Under the Dome

“I’m actually a Cat’lick,” he said (No shit, Piper thought), “but there isn’t a Cat’lick church in The Mill… which acourse you know, bein a minister… and you know what they say bout any port in a storm. I thought I’d come in and say a little prayer for Brenda. I always liked dat woman.” He rubbed a hand up one cheek. The rasp of his palm on the beard-stubble there seemed very loud in the hollow silence of the church. His Elvis ‘do was drooping around his ears. “Loved her, really. I never said, but I t’ink she knew.”

Piper stared at him with growing horror. She hadn’t been out of the parsonage all day, and although she knew about what had happened at Food City—several of her parishioners had called her—she had heard nothing about Brenda Perkins.

“Brenda? What happened to her?”

“Murdered. Others, too. They’re sayin that guy Barbie did it. He been arrested.”

Piper clapped a hand over her mouth and swayed on her feet. Rommie hurried forward and put a steadying arm around her waist. And that was how they were standing before the altar, almost like a man and woman about to be married, when the vestibule door opened again and Jackie led Linda and Julia inside.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good place, after all,” Jackie said.

The church was a soundbox, and although she didn’t speak loudly, Piper and Romeo Burpee heard her perfectly.

“Don’t leave,” Piper said. “Not if it’s about what happened. I can’t believe Mr. Barbara… I would have said he was incapable. He put my arm back in after it was dislocated. He was very gentle about it.” She paused to think about that. “As gentle as he could be, under the circumstances. Come down front. Please come down front.”

“People can fix a dislocated arm and still be capable of murder,” Linda said, but she was biting her lip and twisting her wedding ring.

Jackie put a hand on her wrist. “We were going to keep this quiet, Lin—remember?”

“Too late for that,” Linda said. “They’ve seen us with Julia. If she writes a story and those two say they saw us with her, we’ll get blamed.”

Piper had no clear idea what Linda was talking about, but she got the general gist. She raised her right arm and swept it around. “You’re in my church, Mrs. Everett, and what’s said here stays here.”

“Do you promise?” Linda asked.

“Yes. So why don’t we talk about it? I was just praying for a sign, and here you all are.”

“I don’t believe in stuff like that,” Jackie said.

“Neither do I, actually,” Piper said, and laughed.

“I don’t like it,” Jackie said. It was Julia she was addressing. “No matter what she says, this is too many people. Losing my job like Marty is one thing. I could deal with that, the pay sucks, anyway. Getting Jim Rennie mad at me, though…” She shook her head. “Not a good idea.”

“It isn’t too many,” Piper said. “It’s just the right number. Mr. Burpee, can you keep a secret?”

Rommie Burpee, who had done any number of questionable deals in his time, nodded and put a finger over his lips. “Mum’s the word,” he said. Word came out woid.

“Let’s go in the parsonage,” Piper said. When she saw that Jackie still looked doubtful, Piper held out her left hand to her… very carefully. “Come, let us reason together. Maybe over a little tot of whiskey?”

And with this, Jackie was at last convinced.

3

31 BURN CLEANSE BURN CLEANSE

THE BEAST WILL BE CAST INTO A

BURNING LAKE OF FIRE (REV 19:20)

“2 BE TORMENTED DAY & NITE 4-EVER” (20:10)

BURN THE WICKED

PURIFY THE SAINTLIE

BURN CLEANSE BURN CLEANSE 31

31 JESUS OF FIRE COMING 31

The three men crammed into the cab of the rumbling Public Works truck looked at this cryptic message with some wonder. It had been painted on the storage building behind the WCIK studios, black on red and in letters so large they covered almost the entire surface.

The man in the middle was Roger Killian, the chicken farmer with the bullet-headed brood. He turned to Stewart Bowie, who was behind the wheel of the truck. “What’s it mean, Stewie?”

It was Fern Bowie who answered. “It means that goddam Phil Bushey’s crazier than ever, that’s what it means.” He opened the truck’s glove compartment, removed a pair of greasy work gloves, and revealed a .38 revolver. He checked the loads, then snapped the cylinder back into place with a flick of his wrist and jammed the pistol in his belt.

“You know, Fernie,” Stewart said, “that is a goddam good way to blow your babymakers off.”

“Don’t you worry about me, worry about him,” Fern said, pointing back at the studio. From it the faint sound of gospel music drifted to them. “He’s been gettin high on his own supply for most of a year now, and he’s about as reliable as nitroglycerine.”