Under the Dome

She sat down at her computer to write her story. She’d been holding the open in her head all the way up Main Street: Ernie Calvert, the former manager of Food City, called for people to come in the back. He said he had opened the doors for them. But by then it was too late. The riot was on. It was a good lead. The problem was, she couldn’t write it. She kept hitting all the wrong keys.

“Go upstairs and lie down,” Tony said.

“No, I have to write—”

“You’re not going to write anything like you are. You’re shaking like a leaf. It’s shock. Lie down for an hour. I’ll print the pictures and send them to your computer desktop. Transcribe your notes, too. Go on up.”

She didn’t like what he was saying, but recognized the wisdom of it. Only it turned out to be more than an hour. She hadn’t slept well since Friday night, which seemed a century ago, and she had no more than put her head on the pillow before she fell into a deep sleep.

When she woke up, she saw with panic that the shadows in her bedroom had grown long. It was late afternoon. And Horace! He would’ve wet in some corner and would give her his most shame-faced look, as though it were his fault instead of hers.

She slipped on her sneakers, hurried into the kitchen, and found her Corgi not by the door, whining to go out, but peacefully asleep on his blanket bed between the stove and the refrigerator. There was a note on the kitchen table, propped up against the salt and pepper shakers.

3 PM

Julia

—

Pete F. and I collaborated on the supermarket story. It ain’t great, but will be when you put your stamp on it. The pix you got aren’t bad, either. Rommie Burpee came by & says he still has plenty of paper, so we’re OK on that score. Also says you need to write an editorial about what happened. “Totally unnecessary,” he said. “And totally incompetent. Unless they wanted it to happen. I wouldn’t put it past that guy, and I don’t mean Randolph.” Pete and I agree that there should be an editorial, but we need to watch our step until all the facts are known. We also agreed that you needed some sleep in order to write it the way it needs to be written. Those were suitcases under your eyes, boss! I’m going home to spend some time with my wife & kids. Pete’s gone to the PD. Says “something big” has happened, and he wants to find out what.

Tony G.

PS! I walked Horace. He did all his business.

Julia, not wanting Horace to forget she was a part of his life, woke him up long enough for him to gobble half a Beggin’ Strip, then went downstairs to punch up the news story and write the editorial Tony and Pete were suggesting. Just as she was starting, her cell rang.

“Shumway, Democrat. ”

“Julia!” It was Pete Freeman. “I think you better get down here. Marty Arsenault’s on the desk and he won’t let me in. Told me to wait out-goddam-side! He’s no cop, just a dumb pulp-jockey who picks up a little side-money directing traffic in the summertime, but now he’s acting like Chief Big Dick of Horny Mountain.”

“Pete, I’ve got a ton of stuff to do here, so unless—”

“Brenda Perkins is dead. So are Angie McCain, Dodee Sanders—”

“What?” She stood up so suddenly her chair tipped over.

“—and Lester Coggins. They were killed. And get this—Dale Barbara’s been arrested for the murders. He’s in jail downstairs.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Ahh, fuck,” Pete said. “Here comes Andy Sanders, and he’s cryin his goddam eyes out. Should I try for a comment, or—”

“Not if the man lost his daughter three days after losing his wife. We’re not the New York Post. I’ll be right there.”

She broke the connection without waiting for a reply. Initially she felt calm enough; she even remembered to lock up the office. But once she was on the sidewalk, in the heat and under that tobacco-stained sky, her calm broke and she began to run.

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