Under the Dome

They went back to the Peace Bridge and ducked under the sagging police tape. The walkway was dim, but not too dim for Joe to look over Norrie’s shoulder and see the Geiger counter’s needle stir as they passed the halfway point, walking single file so as not to test the rotted boards under their feet too much. When they came out on the other side, a sign informed them YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE CHESTER’S MILL TOWN COMMON, EST. 1808. A well-worn path led up a slope of oak, ash, and beech. Their fall foliage hung limply, looking sullen rather than gay.

By the time they reached the foot of this path, the needle in the COUNTS PER SECOND window stood between +5 and +10. Beyond +10, the meter’s calibration rose steeply to +500 and then to +1000. The top end of the dial was marked in red. The needle was miles below that, but Joe was pretty sure its current position indicated more than just a background count.

Benny was looking at the faintly quivering needle, but Joe was looking at Norrie.

“What were you thinking about?” he asked her. “Don’t be afraid to spill it, because it doesn’t seem like such a stupid idea, after all.”

“No,” Benny agreed. He tapped the COUNTS PER SECOND window. The needle jumped, then settled back to +7 or 8.

“I was thinking a generator and a transmitter are practically the same thing,” Norrie said. “And a transmitter doesn’t have to be in the middle, just high up.”

“The CIK tower isn’t,” Benny said. “Just sits in a clearing, pumpin out the Jesus. I’ve seen it.”

“Yeah, but that thing’s, like, super-powerful,” Norrie replied. “My Dad said it’s a hundred thousand watts, or something. Maybe what we’re looking for has a shorter range. So then I thought, ‘What’s the highest part of the town?’”

“Black Ridge,” Joe said.

“Black Ridge,” she agreed, and held up a small fist.

Joe bumped her, then pointed. “That way, two miles. Maybe three.” He turned the Geiger-Müller tube in that direction and they all watched, fascinated, as the needle rose to +10.

“I’ll be fucked,” Benny said.

“Maybe when you’re forty,” Norrie said. Tough as ever… but blushing. Just a little.

“There’s an old orchard out on the Black Ridge Road,” Joe said. “You can see the whole Mill from it—TR-90, too. That’s what my dad says, anyway. It could be there. Norrie, you’re a genius.” He didn’t have to wait for her to kiss him, after all. He did the honors, although daring no more than the corner of her mouth.

She looked pleased, but there was still a frown line between her eyes. “It might not mean anything. The needle’s not exactly going crazy. Can we go out there on our bikes?”

“Sure!” Joe said.

“After lunch,” Benny added. He thought of himself as the practical one.

6

While Joe, Benny, and Norrie were eating lunch at the McClatchey house (it was indeed chop suey) and Rusty Everett, assisted by Barbie and the two teenage girls, were treating supermarket-riot casualties at Cathy Russell, Big Jim Rennie sat in his study, going over a list and checking off items.

He saw his Hummer roll back up the driveway, and checked off another item: Brenda dropped off with the others. He thought he was ready—as ready as he could be, anyway. And even if the Dome disappeared this afternoon, he thought his butt was covered.

Junior came in and dropped the Hummer’s keys on Big Jim’s desk. He was pale and needed a shave worse than ever, but he no longer looked like death on a cracker. His left eye was red, but not flaming.

“All set, Son?”

Junior nodded. “Are we going to jail?” He spoke with an almost disinterested curiosity.

“No,” Big Jim said. The idea that he might go to jail had never crossed his mind, not even when the Perkins witch had shown up here and started making her accusations. He smiled. “But Dale Barbara is.”

“No one’s going to believe he killed Brenda Perkins.”

Big Jim continued to smile. “They will. They’re frightened, and they will. It’s how these things work.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’m a student of history. You ought to try it sometime.” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Junior why he had left Bowdoin—had he quit, flunked out, or been asked to leave? But this wasn’t the time or the place. Instead he asked his son if he was up to one more errand.

Junior rubbed at his temple. “I guess. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“You’ll need help. You could take Frank, I suppose, but I’d prefer the Thibodeau lad, if he’s able to move around today. Not Sear-les, though. A good fellow, but stupid.”

Junior said nothing. Big Jim wondered again what was wrong with the boy. But did he really want to know? Perhaps when this crisis was over. In the meantime, he had many pots and skillets on the stove, and dinner would be served soon.

“What do you want me to do?”