Under the Dome: A Novel (16 page)

Andrea put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes shone either with fear or too much dope. Possibly both. “Surely not, Jim!”

“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, that’s what Claudette always says.” Andy spoke in tones of deep meditation. “Said, I mean. She made me a nice breakfast this morning. Scrambled eggs and leftover taco cheese. Gosh!”

The tears, which had slowed, began to ooze again. Andrea once more covered his hand. This time Andy gripped it.
Andy and Andrea,
Big Jim thought, and a thin smile creased the lower half of his fleshy face.
The Dumbsey Twins.

“Hope for the best, plan for the worst,” he said. “What good advice that is. The worst in this case could entail days cut off from the outside world. Or a week. Possibly even a month.” He didn’t actually believe that, but they’d be quicker to do what he wanted if they were frightened.

Andrea repeated: “Surely not!”

“We just don’t know,” Big Jim said. This, at least, was the unvarnished truth. “How can we?”

“Maybe we ought to close Food City,” Randolph said. “At least for the time being. If we don’t, it’s apt to fill up like before a blizzard.”

Rennie was annoyed. He had an agenda, and this was on it, but it wasn’t
first
on it.

“Or maybe that’s not a good idea,” Randolph said, reading the Second Selectman’s face.

“Actually, Pete, I
don’t
think it’s a good idea,” Big Jim said. “Same principle as never declaring a bank holiday when currency is tight. You only provoke a run.”

“Are we talking about closing the banks, too?” Andy asked. “What’ll we do about the ATMs? There’s one at Brownie’s Store … Mill Gas and Grocery … my drugstore, of course …” He looked vague, then brightened. “I think I even saw one at the Health Center, although I’m not entirely sure about that one …”

Rennie wondered briefly if Andrea had been loaning the man some of her pills. “I was only making a metaphor, Andy.” Keeping his voice low and kind. This was exactly the kind of thing you could expect when people wandered off the agenda. “In a situation
like this, food
is
money, in a manner of speaking. What I’m saying is it should be business as usual. It’ll keep people calm.”

“Ah,” Randolph said. This he understood. “Gotcha.”

“But you’ll need to talk to the supermarket manager—what’s his name, Cade?”

“Cale,” Randolph said. “Jack Cale.”

“Also Johnny Carver at the Gas and Grocery, and … who in the heck runs Brownie’s since Dil Brown died?”

“Velma Winter,” Andrea said. “She’s from Away, but she’s very nice.”

Rennie was pleased to see Randolph writing the names down in his pocket notebook. “Tell those three people that beer and liquor sales are off until further notice.” His face cramped in a rather frightening expression of pleasure. “And Dipper’s is
closed.
”

“A lot of people aren’t going to like a booze shutdown,” Randolph said. “People like Sam Verdreaux.” Verdreaux was the town’s most notorious tosspot, a perfect example—in Big Jim’s opinion—of why the Volstead Act should never have been repealed.

“Sam and the others like him will just have to suffer once their current supplies of beer and coffee brandy are gone. We can’t have half the town getting drunk like it was New Year’s Eve.”

“Why not?” Andrea asked. “They’ll use up the supplies and that’ll be the end of it.”

“And if they riot in the meantime?”

Andrea was silent. She couldn’t see what people would have to riot
about
—not if they had food—but arguing with Jim Rennie, she had found, was usually unproductive and always wearying.

“I’ll send a couple of the guys out to talk to them,” Randolph said.

“Talk to Tommy and Willow Anderson
personally.
” The Andersons ran Dipper’s. “They can be troublesome.” He lowered his voice. “Wingnuts.”

Randolph nodded. “
Left
-wingnuts. Got a picture of Uncle Barack over the bar.”

“That’s it exactly.”
And,
he didn’t need to say,
Duke Perkins let those two hippy cotton-pickers get a foothold with their dancing and loud rock and roll and drinking until one in the morning. Protected them. And look at the trouble it led to for my son and his friends.
He turned to Andy Sanders. “Also, you’ve got to put all the prescription drugs under lock and key. Oh, not Nasonex or Lyrica, that sort of thing. You know the stuff I mean.”

“Anything people might use to get high,” Andy said, “is already under lock and key.” He seemed uneasy at this turn of the conversation. Rennie knew why, but he wasn’t concerned about their various sales endeavors just now; they had more pressing business.

“Better take extra precautions, just the same.”

Andrea was looking alarmed. Andy patted her hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we always have enough to take care of those in real need.”

Andrea smiled at him.

“Bottom line is, this town is going to stay sober until the crisis ends,” Big Jim said. “Are we in agreement? Show of hands.”

The hands went up.

“Now,” Rennie said, “may I go back to where I wanted to start?” He looked at Randolph, who spread his hands in a gesture that simultaneously conveyed
go ahead
and
sorry.

“We need to recognize that people are apt to be scared. And when people are scared, they can get up to dickens, booze or no booze.”

Andrea looked at the console to Big Jim’s right: switches that controlled the TV, the AM/FM radio, and the built-in taping system, an innovation Big Jim hated. “Shouldn’t that be on?”

“I see no need.”

The darned taping system (shades of Richard Nixon) had been the idea of a meddling medico named Eric Everett, a thirtysomething pain in the buttinsky who was known around town as Rusty. Everett had sprung the taping system idiocy at town meeting two years before, presenting it as a great leap forward. The proposal came as an unwelcome surprise to Rennie, who was seldom surprised, especially by political outsiders.

Big Jim had objected that the cost would be prohibitive. This tactic usually worked with thrifty Yankees, but not that time; Everett had presented figures, possibly supplied by Duke Perkins, showing that the federal government would pay eighty percent. Some Disaster Assistance Whatever; a leftover from the free-spending Clinton years. Rennie had found himself outflanked.

It wasn’t a thing that happened often, and he didn’t like it, but he had been in politics for many more years than Eric “Rusty” Everett had been tickling prostates, and he knew there was a big difference between losing a battle and losing the war.

“Or at least someone should take notes?” Andrea asked timidly.

“I think it might be best to keep this informal, for the time being,” Big Jim said. “Just among the four of us.”

“Well … if you think so …”

“Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead,” Andy said dreamily.

“That’s right, pal,” Rennie said, just as if that made sense. Then he turned back to Randolph. “I’d say our prime concern—our prime responsibility to the town—is maintaining order for the duration of this crisis. Which means police.”

“Damn straight!” Randolph said smartly.

“Now, I’m sure Chief Perkins is looking down on us from Above—”

“With my wife,” Andy said. “With Claudie.” He produced a snot-clogged honk that Big Jim could have done without. Nonetheless, he patted Andy’s free hand.

“That’s right, Andy, the two of them together, bathed in Jesus’s glory. But for us here on earth … Pete, what kind of force can you muster?”

Big Jim knew the answer. He knew the answers to most of his own questions. Life was easier that way. There were eighteen officers on the Chester’s Mill police payroll, twelve full-timers and six part-timers (the latter all past sixty, which made their services entrancingly cheap). Of those eighteen, he was quite sure five of the full-timers were out of town; they had either gone to that day’s high school football game with their wives and families or to the controlled
tburn in Castle Rock. A sixth, Chief Perkins, was dead. And while Rennie would never speak ill of the dead, he was sure the town was better off with Perkins in heaven rather than down here, trying to manage a clustermug that was far beyond his limited abilities.

“I’ll tell you what, folks,” Randolph said, “it’s not that good. There’s Henry Morrison and Jackie Wettington, both of whom responded with me to the initial Code Three. There’s also Rupe Libby, Fred Denton, and George Frederick—although his asthma’s so bad I don’t know how much use he’ll be. He was planning to take early retirement at the end of this year.”

“Poor old George,” Andy said. “He just about lives on Advair.”

“And as you know, Marty Arsenault and Toby Whelan aren’t up to much these days. The only part-timer I’d call really able-bodied is Linda Everett. Between that damned firefighting exercise and the football game, this couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”

“Linda Everett?” Andrea asked, a little interested. “Rusty’s wife?”

“Pshaw!” Big Jim often said
pshaw
when he was irritated. “She’s just a jumped-up crossing guard.”

“Yes, sir,” Randolph said, “but she qualified on the county range over in The Rock last year and she has a sidearm. No reason she can’t carry it and go on duty. Maybe not full-time, the Everetts have got a couple of kids, but she can pull her weight. After all, it
is
a crisis.”

“No doubt, no doubt.” But Rennie was damned if he was going to have Everetts popping up like darned old jack-in-the-boxes every time he turned around. Bottom line: he didn’t want that cotton-picker’s wife on his first team. For one thing, she was still quite young, no more than thirty, and pretty as the devil. He was sure she’d be a bad influence on the other men. Pretty women always were. Wettington and her gunshell tiddies were bad enough.

“So,” Randolph said, “that’s only eight out of eighteen.”

“You forgot to count yourself,” Andrea said.

Randolph hit his forehead with the heel of his hand, as if trying to knock his brains back into gear. “Oh. Yeah. Right. Nine.”

“Not enough,” Rennie said. “We need to beef up the force. Just temporarily, you know; until this situation works itself out.”

“Who were you thinking about, sir?” Randolph asked.

“My boy, to begin with.”

“Junior?” Andrea raised her eyebrows. “He’s not even old enough to vote … is he?”

Big Jim briefly visualized Andrea’s brain: fifteen percent favorite online shopping sites, eighty percent dope receptors, two percent memory, and three percent actual thought process. Still, it was what he had to work with.
And,
he reminded himself,
the stupidity of one’s colleagues makes life simpler.

“He’s twenty-one, actually. Twenty-two in November. And either by luck or the grace of God, he’s home from school this weekend.”

Peter Randolph knew that Junior Rennie was home from school
permanently
—he’d seen it written on the phone pad in the late Chief’s office earlier in the week, although he had no idea how Duke had gotten the information or why he’d thought it important enough to write down. Something else had been written there, too:
Behavioral issues?

This was probably not the time to share such information with Big Jim, however.

Rennie was continuing, now in the enthusiastic tones of a game-show host announcing a particularly juicy prize in the Bonus Round. “
And,
Junior has three friends who would also be suitable: Frank DeLesseps, Melvin Searles, and Carter Thibodeau.”

Andrea was once more looking uneasy. “Um … weren’t those the boys … the young men … involved in that altercation at Dipper’s … ?”

Big Jim turned a smile of such genial ferocity on her that Andrea shrank back in her seat.

“That business was overblown.
And
sparked by alcohol, as most such trouble is. Plus, the instigator was that fellow Barbara. Which is why no charges were filed. It was a wash. Or am I wrong, Peter?”

“Absolutely not,” Randolph said, although he too looked uneasy.

“These fellows are all at least twenty-one, and I believe Carter Thibodeau might be twenty-three.”

Thibodeau was indeed twenty-three, and had lately been working as a part-time mechanic at Mill Gas & Grocery. He’d been fired from two previous jobs—temper issues, Randolph had heard—but he seemed to have settled down at the Gas & Grocery. Johnny said he’d never had anyone so good with exhaust and electrical systems.

“They’ve all hunted together, they’re good shots—”

“Please God we don’t have to put
that
to the test,” Andrea said.

“No one’s going to get shot, Andrea, and no one’s suggesting we make these young fellows full-time police. What I’m saying is that we need to fill out an extremely depleted roster, and
fast.
So how about it, Chief? They can serve until the crisis is over, and we’ll pay them out of the contingency fund.”

Randolph didn’t like the idea of Junior toting a gun on the streets of Chester’s Mill—Junior with his possible
behavioral issues
—but he also didn’t like the idea of bucking Big Jim. And it really might be a good idea to have a few extra widebodies on hand. Even if they were young. He didn’t anticipate problems in town, but they could be put on crowd control out where the main roads hit the barrier. If the barrier was still there. And if it wasn’t? Problems solved.

He put on a team-player smile. “You know, I think that’s a great idea, sir. You send em around to the station tomorrow around ten—”

“Nine might be better, Pete.”

“Nine’s fine,” Andy said in his dreamy voice.

“Further discussion?” Rennie asked.

There was none. Andrea looked as if she might have had something to say but couldn’t remember what it was.

“Then I call the question,” Rennie said. “Will the board ask acting Chief Randolph to take on Junior, Frank DeLesseps, Melvin Searles, and Carter Thibodeau as deputies at base salary? Their period of service to last until this darn crazy business is sorted out? Those in favor signify in the usual manner.”

They all raised their hands.

“The measure is approv—”