Under the Dome

Big Jim nodded and studied his son, who was supplementing his early-morning beverage with a Big Jerk beefstick.

He did not ask Where have you been? He did not ask What’s wrong with you?, although it was obvious, in the unforgiving first light that flooded the kitchen, that something was. But he did have a question.

“There are bodies. Plural. Is that right?”

“Yes.” Junior took a big bite of his beefstick and washed it down with Coke. The kitchen was weirdly silent without the hum of the fridge and the burble of the Mr. Coffee.

“And all these bodies can be laid at Mr. Barbara’s door?”

“Yes. All.” Another chomp. Another swallow. Junior looking at him steadily, rubbing his left temple as he did so.

“Can you plausibly discover those bodies around noon today?”

“No prob.”

“And the evidence against our Mr. Barbara, of course.”

“Yes.” Junior smiled. “It’s good evidence.”

“Don’t report to the police station this morning, son.”

“I better,” Junior said. “It might look funny if I don’t. Besides, I’m not tired. I slept with…” He shook his head. “I slept, leave it at that.”

Big Jim also did not ask Who did you sleep with? He had other concerns than whom his son might be diddling; he was just glad the boy hadn’t been among the fellows who’d done their business with that nasty piece of trailer trash out on Motton Road. Doing business with that sort of girl was a good way to catch something and get sick.

He’s already sick, a voice in Big Jim’s head whispered. It might have been the fading voice of his wife. Just look at him.

That voice was probably right, but this morning he had greater concerns than Junior Rennie’s eating disorder, or whatever it was.

“I didn’t say go to bed. I want you on motor patrol, and I want you to do a job for me. Just stay away from Food City while you’re doing it. There’s going to be trouble there, I think.”

Junior’s eyes livened up. “What kind of trouble?”

Big Jim didn’t answer directly. “Can you find Sam Verdreaux?”

“Sure. He’ll be in that little shack out on God Creek Road. Ordinarily he’d be sleeping it off, but today he’s more apt to be shaking himself awake with the DTs.” Junior snickered at this image, then winced and went back to rubbing his temple. “You really think I’m the person to talk to him? He’s not my biggest fan right now. He’s probably even deleted me from his Facebook page.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a joke, Dad. Forget it.”

“Do you think he’d warm up to you if you offered him three quarts of whiskey? And more later, if he does a good job?”

“That skanky old bastard would warm up to me if I offered him half a juice glass of Two-Buck Chuck.”

“You can get the whiskey from Brownie’s,” Big Jim said. In addition to cheapass groceries and beaver-books, Brownie’s was one of three agency liquor stores in The Mill, and the PD had keys to all three. Big Jim slid the key across the table. “Back door. Don’t let anyone see you going in.”

“What’s Sloppy Sam supposed to do for the booze?”

Big Jim explained. Junior listened impassively… except for his bloodshot eyes, which danced. He had only one more question: Would it work?

Big Jim nodded. “It will. I’m feeling it.”

Junior took another chomp on his beefstick and another swallow of his soda. “So’m I, Dad,” he said. “So’m I.”

7

When Junior was gone, Big Jim went into his study with his robe billowing grandly around him. He took his cell phone from the center drawer of his desk, where he kept it as much as possible. He thought they were Godless things that did nothing but encourage a lot of loose and useless talk—how many man-hours had been lost to useless gabble on these things? And what kind of nasty rays did they shoot into your head while you were gabbling?

Still, they could come in handy. He reckoned that Sam Verdreaux would do as Junior told him, but he also knew it would be foolish not to take out insurance.

He selected a number in the cell phone’s “hidden” directory, which could be accessed only via numeric code. The phone rang half a dozen times before it was picked up. “What?” the sire of the multitudinous Killian brood barked.

Big Jim winced and held the phone away from his ear for a second. When he put it back, he heard low clucking sounds in the background. “Are you in the chickenhouse, Rog?”

“Uh… yessir, Big Jim, I sure am. Chickens got to be fed, come hell or high water.” A 180-degree turn from irritation to respect. And Roger Killian ought to be respectful; Big Jim had made him a gosh-darn millionaire. If he was wasting what could have been a good life with no financial worries by still getting up at dawn to feed a bunch of chickens, that was God’s will. Roger was too dumb to stop. It was his heaven-sent nature, and would no doubt serve Big Jim well today.

And the town, he thought. It’s the town I’m doing this for. The good of the town.