Under the Dome

The Peace Bridge was really just a covered pedestrian walkway, now ramshackle and sagging. Its actual name was the Alvin Chester Pass-Through, but it had become the Peace Bridge in 1969, when some kids (at the time there had been rumors in town about which ones) had painted a big blue peace sign on the side. It was still there, although now faded to a ghost. For the last ten years Peace Bridge had been condemned. Police DO NOT CROSS tape Xed both ends, but of course it was still used. Two or three nights a week, members of Chief Perkins’s Fuzznuts Brigade would shine their lights in there, always at one end or the other, never both. They didn’t want to bust the kids who were drinking and necking, just scare them away. Every year at town meeting, someone would move that Peace Bridge be demolished and someone else would move that it be renovated, and both motions would be tabled. The town had its own secret will, it seemed, and that secret will wanted the Peace Bridge to stay just as it was.

Today, Junior Rennie was glad of that.

He shambled along the Prestile’s northern bank until he was beneath the bridge—the police sirens now fading, the town whistle yelling as loud as ever—and climbed up to Strout Lane. He looked both ways, then trotted past the sign reading DEAD END, BRIDGE CLOSED. He ducked under the crisscross of yellow tape, into the shadows. The sun shone through the holey roof, dropping dimes of light on the worn wooden boards underfoot, but after the blaze of that kitchen from hell, it was blessedly dark. Pigeons sweettalked in the roofbeams. Beer cans and Allen’s Coffee Flavored Brandy bottles were scattered along the wooden sides.

I will never get away with this. I don’t know if I left any of me under her nails, can’t remember if she got me or not, but my blood’s there. And my fingerprints. I only have two choices, really: run or turn myself in.

No, there was a third. He could kill himself.

He had to get home. Had to draw all the curtains in his room and turn it into a cave. Take another Imitrex, lie down, maybe sleep a little. Then he might be able to think. And if they came for him while he was asleep? Why, that would save him the problem of choosing between Door #1, Door #2, or Door #3.

Junior crossed the town common. When someone—some old guy he only vaguely recognized—grabbed his arm and said, “What happened, Junior? What’s going on?” Junior only shook his head, brushed the old man’s hand away, and kept going.

Behind him, the town whistle whooped like the end of the world.

HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS

1

There was a weekly newspaper in Chester’s Mill called the Democrat. Which was misinformation, since ownership and management—both hats worn by the formidable Julia Shumway—was Republican to the core. The masthead looked like this:

THE CHESTER’S MILL DEMOCRAT

Est. 1890

Serving “The Little Town That Looks Like A Boot!”

But the motto was misinformation, too. Chester’s Mill didn’t look like a boot; it looked like a kid’s athletic sock so filthy it was able to stand up on its own. Although touched by the much larger and more prosperous Castle Rock to the southwest (the heel of the sock), The Mill was actually surrounded by four towns larger in area but smaller in population: Motton, to the south and southeast; Harlow to the east and northeast; the unincorporated TR-90 to the north; and Tarker’s Mills to the west. Chester’s and Tarker’s were sometimes known as the Twin Mills, and between them—in the days when central and western Maine textile mills were running full bore—had turned Prestile Stream into a polluted and fishless sump that changed color almost daily and according to location. In those days you could start out by canoe in Tarker’s running on green water, and be on bright yellow by the time you crossed out of Chester’s Mill and into Motton. Plus, if your canoe was made of wood, the paint might be gone below the waterline.

But the last of those profitable pollution factories had closed in 1979. The weird colors had left the Prestile and the fish had returned, although whether or not they were fit for human consumption remained a matter of debate. (The Democrat voted “Aye!”)

The town’s population was seasonal. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, it was close to fifteen thousand. The rest of the year it was just a tad over or under two, depending on the balance of births and deaths at Catherine Russell, which was considered to be the best hospital north of Lewiston.