Under the Dome

Big Jim winced and gave silent thanks that Andrea Grinnell wasn’t here. Dope addict or not, she could have gone all politically correct in a situation like this.

“She took us in the bedroom one by one,” Frankie said. “I know it was a bad decision, and we’re all sorry, but it was purely voluntary on her part.”

“I’m sure it was,” Chief Randolph said. “That girl has quite a reputation. Her husband, too. You didn’t see any drugs out there, did you?”

“No sir.” A four-part chorus.

“And you didn’t hurt her?” Big Jim asked. “I understand she’s claiming she was punched around and whatnot.”

“Nobody hurt her,” Carter said. “Can I say what I think happened?”

Big Jim flapped an assenting hand. He was beginning to think that Mr. Thibodeau had possibilities.

“She probably fell down after we left. Maybe a couple of times. She was pretty drunk. Child Welfare should take that kid away from her before she kills it.”

No one picked up on that. In the town’s current situation, the Child Welfare office in Castle Rock might as well have been on the moon.

“So basically, you’re all clean,” Big Jim said.

“As a whistle,” Frank replied.

“Well, I think we’re satisfied.” Big Jim looked around. “Are we satisfied, gentlemen?”

Andy and Randolph nodded, looking relieved.

“Good,” Big Jim said. “Now, it’s been a long day—an eventful day—and we all need some sleep, I’m sure. You young officers especially need it, because you’ll report back for duty at seven AM tomorrow. The supermarket and the Gas and Grocery are both going to be closed for the duration of this crisis, and Chief Randolph thought that you’d be just the ones to guard Food City in case the people who show up there don’t take kindly to the new order of things. Think you’re up to that, Mr. Thibodeau? With your… your war wound?”

Carter flexed his arm. “I’m okay. Her dog didn’t rip the tendon none.”

“We can put Fred Denton with them, too,” Chief Randolph said, getting into the spirit of the thing. “Wettington and Morrison at the Gas and Grocery should be enough.”

“Jim,” Andy said, “maybe we should put the more experienced officers at Food City, and the less experienced ones at the smaller—”

“I don’t think so,” Big Jim said. Smiling. Feeling it. “These young folks are the ones we want at Food City. The very ones. And another thing. A little bird told me that some of you folks have been carrying weapons in your cars, and a couple have even been wearing them on foot patrol.”

Silence greeted this.

“You’re probationary officers,” Big Jim said. “If you’ve got personal handguns, that’s your right as Americans. But if I hear that any of you are strapped while standing out in front of Food City tomorrow and dealing with the good folks of this town, your police officer days are over.”

“Absolutely right,” Randolph said.

Big Jim surveyed Frank, Carter, Mel, and Georgia. “Any problems with that? Any of you?”

They didn’t look happy about it. Big Jim hadn’t expected that they would be, but they were getting off easy. Thibodeau kept flexing his shoulder and his fingers, testing them.

“What if they weren’t loaded?” Frank asked. “What if they were just there, you know, as a warning?”

Big Jim raised a teacherly finger. “I’m going to tell you what my father told me, Frank—there’s no such thing as an unloaded gun. We’ve got a good town here. They’ll behave, that’s what I’m banking on. If they change, we’ll change. Got it?”

“Yessir, Mr. Rennie.” Frank didn’t sound happy about it. That was fine with Big Jim.

He rose. Only instead of leading them out, Big Jim extended his hands. He saw their hesitation and nodded, still smiling. “Come on, now. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day, and we don’t want to let this one go without a word of prayer. So grab on.”

They grabbed on. Big Jim closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Dear Lord—”

It went on for some time.

3

Barbie mounted the outside steps to his apartment at a few minutes to midnight, his shoulders sagging with weariness, thinking that the only thing in the world he wanted was six hours of oblivion before answering the alarm and going up to Sweetbriar Rose to cook breakfast.

The weariness left him as soon as he snapped on the lights—which, courtesy of Andy Sanders’s generator, still worked.

Someone had been in here.

The sign was so subtle that at first he couldn’t isolate it. He closed his eyes, then opened them and let them swing casually about his combination living-room/kitchenette, trying to take in everything. The books he’d been planning to leave behind hadn’t been moved around on the shelves; the chairs were where they had been, one under the lamp and the other by the room’s only window, with its scenic view of the alley outside; the coffee cup and the toast plate were still in the dish drainer beside the tiny sink.

Then it clicked home, as such things usually did if you didn’t push too hard. It was the rug. What he thought of as his Not Lindsay rug.