Under the Dome: A Novel (60 page)

Barbie found Julia shooting pictures of the looted cash registers. “Quit that and come with me,” he said.

“No, I have to do this, there’s no one else. I don’t know where Pete Freeman is, and Tony—”

“You don’t have to shoot it, you have to stop it. Before something a lot worse than that happens.” He was pointing to Fern Bowie, who was strolling past with a loaded basket in one hand and a beer in the other. His eyebrow was split and blood was dripping down his face, but Fern seemed content enough withal.

“How?”

He led her back to Rose. “Ready, Rose? Showtime.”

“I … well …”

“Remember,
serene.
Don’t try to stop them; just try to lower the temperature.”

Rose took a deep breath, then raised the bullhorn to her mouth. “HI, EVERYBODY, THIS IS ROSE TWITCHELL, FROM SWEETBRIAR ROSE.”

To her everlasting credit, she
did
sound serene. People looked around when they heard her voice—not because it sounded urgent, Barbie knew, but because it didn’t. He had seen this in Takrit, Fallujah, Baghdad. Mostly after bombings in crowded public places, when the police and the troop carriers arrived. “PLEASE FINISH YOUR SHOPPING AS QUICKLY AND CALMLY AS POSSIBLE.”

A few people chuckled at this, then looked around at each other as if coming to. In aisle 7, Carla Venziano, shamefaced, helped Henrietta Clavard to her feet.
There’s plenty of Texmati for both of us,
Carla thought.
What in God’s name was I thinking?

Barbie nodded at Rose to go on, mouthing
Coffee.
In the distance, he could hear the sweet warble of an approaching ambulance.

“WHEN YOU’RE DONE, COME TO SWEETBRIAR FOR COFFEE. IT’S FRESH AND IT’S ON THE HOUSE.”

A few people clapped. Some leatherlungs yelled,
“Who wants coffee? We got BEER!”
Laughter and whoops greeted this sally.

Julia twitched Barbie’s sleeve. Her forehead was creased in what Barbie thought was a very Republican frown. “They’re not shopping; they’re stealing.”

“Do you want to editorialize or get them out of here before someone gets killed over a bag of Blue Mountain Dry Roast?” he asked.

She thought it over and nodded, her frown giving way to that inward-turning smile he was coming to like a great deal. “You have a point, Colonel,” she said.

Barbie turned to Rose, made a cranking gesture, and she started in again. He began to walk the two women up and down the aisles, starting with the mostly denuded deli and dairy section, on the look-out
out for anyone who might be cranked up enough to offer interference. There was no one. Rose was gaining confidence, and the market was quieting. People were leaving. Many were pushing carts laden with loot, but Barbie still took it as a good sign. The sooner they were out the better, no matter how much shit they took with them … and the key was for them to hear themselves referred to as shoppers rather than stealers. Give a man or woman back his self-respect, and in most cases—not all, but most—you also give back that person’s ability to think with at least some clarity.

Anson Wheeler joined them, pushing a shopping cart full of supplies. He looked slightly shamefaced, and his arm was bleeding. “Someone hit me with a jar of olives,” he explained. “Now I smell like an Italian sandwich.”

Rose handed the bullhorn to Julia, who began broadcasting the same message in the same pleasant voice: Finish up, shoppers, and leave in orderly fashion.

“We can’t take that stuff,” Rose said, pointing at Anson’s cart. “But we need it, Rosie,” he said. He sounded apologetic but firm. “We really do.”

“We’ll leave some money, then,” she said. “If no one’s stolen my purse out of the truck, that is.”

“Um … I don’t think that’ll work,” Anson said. “Some guys were stealing the money out of the registers.” He had seen which guys, but didn’t want to say. Not with the editor of the local paper walking next to him.

Rose was horrified. “What’s happening here? In the name of God, what’s
happening
?”

“I don’t know,” Anson said.

Outside, the ambulance pulled up, the siren dying to a growl. A minute or two later, while Barbie, Rose, and Julia were still canvassing the aisles with the bullhorn (the crowd was thinning out now), someone behind them said, “That’s enough. Give me that.”

Barbie was not surprised to see acting chief Randolph, tricked out to the nines in his dress uniform. Here he was, a day late and a dollar short. Right on schedule.

Rose was working the bullhorn, extolling the virtues of free coffee at Sweetbriar. Randolph plucked it from her hand and immediately began giving orders and making threats.

“LEAVE NOW! THIS IS CHIEF PETER RANDOLPH, ORDERING YOU TO LEAVE NOW! DROP WHAT YOU ARE HOLDING AND LEAVE NOW! IF YOU DROP WHAT YOU’RE HOLDING AND LEAVE NOW, YOU MAY AVOID CHARGES!”

Rose looked at Barbie, dismayed. He shrugged. It didn’t matter. The spirit of the mob had departed. The cops who were still ambulatory—even Carter Thibodeau, staggering but on his feet—started hustling people out. When the “shoppers” wouldn’t drop their loaded baskets, the cops struck several to the ground, and Frank DeLesseps overturned a loaded shopping cart. His face was grim and pale and angry.

“Are you going to make those boys stop that?” Julia asked Randolph.

“No, Ms. Shumway, I am not,” Randolph said. “Those people are looters and they’re being treated as such.”

“Whose fault is that? Who closed the market?”

“Get out of my way,” Randolph said. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Shame you weren’t here when they broke in,” Barbie remarked.

Randolph looked at him. The glance was unfriendly yet satisfied. Barbie sighed. Somewhere a clock was ticking. He knew it, and Randolph did, too. Soon the alarm would ring. If not for the Dome, he could run. But, of course, if not for the Dome, none of this would be happening.

Down front, Mel Searles tried to take Al Timmons’s loaded shopping basket. When Al wouldn’t give it up, Mel tore it away … and then pushed the older man down. Al cried out in pain and shame and outrage. Chief Randolph laughed. It was a short, choppy, una-mused sound—
Haw! Haw! Haw!
—and in it Barbie thought he heard what Chester’s Mill might soon become, if the Dome didn’t lift.

“Come on, ladies,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

13

Rusty and Twitch were lining up the wounded—about a dozen in all—along the cinderblock side of the market when Barbie, Julia, and Rose came out. Anson was standing by the Sweetbriar panel truck with a paper towel pressed to his bleeding arm.

Rusty’s face was grim, but when he saw Barbie, he lightened up a little. “Hey, sport. You’re with me this morning. In fact, you’re my new RN.”

“You wildly overestimate my triage skills,” Barbie said, but he walked toward Rusty.

Linda Everett ran past Barbie and threw herself into Rusty’s arms. He gave her a brief hug. “Can I help, honey?” she asked. It was Ginny she was looking at, and with horror. Ginny saw the look and wearily closed her eyes.

“No,” Rusty said. “You do what you need to. I’ve got Gina and Harriet, and I’ve got Nurse Barbara.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Barbie said, and almost added:
Until I’m arrested, that is.

“You’ll be fine,” Rusty said. In a lower voice he added, “Gina and Harriet are the most willing helpers in the world, but once they get past giving pills and slapping on Band-Aids, they’re pretty much lost.”

Linda bent to Ginny. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“I’ll be fine,” Ginny said, but she did not open her eyes.

Linda gave her husband a kiss and a troubled look, then walked back toward where Jackie Wettington was standing with a pad in her hand, taking Ernie Calvert’s statement. Ernie wiped his eyes repeatedly as he talked.

Rusty and Barbie worked side by side for over an hour, while the cops strung yellow police tape in front of the market. At some point, Andy Sanders came down to survey the damage, clucking and shaking his head. Barbie heard him ask someone what the world was coming to, when hometown folks could get up to a thing like this.
He also shook Chief Randolph’s hand and told him he was doing a hell of a job.

Hell
of a job.

14

When you’re
feeling it,
lousy breaks disappear. Strife becomes your friend. Bad luck turns hit-the-Megabucks good. You do not accept these things with gratitude (an emotion reserved for wimps and losers, in Big Jim Rennie’s opinion) but as your due.
Feeling it
is like riding in a magic swing, and one should (once more in Big Jim’s opinion) glide imperiously.

If he had emerged from the big old Rennie manse on Mill Street a little later or a little earlier, he would not have seen what he did, and he might have dealt with Brenda Perkins in an entirely different way. But he came out at exactly the right time. That was how it went when you were
feeling it
; the defense collapsed and you rushed through the magical hole thus created, making the easy layup.

It was the chanted cries of
Oh-pun UP! Oh-pun UP!
that got him out of his study, where he had been making notes for what he planned to call the Disaster Administration … of which cheerful, grinning Andy Sanders would be the titular head and Big Jim would be the power behind the throne.
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it
was Rule One in Big Jim’s political operating manual, and having Andy out front always worked like a charm. Most of Chester’s Mill knew he was an idiot, but it didn’t matter. You could run the same game on people over and over, because ninety-eight percent of them were even bigger idiots. And although Big Jim had never planned a political campaign on such a grand scale—it amounted to a municipal dictatorship—he had no doubt it would work.

He hadn’t included Brenda Perkins in his list of possible complicating factors, but no matter. When you were
feeling it,
complicating factors had a way of disappearing. This you also accepted as your due.

He walked down the sidewalk to the corner of Mill and Main, a distance of no more than a hundred paces, with his belly swinging placidly before him. The Town Common was directly across the way. A little farther down the hill on the other side of the street were the Town Hall and the PD, with War Memorial Plaza in between.

He couldn’t see Food City from the corner, but he could see all of the Main Street business section. And he saw Julia Shumway. She came hurrying out of the
Democrat
’s office, a camera in one hand. She jogged down the street toward the sound of the chanting, trying to sling the camera over her shoulder while on the move. Big Jim watched her. It was funny, really—how anxious she was to get to the latest disaster.

It got funnier. She stopped, turned, jogged back, tried the newspaper office’s door, found it open, and locked it. Then she hurried off once more, anxious to watch her friends and neighbors behaving badly.

She is realizing for the first time that once the beast is out of its cage, it could bite anyone, anywhere,
Big Jim thought.
But don’t worry, Julia—I’ll take care of you, just as I always have. You may have to tone down that tiresome rag of yours, but isn’t that a small price to pay for safety?

Of course it was. And if she persisted …

“Sometimes stuff happens,” Big Jim said. He was standing on the corner with his hands in his pockets, smiling. And when he heard the first screams … the sound of breaking glass … the gunshots … his smile widened.
Stuff happens
wasn’t exactly how Junior put it, but Big Jim reckoned it was close enough for government w—

His smile folded into a frown as he spotted Brenda Perkins. Most of the people on Main Street were heading toward Food City to see what all the ruckus was about, but Brenda was walking
up
Main Street instead of down. Maybe even up to the Rennie house … which would mean up to no good.

What could she want with me this morning? What could be so important it trumps a food riot at the local supermarket?

It was entirely possible he was the last thing on Brenda’s mind, but his radar was pinging and he watched her closely.

She and Julia passed on opposite sides of the street. Neither noticed
the other. Julia was trying to run while managing her camera. Brenda was staring at the red ramshackle bulk of Burpee’s Department Store. She had a canvas carrier-bag that swung at her knee.

When she reached Burpee’s, Brenda tried the door with no success. Then she stood back and glanced around the way people do when they’ve hit an unexpected obstacle to their plans and are trying to decide what to do next. She might still have seen Shumway if she’d looked behind her, but she didn’t. Brenda looked left, right, then across Main Street, at the offices of the
Democrat.

After another look at Burpee’s, she crossed to the
Democrat
and tried that door. Also locked, of course; Big Jim had watched Julia do it. Brenda tried it again, rattling the knob for good measure. She knocked. Peered in. Then she stood back, hands on hips, carrier-bag dangling. When she once more started up Main Street—trudging, no longer looking around—Big Jim retreated to his house at a brisk pace. He didn’t know why he wanted to make sure Brenda didn’t see him watching … but he didn’t
have
to know. You only had to act on your instincts when you were
feeling it.
That was the beauty of the thing.

What he
did
know was that if Brenda knocked on his door, he would be ready for her. No matter what she wanted.

15

Tomorrow morning I want you to take the printout to Julia Shumway,
Barbie had told her. But the
Democrat
’s office was locked and dark. Julia was almost certainly at whatever mess was going on at the market. Pete Freeman and Tony Guay probably were, too.

So what was she supposed to do with Howie’s VADER file? If there had been a mail slot, she might have slipped the manila envelope in her carrier-bag through it. Only there
was
no mail slot.

Brenda supposed she should either go find Julia at the market or return home to wait until things quieted down and Julia came back to her office. Not being in a particularly logical mood, neither
choice appealed. As to the former, it sounded like a full-scale riot was going on at Food City, and Brenda did not want to get sucked in. As to the latter …