out. I’m sure of it. But check on that Geiger counter. If we do have one—and it still works—bring it to me.”

“Okay,” Randolph said, looking frightened.

Big Jim wished now that he’d let the call go to voice mail after all. Or kept his mouth shut. Searles was apt to blab about this, start a rumor. Heck,
Randolph
was apt to. And it was probably nothing,
just that brass-hat cotton-picker trying to spoil a good day. The most important day of his life, maybe.

Freddy Denton, at least, had kept what mind he had on the issue at hand. “What time do you want us to hit the radio station, Mr. Rennie?”

Big Jim mentally reran what he knew about the Visitors Day schedule, then smiled. It was a genuine smile, wreathing his slightly greasy chops with good cheer and revealing his tiny teeth. “Twelve o’clock. Everybody will be schmoozing out on highway 119 by then and the rest of the town will be empty. So you go in and take out those cotton-pickers sitting on our propane at high noon. Just like in one of those old Western movies.”

6

At quarter past eleven on that Thursday morning, the Sweetbriar Rose van went trundling south along Route 119. Tomorrow the highway would be clogged with cars and stinking of exhaust, but today it was eerily deserted. Sitting behind the wheel was Rose herself. Ernie Calvert was in the passenger bucket. Norrie sat between them on the engine housing, clutching her skateboard, which was covered with stickers bearing the logos of long-gone punk bands like Stalag 17 and the Dead Milkmen.

“The air smells so
bad,
” Norrie said.

“It’s the Prestile, honey,” Rose said. “It’s turned into a big old stinky marsh where it used to run into Motton.” She knew it was more than just the smell of the dying river, but didn’t say so. They had to breathe, so there was no point in worrying about what they might be breathing in. “Have you talked to your mother?”

“Yeah,” Norrie said glumly. “She’ll come, but she’s not crazy about the idea.”

“Will she bring whatever groceries she has, when it’s time?”

“Yes. In the trunk of our car.” What Norrie didn’t add was that Joanie Calvert would load in her booze supply first; food supplies
would play second fiddle to that. “What about the radiation, Rose? We can’t plaster every car that goes up there with lead roll.”

“If people only go once or twice, they should be okay.” Rose had confirmed this for herself, on the Internet. She had also discovered that safety when it came to radiation depended on the strength of the rays, but saw no sense in worrying them about things they couldn’t control. “The important thing is to limit exposure … and Joe says the belt isn’t wide.”

“Joey’s mom won’t want to come,” Norrie said.

Rose sighed. This she knew. Visitors Day was a mixed blessing. It might cover their retreat, but those with relatives on the other side would want to see them.
Maybe McClatchey will lose the lottery,
she thought.

Up ahead was Jim Rennie’s Used Cars, with its big sign: YOU’LL LUV THE FEELIN’ WHEN BIG JIM IS DEALIN’!
A$K U$ 4 CREDIT!

“Remember—” Ernie began.

“I know,” Rose said. “If someone’s there, just turn around in front and head back to town.”

But at Rennie’s all the RESERVED FOR EMPLOYEE slots were empty, the showroom was deserted, and there was a whiteboard bearing the message CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE hanging on the main door. Rose drove around back in a hurry. Out here were ranks of cars and trucks with signs in the windows bearing prices and slogans like GREAT VALUE and CLEAN AS A WHISTLE and HEY LOOK ME OVER (with the
O
s turned into sexy long-lashed girl-eyes). These were the battered workhorses in Big Jim’s stable, nothing like the snazzy Detroit and German thoroughbreds out front. At the far end of the lot, ranked against the chainlink fence separating Big Jim’s property from a trash-littered patch of second-growth woods, was a line of phone company vans, some still bearing AT&T logos.

“Those,” Ernie said, reaching behind his seat. He brought out a long thin strip of metal.

“That’s a slim jim,” Rose said, amused in spite of her nerves. “Why would you have a slim jim, Ernie?”

“From when I was still working at Food City. You’d be surprised how many people lock their keys in their cars.”

“How will you get it started, Grampa?” Norrie asked.

Ernie smiled feebly. “I’ll figure somethin out. Stop here, Rose.”

He got out and trotted to the first van, moving with surprising nimbleness for a man approaching seventy. He peered through the window, shook his head, and went to the next in line. Then the third—but that one had a flat tire. After a look into the fourth, he turned back to Rose and gave her a thumbs-up. “Go on, Rose. Buzz.”

Rose had an idea that Ernie didn’t want his granddaughter seeing him use the slim jim. She was touched by that, and drove back around to the front without any further talk. Here she stopped again. “You okay with this, sweetie?”

“Yes,” Norrie said, getting out. “If he can’t get it started, we’ll just walk back to town.”

“It’s almost three miles. Can he do that?”

Norrie’s face was pale, but she managed a smile. “Grampa could walk me right into the ground. He does four miles a day, says it keeps his joints oiled. Go on, now, before someone comes and sees you.”

“You’re a brave girl,” Rose said.

“I don’t
feel
brave.”

“Brave people never do, honey.”

Rose drove back toward town. Norrie watched until she was out of sight, then began to do rails and lazy diamonds in the front lot. The hottop had a slight slope, so she only had to piss-pedal one way … although she was so wired she felt like she could push the board all the way up Town Common Hill and not feel it. Hell, right now she could probably ass-knife and not feel it. And if someone came along? Well, she had walked out here with her grampa, who wanted to look at some vans. She was just waiting for him, then they’d walk back to town. Grampa loved to walk, everybody knew that. Oiling the joints. Except Norrie didn’t think that was all of it, or even most of it. He had started doing his walks when Gramma
started getting confused about stuff (no one came right out and said it was Alzheimer’s, although everyone knew). Norrie thought he was walking off his sorrow. Was such a thing possible? She thought it was. She knew that when she was riding her skateboard, pulling off some sick double-kink at the skate park in Oxford, there was no room in her for anything but joy and fear, and joy ruled the house. Fear lived in the shack out back.

After a short while that felt long, the ex–phone company van rolled from behind the building with Grampa at the wheel. Norrie tucked her skateboard under her arm and jumped in. Her first ride in a stolen vehicle.

“Grampa, you are so gnarly,” she said, and kissed him.

7

Joe McClatchey was headed for the kitchen, wanting one of the remaining cans of apple juice in their dead refrigerator, when he heard his mother say
Bump
and stopped.