Under the Dome

Carter was on the phone, talking to Stewart Bowie, telling him what Big Jim wanted for his son, telling him to get on it right away. A good boy, Big Jim thought. He may go far. As long as he remembers which side his bread’s buttered on, that is. People who forgot paid a price. Andrea Grinnell had found that out tonight.

There was a box of wooden matches on the shelf beside the stove. Big Jim scratched one alight and touched it to the corner of Duke Perkins’s “evidence.” He left the stove door open so he could watch it burn. It was very satisfying.

Carter walked over. “Stewart Bowie’s on hold. Should I tell him you’ll get back to him later?”

“Give it to me,” Big Jim said, and held out his hand for the phone.

Carter pointed at the envelope. “Don’t you want to throw that in, too?”

“No. I want you to stuff it with blank paper from the photocopy machine.”

It took a moment for Carter to get it. “She was just having a bunch of dope-ass hallucinations, wasn’t she?”

“Poor woman,” Big Jim agreed. “Go down to the fallout shelter, son. There.” He cocked his thumb at a door—unobtrusive except for an old metal plaque showing black triangles against a yellow field—not far from the woodstove. “There are two rooms. At the end of the second one there’s a small generator.”

“Okay…”

“In front of the gennie there’s a trapdoor. Hard to see, but you will if you look. Lift it and look inside. There should be eight or ten little canisters of LP snuggled down in there. At least there were the last time I looked. Check and tell me how many.”

He waited to see if Carter would ask why, but Carter didn’t. He just turned to do as he was told. So Big Jim told him.

“Only a precaution, son. Dot every i and cross every t, that’s the secret of success. And having God on your side, of course.”

When Carter was gone, Big Jim pushed the hold button… and if Stewart wasn’t still there, his butt was going to be in a high sling.

Stewart was. “Jim, I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. Right up front with it, a point in his favor. “We’ll take care of everything. I’m thinking the Eternal Rest casket—it’s oak, good for a thousand years.”

Go on and pull the other one, Big Jim thought, but kept silent.

“And it’ll be our best work. He’ll look ready to wake up and smile.”

“Thank you, pal,” Big Jim said. Thinking, He damn well better.

“Now about this raid tomorrow,” Stewart said.

“I was going to call you about that. You’re wondering if it’s still on. It is.”

“But with everything that’s happened—”

“Nothing’s happened,” Big Jim said. “For which we can thank God’s mercy. Can I get an amen on that, Stewart?”

“Amen,” Stewart said dutifully.

“Just a clustermug caused by a mentally disturbed woman with a gun. She’s eating dinner with Jesus and all the saints right now, I have no doubt, because none of what happened was her fault.”

“But Jim—”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking, Stewart. It was the drugs. Those damn things rotted her brain. People are going to realize that as soon as they calm down a little. Chester’s Mill is blessed with sensible, courageous folks. I trust them to come through, always have, always will. Besides, right now they don’t have a thought in their heads except for seeing their nearest and dearest. Our operation is still a go for noon. You, Fern, Roger. Melvin Searles. Fred Denton will be in charge. He can pick another four or five, if he thinks he needs them.”

“He the best you can do?” Stewart asked.

“Fred is fine,” Big Jim said.

“What about Thibodeau? That boy who’s been hanging around with y—”

“Stewart Bowie, every time you open your mouth, half your guts fall out. You need to shut up for once and listen. We’re talking about a scrawny drug addict and a pharmacist who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. You got an amen on that?”

“Yeah, amen.”

“Use town trucks. Grab Fred as soon as you’re off the phone—he’s got to be around there someplace—and tell him what’s what. Tell him you fellows should armor up, just to be on the safe side. We’ve got all that happy Homeland Security crappy in the back room of the police station—bulletproof vests and flak jackets and I don’t know whatall—so we might as well make use of it. Then you go in there and take those fellows out. We need that propane.”

“What about the lab? I was thinking maybe we should burn it—”

“Are you crazy?” Carter, who had just walked back into the room, looked at him in surprise. “With all those chemicals stored there? The Shumway woman’s newspaper is one thing; that storage building is an entirely different kettle of chowder. You want to look out, pal, or I’ll start thinking you’re as stupid as Roger Killian.”

“All right.” Stewart sounded sulky, but Big Jim reckoned he would do as told. He had no more time for him, anyway; Randolph would be arriving any minute.

The parade of fools never ends, he thought.