Under the Dome

Junior could see Randolph’s blunt-fingered hand from the corner of his left eye. He wondered what Randolph would do if he suddenly cocked his head around and bit it. Bit one of those fingers right off, maybe, and spat it on the floor.

“Don’t forget Dodee.” He had no idea why he said it, but it worked. Randolph’s hand dropped from his shoulder. The man looked thunderstruck. Junior realized he had forgotten Dodee.

“Oh God,” Randolph said. “Dodee. Has anyone called Andy and told him?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Your father will have, surely?”

“He’s been awfully busy.”

That was true. Big Jim was at home in his study, drafting his speech for the town meeting on Thursday night. The one that he’d give just before the townsfolk voted the Selectmen emergency governing powers for the duration of the crisis.

“I better call him,” Randolph said. “But maybe I’d better pray on it first. Do you want to get kneebound with me, son?”

Junior would have sooner poured lighter fluid down his pants and set his balls on fire, but didn’t say so. “Speak to God on your own, and you’ll hear Him answer more clearly. That’s what my dad always says.”

“All right, son. That’s good advice.”

Before Randolph could say any more, Junior slipped first out of the office, then out of the police station. He walked home, deep in thought, mourning his lost girlfriends and wondering if he could get another. Maybe more than one.

Under the Dome, all sorts of things might be possible.

15

Pete Randolph did try to pray, but there was too much on his mind. Besides, the Lord helped those who helped themselves. He didn’t think that was in the Bible, but it was true just the same. He called Andy Sanders’s cell from the list of numbers thumbtacked to the bulletin board on the wall. He hoped for no answer, but the guy picked up on the very first ring—wasn’t that always the way?

“Hello, Andy. Chief Randolph here. I’ve got some pretty tough news for you, my friend. Maybe you better sit down.”

It was a difficult conversation. Hellacious, actually. When it was finally over, Randolph sat drumming his fingers on his desk. He thought—again—that if Duke Perkins were the one sitting behind this desk, he wouldn’t be entirely sorry. Maybe not sorry at all. It had turned out to be a much harder and dirtier job than he had imagined. The private office wasn’t worth the aggravation. Even the green Chief’s car wasn’t; every time he got behind the wheel and his butt slipped into the hollow Duke’s meatier hindquarters had made before him, the same thought occurred: You’re not up to this.

Sanders was coming down here. He wanted to confront Barbara. Randolph had tried to talk him out of it, but halfway through his suggestion that Andy’s time would be better spent on his knees, praying for the souls of his wife and daughter—not to mention the strength to bear his cross—Andy had broken the connection.

Randolph sighed and punched up another number. After two rings, Big Jim’s ill-tempered voice was in his ear. “What? What? ”

“It’s me, Jim. I know you’re working and I hate to interrupt you, but could you come down here? I need help.”

16

The three children stood in the somehow depthless afternoon light, under a sky that now had a decided yellowish tinge, and looked at the dead bear at the foot of the telephone pole. The pole was leaning crookedly. Four feet up from its base, the creosoted wood was splintered and splashed with blood. Other stuff, too. White stuff that Joe supposed was fragments of bone. And grayish mealy stuff that had to be brai—

He turned around, trying to control his gorge. He almost had it, too, but then Benny threw up—a big wet yurp sound—and Norrie followed suit. Joe gave in and joined the club.

When they were under control again, Joe unslung his backpack, took out the bottles of Snapple, and handed them around. He used the first mouthful to rinse with, and spat it out. Norrie and Benny did the same. Then they drank. The sweet tea was warm, but it still felt like heaven on Joe’s raw throat.

Norrie took two cautious steps toward the black, fly-buzzing heap at the foot of the phone pole. “Like the deer,” she said. “Poor guy didn’t have any riverbank to jump over, so he beat his brains out on a phone-pole.”

“Maybe it had rabies,” Benny said in a thin voice. “Maybe the deer did, too.”

Joe guessed that was a technical possibility, but he didn’t believe it. “I’ve been thinking about this suicide thing.” He hated the tremble he heard in his voice, but couldn’t seem to do anything about it. “Whales and dolphins do it—they beach themselves, I’ve seen it on TV. And my dad says octopuses do it.”

“Pi,” Norrie said. “Octopi.”

“Whatever. My dad said when their environment gets polluted, they eat off their own tentacles.”

“Dude, do you want me to throw up again?” Benny asked. He sounded querulous and tired.

“Is that what’s going on here?” Norrie asked. “The environment’s polluted?”