Under the Dome

There were more gunshots from the Town Hall, then one that was much closer: from upstairs. Barbie hoped it was their guys… and then he heard someone yell, “No, Junior! What are you, crazy? Wardlaw, back me up!” More gunshots followed. Four, maybe five.

“Ah, Jesus,” Rusty said. “We’re in trouble.”

“I know,” Barbie said.

26

Junior paused on the PD steps, looking over his shoulder toward the newly hatched uproar at the Town Hall. The people on the benches outside were now standing and craning their necks, but there was nothing to see. Not for them, and not for him. Perhaps someone had assassinated his father—he could hope; it would save him the trouble—but in the meantime, his business was inside the PD. In the Coop, to be specific.

Junior pushed through the door with WORKING TOGETHER: YOUR HOMETOWN POLICE DEPARTMENT AND YOU printed on it. Stacey Moggin came hurrying toward him. Rupe Libby was behind her. In the ready-room, standing in front of the grumpy sign reading COFFEE AND DONUTS ARE NOT FREE, was Mickey Wardlaw. Hulk or not, he looked very frightened and unsure of himself.

“You can’t come in here, Junior,” Stacey said.

“Sure, I can.” Sure came out surrr. It was the numbness at the side of his mouth. Thallium poisoning! Barbie! “I’m on the force.” Um onna forsh.

“You’re drunk, is what you are. What’s going on over there?” But then, perhaps deciding he was incapable of any coherent reply, the bitch gave him a push in the center of his chest. It made him stagger on his bad leg and almost fall. “Go away, Junior.” She looked back over her shoulder and spoke her last words on Earth. “You stay where you are, Wardlaw. No one goes downstairs.”

When she turned back, meaning to bulldoze Junior out of the station ahead of her, she found herself looking into the muzzle of a police-issue Beretta. There was time for one more thought—Oh no, he wouldn’t—and then a painless boxing glove hit her between the breasts and drove her backward. She saw Rupe Libby’s amazed face upside down as her head tilted back. Then she was gone.

“No, Junior! What are you, crazy?” Rupe shouted, clawing for his gun. “Wardlaw, back me up!”

But Mickey Wardlaw only stood gaping as Junior pumped five bullets into Piper Libby’s cousin. His left hand was numb, but his right was still okay; he didn’t even need to be a particularly good shot, with a stationary target just seven feet away. The first two rounds went into Rupe’s belly, driving him against Stacey Moggin’s desk and knocking it over. Rupe doubled up, holding himself. Junior’s third shot went wild, but the next two went into the top of Rupe’s head. He went down in a grotesquely balletic posture, his legs splaying out to either side and his head—what remained of it—coming to rest on the floor, as if in a final deep bow.

Junior limped into the ready room with the smoking Beretta held out in front of him. He couldn’t remember exactly how many shots he had fired; he thought seven. Maybe eight. Or eleventy-nine—who could know for sure? His headache was back.

Mickey Wardlaw raised his hand. There was a frightened, placa-tory smile on his large face. “No trouble from me, bro,” he said. “You do what you got to do.” And made the peace sign.

“I will,” Junior said. “Bro.”

He shot Mickey. The big boy went down, peace sign now framing the hole in his head that had lately held an eye. The remaining eye rolled up to look at Junior with the dumb humility of a sheep in the shearing pen. Junior shot him again, just to be sure. Then he looked around. He had the place to himself, it appeared.

“Okay,” he said. “Oh… kay. ”

He started toward the stairs, then went back to Stacey Moggin’s body. He verified the fact that she was carrying a Beretta Taurus like his, and ejected the mag from his own gun. He replaced it with a full one from her belt.

Junior turned, staggered, went to one knee, and got up again. The black spot on the left side of his vision now seemed as big as a manhole cover, and he had an idea that meant his left eye was pretty much fucked. Well, that was all right; if he needed more than one eye to shoot a man locked in a cell, he wasn’t worth a hoot in a henhouse, anyway. He walked across the ready room, slipped in the late Mickey Wardlaw’s blood, and almost fell again. But he caught himself in time. His head was thumping, but he welcomed it. It’s keeping me sharp, he thought.

“Hello, Baaarbie, ” he called down the stairs. “I know what you did to me and I’m coming for you. If you’ve got a prayer to say, better make it a quick one.”

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