Under the Dome

She got the newspapers, then walked back to Main Street. The Democrat building was now just a blazing heap of rubble with cops pouring on the water (from those oh-so-convenient Indian pumps, she thought, all loaded up and ready to go). Looking at it hurt Julia’s heart—of course it did—but not so badly, now that she had something to do.

She walked down the street with Horace pacing in state beside her, and on every telephone pole she put up a copy of the Democrat ’s last issue. The headline—RIOT AND MURDERS AS CRISIS DEEPENS—seemed to glare out in the light of the fire. She wished now she had settled for a single word: BEWARE.

She went on until they were all gone.

13

Across the street, Peter Randolph’s walkie-talkie crackled three times: break-break-break. Urgent. Dreading what he might hear, he thumbed the transmit button, and said: “Chief Randolph. Go.”

It was Freddy Denton, who, as commanding officer of the night shift, was now the de facto Assistant Chief. “Just got a call from the hospital, Pete. Double murder—”

“WHAT?” Randolph screamed. One of the new officers—Mickey Wardlaw—was gawking at him like a Mongolian ijit at his first county fair.

Denton continued, sounding either calm or smug. If it was the latter, God help him. “—and a suicide. Shooter was that girl who cried rape. Victims were ours, Chief. Roux and DeLesseps.”

“You… are… SHITTING ME!”

“I sent Rupe and Mel Searles up there,” Freddy said. “Bright side, it’s all over and we don’t have to jug her down in the Coop with Barb—”

“You should’ve gone yourself, Fred. You’re the senior officer.”

“Then who’d be on the desk?”

Randolph had no answer for that—it was either too smart or too stupid. He supposed he better get his ass up to Cathy Russell.

I no longer want this job. No. Not even a little bit.

But it was too late now. And with Big Jim to help him, he’d manage. That was the thing to concentrate on; Big Jim would see him through.

Marty Arsenault tapped his shoulder. Randolph almost hauled off and hit him. Arsenault didn’t notice; he was looking across the street to where Julia Shumway was walking her dog. Walking her dog and… what?

Putting up newspapers, that was what. Tacking them to the goddam Christing telephone poles.

“That bitch won’t quit,” he breathed.

“Want me to go over there and make her quit?” Arsenault asked.

Marty looked eager for the chore, and Randolph almost gave it to him. Then he shook his head. “She’d just start giving you an earful about her damn civil rights. Like she doesn’t realize that scaring the holy hell out of everyone isn’t exactly in the town’s best interest.” He shook his head. “Probably she doesn’t. She’s incredibly…” There was a word for

what she was, a French word he’d learned in high school. He didn’t expect it to come to him, but it did. “Incredibly naïve.”

“I’ll stop her, Chief, I will. What’s she gonna do, call her lawyer?”

“Let her have her fun. At least it’s keeping her out of our hair. I better go up to the hospital. Denton says the Bushey girl murdered Frank DeLesseps and Georgia Roux. Then killed herself.”

“Christ,” Marty whispered, his face losing its color. “Is that down to Barbara too, do you think?”

Randolph started to say it wasn’t, then reconsidered. His second thought was of the girl’s rape accusation. Her suicide gave it a ring of truth, and rumors that Mill police officers could have done such a thing would be bad for department morale, and hence for the town. He didn’t need Jim Rennie to tell him that.

“Don’t know,” he said, “but it’s possible.”

Marty’s eyes were watering, either from smoke or from grief. Maybe both. “Gotta get Big Jim on top of this, Pete.”

“I will. Meanwhile”—Randolph nodded toward Julia—“keep an eye on her, and when she finally gets tired and goes away, take all that shit down and toss it where it belongs.” He indicated the torch that had been a newspaper office earlier in the day. “Put litter in its place.”

Marty snickered. “Roger that, boss.”

And that was just what Officer Arsenault did. But not before others in town had taken down a few of the papers for perusal in brighter light—half a dozen, maybe ten. They were passed from hand to hand in the next two or three days, and read until they quite literally fell apart.

14

When Andy got to the hospital, Piper Libby was already there. She was sitting on a bench in the lobby, talking to two girls in the white nylon pants and smock tops of nurses… although to Andy they seemed far too young to be real nurses. Both had been crying and looked like they might start again soon, but Andy could see Reverend Libby was having a calming effect on them. One thing he’d never had a problem with was judging human emotions. Sometimes he wished he’d been better at the thinking side of things.