Under the Dome

Barbie picked it up, then almost dropped it—it was heavy. On the front was a gauge labeled COUNTS PER SECOND. When you turned the instrument on and pointed the sensor at something, the needle might stay in the green, rise to the yellow center of the dial… or go over into the red. That, Barbie assumed, would not be good.

He turned it on. The little power lamp stayed dark and the needle lay quiet against 0.

“Battery’s dead,” someone said from behind him. Barbie almost jumped out of his skin. He looked around and saw a tall, heavyset man with blond hair standing in the doorway between the two rooms.

For a moment the name eluded him, although the guy was at the restaurant most Sunday mornings, sometimes with his wife, always with his two little girls. Then it came to him. “Rusty Evers, right?”

“Close; it’s Everett.” The newcomer held out his hand. A little warily, Barbie walked over and shook it. “Saw you come in. And that”—he nodded to the Geiger counter—“is probably not a bad idea. Something must be keeping it in place.” He didn’t say what he meant by it and didn’t need to.

“Glad you approve. You almost scared me into a goddam heart attack. But you could take care of that, I guess. You’re a doc, right?”

“PA,” Rusty said. “That means—”

“I know what it means.”

“Okay, you win the waterless cookware.” Rusty pointed at the Geiger counter. “That thing probably takes a six-volt dry cell. I’m pretty sure I saw some at Burpee’s. Less sure anybody’s there right now. So… maybe a little more rekkie?”

“What exactly would we be reconning?”

“The supply shed out back.”

“And we’d want to do that because?”

“That depends on what we find. If it’s what we lost up at the hospital, you and I might exchange a little information.”

“Want to share on what you lost?”

“Propane, brother.”

Barbie considered this. “What the hell. Let’s take a look.”

10

Junior stood at the foot of the rickety stairs leading up the side of Sanders Hometown Drug, wondering if he could possibly climb them with his head aching the way it was. Maybe. Probably. On the other hand, he thought he might get halfway up and his skull would pop like a New Year’s Eve noisemaker. The spot was back in front of his eye, jigging and jagging with his heartbeat, but it was no longer white. It had turned bright red.

I’d be okay in the dark, he thought. In the pantry, with my girlfriends.

If this went right, he could go there. Right now the pantry of the McCain house on Prestile Street seemed like the most desirable place on earth. Of course Coggins was there, too, but so what? Junior could always push that gospel-shouting asshole to one side. And Coggins had to stay hidden, at least for the time being. Junior had no interest in protecting his father (and was neither surprised nor dismayed at what his old man had done; Junior had always known Big Jim Rennie had murder in him), but he did have an interest in fixing Dale Barbara’s little red wagon.

If we handle this right, we can do more than get him out of the way, Big Jim had said that morning. We can use him to unify the town in the face of this crisis. And that cotton-picking newspaperwoman. I have an idea about her, too. He had laid a warm and hammy hand on his son’s shoulder. We’re a team, son.

Maybe not forever, but for the time being, they were pulling the same plow. And they would take care of Baaarbie. It had even occurred to Junior that Barbie was responsible for his headaches. If Barbie really had been overseas—Iraq was the rumor—then he might have come home with some weird Middle Eastern souvenirs. Poison, for instance. Junior had eaten in Sweetbriar Rose many times. Barbara could easily have dropped a little sumpin-sumpin in his food. Or his coffee. And if Barbie wasn’t working the grill personally, he could have gotten Rose to do it. That cunt was under his spell.

Junior mounted the stairs, walking slowly, pausing every four steps. His head didn’t explode, and when he reached the top, he groped in his pocket for the apartment key Andy Sanders had given him. At first he couldn’t find it and thought he might have lost it, but at last his fingers came upon it, hiding under some loose change.

He glanced around. A few people were still walking back from Dipper’s, but no one looked at him up here on the landing outside Barbie’s apartment. The key turned in the lock, and he slipped inside.