Under the Dome

Joe, Norrie, and Benny lay twitching on the Black Ridge Road in sunlight that was too diffuse. Heat that was too hot blared down on them. A crow, not in the least suicidal, landed on a telephone wire and gazed at them with bright, intelligent eyes. It cawed once, then flapped away through the strange afternoon air.

“Halloween,” Joe muttered.

“Make them stop screaming,” Benny groaned.

“No sun,” Norrie said. Her hands groped at the air. She was crying. “No sun, oh my God, there’s no more sun.”

At the top of Black Ridge, in the apple orchard that overlooked all of Chester’s Mill, a brilliant mauve light flashed.

Every fifteen seconds, it flashed again.

21

Julia hurried up the police station steps, her face still puffy from sleep, her hair standing up in back. When Pete made to fall in beside her, she shook her head. “Better stay here. I may call you in when I get the interview.”

“Love the positive thinking, but don’t hold your breath,” Pete said. “Not long after Andy showed up, guess who?” He pointed at the Hummer parked in front of a fire hydrant. Linda Everett and Jackie Wettington were standing near it, deep in conversation. Both women looked seriously freaked out.

Inside the station, Julia was first struck by how warm it was—the air-conditioning had been turned off, presumably to save juice. Next, by the number of young men who were sitting around, including two of the God-knew-how-many Killian brothers—there was no mistaking those long beaks and bullet heads. The young men all seemed to be filling out forms. “What if you didn’t have no last place of employment?” one asked another.

There was tearful shouting from downstairs: Andy Sanders.

Julia headed toward the ready room, where she had been a frequent visitor over the years, even a contributor to the coffee-and donuts fund (a wicker basket). She had never been stopped before, but this time Marty Arsenault said, “You can’t go back there, Miz Shumway. Orders.” He spoke in an apologetic, conciliatory voice he probably had not used with Pete Freeman.

Just then Big Jim Rennie and Andy Sanders came up the stairs from what Mill PD officers called the Chicken Coop. Andy was crying. Big Jim had an arm around him and was speaking soothingly. Peter Randolph came behind them. Randolph’s uniform was resplendent, but the face above it was that of a man who has barely escaped a bomb-blast.

“Jim! Pete!” Julia called. “I want to talk to you, for the Democrat!”

Big Jim turned around long enough to give her a glance that said people in hell wanted icewater, too. Then he began leading Andy toward the Chief’s office. Rennie was talking about praying.

Julia tried to bolt past the desk. Still looking apologetic, Marty grabbed her arm.

She said, “When you asked me to keep that little altercation with your wife last year out of the paper, Marty, I did. Because you would have lost your job otherwise. So if you’ve got an ounce of gratitude in you, let me go. ”

Marty let her go. “I tried to stop you but you wouldn’t listen,” he muttered. “Remember that.”

Julia trotted across the ready room. “Just a damn minute,” she said to Big Jim. “You and Chief Randolph are town officials, and you’re going to talk to me.”

This time the look Big Jim gave her was angry as well as contemptuous. “No. We’re not. You have no business back here.”

“But he does?” she asked, and nodded to Andy Sanders. “If what I’m hearing about Dodee is right, he’s the last person who should have been allowed downstairs.”

“That sonofabitch killed my precious girl!” Andy bawled.

Big Jim jabbed a finger at Julia. “You’ll get the story when we’re ready to give it out. Not before.”

“I want to see Barbara.”

“He’s under arrest for four murders. Are you insane?”

“If the father of one of his supposed victims can get downstairs to see him, why not me?”

“Because you’re neither a victim nor a next of kin,” Big Jim said. His upper lip rose, exposing his teeth.

“Does he have a lawyer?”

“I’m done talking to you, wom—”

“He doesn’t need a lawyer, he needs to be hung! HE KILLED MY PRECIOUS GIRL!”

“Come on, pal,” Big Jim said. “We’ll take it to the Lord in prayer.”

“What kind of evidence do you have? Has he confessed? If he hasn’t, what kind of alibi has he offered? How does it match up with the times of death? Do you even know the times of death? If the bodies were just discovered, how can you? Were they shot, or stabbed, or—”

“Pete, get rid of this rhymes-with-witch,” Big Jim said without turning around. “If she won’t go on her own, throw her out. And tell whoever’s on the desk that he’s fired.”

Marty Arsenault winced and passed a hand over his eyes. Big Jim escorted Andy into the Chief’s office and closed the door.

“Is he charged?” Julia asked Randolph. “You can’t charge him without a lawyer, you know. It isn’t legal.”