Under the Dome

“I don’t think that will be happening anytime soon,” Julia said. “He’s in jail.”

“Jail? Charged with what?”

“Murder. Four counts, to be exact.”

“You’re joking.”

“Do I sound like I’m joking, Colonel?”

There was a moment of silence. She could hear many voices in the background. When Cox spoke again, his voice was low. “Explain this.”

“No, Colonel Cox, I think not. I’ve been writing about it for the last two hours, and as my mother used to say when I was a little girl, I don’t chew my cabbage twice. Are you still in Maine?”

“Castle Rock. Our forward base is here.”

“Then I suggest that you meet me where we met before. Motton Road. I can’t give you a copy of tomorrow’s Democrat, even though it’s free, but I can hold it up to the Dome and you can read it for yourself.”

“E-mail it to me.”

“I won’t. I think e-mail is antithetical to the newspaper business. I’m very old-fashioned that way.”

“You’re an irritating piece of work, dear lady.”

“I may be irritating, but I’m not your dear lady.”

“Tell me this: is it a frame job? Something to do with Sanders and Rennie?”

“Colonel, in your experience, does a bear defecate in the woods?” Silence. Then he said, “I’ll meet you in an hour.”

“I’ll be bringing company. Barbie’s employer. I think you’ll be interested in what she has to say.”

“Fine.”

Julia hung up the phone. “Want to take a little ride with me out to the Dome, Rose?”

“If it’ll help Barbie, sure.”

“We can hope, but I’m kind of thinking we’re on our own here.” Julia shifted her attention to Pete and Tony. “Will you two finish stapling those? Stack em by the door and lock up when you leave. Get a good night’s sleep, because tomorrow we all get to be news-boys. This paper’s getting the old-school treatment. Every house in town. The close-in farms. And Eastchester, of course. Lots of new people out there, theoretically less susceptible to the Big Jim mystique.”

Pete raised his eyebrows.

“Our Mr. Rennie’s the home team,” Julia said. “He’s going to climb onto the stump at the emergency town meeting Thursday night and try to wind this town up like a pocketwatch. The visitors get first ups, though.” She pointed at the newspapers. “Those are our first ups. If enough people read that, he’ll have some tough questions to answer before he gets to speechifying. Maybe we can disrupt his rhythm a little.”

“Maybe a lot, if we find out who did the rock-throwing at Food City,” Pete said. “And you know what? I think we will. I think this whole thing was put together on the fly. There’s got to be loose ends.”

“I just hope Barbie’s still alive when we start pulling them,” Julia said. She looked at her watch. “Come on, Rosie, let’s take a ride. You want to come, Horace?”

Horace did.

18

“You can let me off here, sir,” Sammy said. It was a pleasant ranch-style in Eastchester. Although the house was dark, the lawn was lit, because they were now close to the Dome, where bright lights had been set up at the Chester’s Mill–Harlow town line.

“Wa’m nuther beer for the road, Missy Lou?”

“No, sir, this is the end of the road for me.” Although it wasn’t. She still had to go back to town. In the yellow glow cast by the domelight, Alden Dinsmore looked eighty-five instead of forty-five. She had never seen such a sad face… except maybe for her own, in the mirror of her hospital room before she set out on this journey. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. The stubble there prickled her lips. He put his hand to the spot, and actually smiled a little.

“You ought to go home now, sir. You’ve got a wife to think about. And another boy to take care of.”

“I s’pose you’re right.”

“I am right.”

“You be okay?”

“Yes, sir.” She got out, then turned back to him. “Will you?”

“I’ll try,” he said.

Sammy slammed the door and stood at the end of the driveway, watching him turn around. He went into the ditch, but it was dry and he got out all right. He headed back toward 119, weaving at first. Then the taillights settled into a more or less straight line. He was in the middle of the road again—fucking the white line, Phil would have said—but she thought that would be okay. It was going on eight thirty now, full dark, and she didn’t think he’d meet anyone.

When his taillights winked out of sight, she walked up to the dark ranch house. It wasn’t much compared to some of the fine old homes on Town Common Hill, but nicer than anything she’d ever had. It was nice inside, too. She had been here once with Phil, back in the days when he did nothing but sell a little weed and cook a little glass out back of the trailer for his own use. Back before he started getting his strange ideas about Jesus and going to that crappy church, where they believed everybody was going to hell but them. Religion was where Phil’s trouble had started. It had led him to Cog-gins, and Coggins or someone else had turned him into The Chef.