Under the Dome

1

“ATTENTION! THIS IS THE CHESTER’S MILL POLICE! THE AREA IS BEING EVACUATED! IF YOU HEAR ME, COME TO THE SOUND OF MY VOICE! THE AREA IS BEING EVACUATED!”

Thurston Marshall and Carolyn Sturges sat up in bed, listening to this weird blare and looking at each other with wide eyes. They were teachers at Emerson College, in Boston—Thurston a full professor of English (and guest editor for the current issue of Ploughshares), Carolyn a graduate assistant in the same department. They had been lovers for the last six months, and the bloom was far from off the rose. They were in Thurston’s little cabin on Chester Pond, which lay between Little Bitch Road and Prestile Stream. They had come here for a long “fall foliage” weekend, but most of the foliage they had admired since Friday afternoon had been of the pubic variety. There was no TV in the cabin; Thurston Marshall abominated TV. There was a radio, but they hadn’t turned it on. It was eight thirty in the morning on Monday, October twenty-third. Neither of them had any idea anything was wrong until that blaring voice startled them awake.

“ATTENTION! THIS IS THE CHESTER’S MILL POLICE! THE AREA—” Closer. Moving in.

“Thurston! The dope! Where did you leave the dope?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, but the quaver in his voice suggested he was incapable of taking his own advice. He was a tall, reedy man with a lot of graying hair that he usually tied back in a ponytail. Now it lay loose, almost to his shoulders. He was sixty; Carolyn was twenty-three. “All these little camps are deserted at this time of year, they’ll just drive past and back to the Little Bitch R—”

She pounded him on the shoulder—a first. “The car is in the driveway! They’ll see the car!”

An oh shit look dawned on his face.

“—EVACUATED! IF YOU HEAR ME, COME TO THE SOUND OF MY VOICE! ATTENTION! ATTENTION!” Very close now. Thurston could hear other amplified voices, as well—people using loudhailers, cops using loudhailers—but this one was almost on top of them. “THE AREA IS BEING EVAC—” There was a moment of silence. Then: “HELLO, CABIN! COME OUT HERE! MOVE IT!”

Oh, this was a nightmare.

“Where did you leave the dope?” She pounded him again.

The dope was in the other room. In a Baggie that was now half empty, sitting beside a platter of last night’s cheese and crackers. If someone came in, it would be the first goddam thing they saw.

“THIS IS THE POLICE! WE ARE NOT SCREWING AROUND HERE! THE AREA IS BEING EVACUATED! IF YOU’RE IN THERE, COME OUT BEFORE WE HAVE TO DRAG YOU OUT!”

Pigs, he thought. Smalltown pigs with smalltown piggy minds. Thurston sprang from the bed and ran across the room, hair flying, skinny buttocks flexing.

His grandfather had built the cabin after World War II, and it had only two rooms: a big bedroom facing the pond and the living room/kitchen. Power was provided by an old Henske generator, which Thurston had turned off before they had retired; its ragged blat was not exactly romantic. The embers of last night’s fire—not really necessary, but très romantic—still winked sleepily in the fireplace.

Maybe I was wrong, maybe I put the dope back in my attaché—

Unfortunately, no. The dope was there, right next to the remains of the Brie they had gorged on before commencing last night’s fuckathon.

He ran to it, and there was a knock on the door. No, a hammering on the door.

“Just a minute!” Thurston cried, madly merry. Carolyn was standing in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in a sheet, but he hardly noticed her. Thurston’s mind—still suffering residual paranoia from the previous evening’s indulgences—tumbled with unconnected thoughts: revoked tenure, 1984 thought-police, revoked tenure, the disgusted reaction of his three children (by two previous wives), and, of course, revoked tenure. “Just a minute, just a sec, let me get dressed—”

But the door burst open, and—in direct violation of about nine different Constitutional guarantees—two young men strode in. One held a bullhorn. Both were dressed in jeans and blue shirts. The jeans were almost comforting, but the shirts bore shoulder-patches and badges.

We don’t need no stinkin badges, Thurston thought numbly.

Carolyn shrieked, “Get out of here!” “Check it out, Junes,” Frankie DeLesseps said. “It’s When Horny Met Slutty. ”

Thurston snatched up the Baggie, held it behind his back, and dropped it into the sink.

Junior was eyeing the equipment this move revealed. “That’s about the longest and skinniest dorkola I’ve ever seen,” he said. He looked tired, and came by the look honestly—he’d had only two hours’ sleep—but he was feeling fine, absolutely ripping, old bean. Not a trace of a headache.

This work suited him.

“Get OUT!” Carolyn shouted.

Frankie said, “You want to shut your mouth, sweetheart, and put on some clothes. Everyone on this side of town’s being evacuated.”

“This is our place! GET THE FUCK OUT!”

Frankie had been smiling. Now he stopped. He strode past the skinny naked man standing by the sink (quailing by the sink might have been more accurate) and grabbed Carolyn by the shoulders. He gave her a brisk shake. “Don’t give me lip, sweetheart. I’m trying to keep you from getting your ass fried. You and your boyfr—”

“Get your hands off me! You’ll go to jail for this! My father’s a lawyer!” She tried to slap him. Frankie—not a morning person, never had been—seized her hand and bent it back. Not really hard, but Carolyn screamed. The sheet dropped to the floor.

“Whoa! That’s a serious rack,” Junior confided to the gaping Thurston Marshall. “Can you keep up with that, old fella?”

“Get your clothes on, both of you,” Frankie said. “I don’t know how dumb you are, but pretty dumb would be my guess, since you’re still here. Don’t you know—” He stopped. Looked from the woman’s face to the man’s. Both equally terrified. Equally mystified.

“Junior!” he said.

“What?”

“Titsy McGee and wrinkle-boy don’t know what’s going on.”

“Don’t you dare call me any of your sexist—”

Junior held up his hands. “Ma’am, get dressed. You have to get out of here. The U.S. Air Force is going to fire a Cruise missile at this part of town in”—he looked at his watch—“a little less than five hours.”

“ARE YOU INSANE?” Carolyn screamed.

Junior heaved a sigh and then pushed ahead. He guessed he understood the whole cop thing a little better now. It was a great job, but people could be so stupid. “If it bounces off, you’d just hear a big bang. Might cause you to shit your pants—if you were wearing any—but it wouldn’t hurt you. If it punches through, though, you’d most likely get charbroiled, since it’s gonna be really big and you’re less than two miles from what they say is gonna be the point of impact.”

“Bounces off what, you dimwit?” Thurston demanded. With the dope in the sink, he now used one hand to cover his privates… or at least tried to; his love-machine was indeed extremely long and skinny.

“The Dome,” Frankie said. “And I don’t appreciate your mouth.” He took a long step forward and punched the current guest editor of Ploughshares in the gut. Thurston made a hoarse whoofing sound, doubled over, staggered, almost kept his feet, went to his knees, and vomited up about a teacup’s worth of thin white gruel that still smelled of Brie.

Carolyn held her swelling wrist. “You’ll go to jail for this,” she promised Junior in a low, trembling voice. “Bush and Cheney are long gone. This isn’t the United States of North Korea anymore.”

“I know that,” Junior said, with admirable patience for one who was thinking he wouldn’t mind doing a little more choking; there was a small dark Gila monster in his brain that thought a little more choking would be just the way to start the day off right.

But no. No. He had to do his part in completing the evacuation. He had taken the Oath of Duty, or whatever the fuck it was.

“I do know it,” he repeated. “But what you two Massholes don’t get is that you aren’t in the United States of America anymore, either. You’re in the Kingdom of Chester now, and if you don’t behave, you’re going to end up in the Dungeons of Chester. I promise. No phone call, no lawyer, no due process. We’re trying to save your lives here. Are you too fuck-dumb to understand that?”

She was staring at him, stunned. Thurston tried to get up, couldn’t manage it, and crawled toward her. Frankie helped him along with a boot to the butt. Thurston cried out in shock and pain. “That’s for holding us up, Grampa,” Frankie said. “I admire your taste in chicks, but we’ve got a lot to do.”

Junior looked at the young woman. Great mouth. Angelina lips. He bet she could, as the saying went, suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. “If he can’t get dressed by himself, you help him. We’ve got four more cabins to check out, and when we get back here, you want to be in that Volvo of yours and on your way into town.”

“I don’t understand any of this!” Carolyn wailed.

“Not surprised,” Frankie said, and plucked the Baggie of dope out of the sink. “Didn’t you know this stuff makes you stupid?”

She began to cry.

“Don’t worry,” Frankie said. “I’m confisticating it, and in a couple of days, booya, you’ll smarten up all on your own.”

“You didn’t read us our rights,” she wept.

Junior looked astonished. Then he laughed. “You have the right to get the fuck out of here and shut the fuck up, okay? In this situation those are the only rights you have. Do you understand that?”

Frankie was examining the confisticated dope. “Junior,” he said, “there’s hardly any seeds in this. This is fucking primo. ”

Thurston had reached Carolyn. He got to his feet, farting quite loudly as he did so. Junior and Frankie looked at each other. They tried to hold it in—they were officers of the law, after all—and couldn’t. They burst out laughing simultaneously.

“Trombone Charlie is back in town!” Frankie yelled, and they gave each other a high five.

Thurston and Carolyn stood in the bedroom doorway, covering their mutual nakedness in an embrace, staring at the cackling intruders. In the background, like voices in a bad dream, loudhailers continued to announce that the area was being evacuated. Most of the amplified voices were now retreating toward Little Bitch.

“I want that car gone when we get back,” Junior said. “Or I will fuck you up.”

They left. Carolyn dressed herself, then helped Thurston—his stomach hurt too much for him to bend over and put on his own shoes. By the time they were finished, both of them were crying. In the car, on their way back down the camp lane that led to Little Bitch Road, Carolyn tried to reach her father on her cell. She got nothing but silence.

At the intersection of Little Bitch and Route 119, a town police car was pulled across the road. A stocky female cop with red hair pointed at the soft shoulder, then waved at them to use it. Carolyn pulled over instead, and got out. She held up her puffy wrist.

“We were assaulted! By two guys calling themselves cops! One named Junior and one named Frankie! They—”

“Get your ass gone or I’ll assault you myself,” Georgia Roux said. “I ain’t shittin, honeypie.”

Carolyn stared at her, stunned. The whole world had turned sideways and slipped into a Twilight Zone episode while she was asleep. That had to be it; no other explanation made even marginal sense. They’d hear the Rod Serling voice-over anytime now.

She got back into the Volvo (the sticker on the bumper, faded but still readable: OBAMA ’12! YES WE STILL CAN) and detoured around the police car. Another, older cop was sitting inside it, going over a checklist on a clipboard. She thought of appealing to him, then thought better of it.

“Try the radio,” she said. “Let’s find out if something really is going on.”

Thurston turned it on and got nothing but Elvis Presley and the Jordanaires, trudging through “How Great Thou Art.”

Carolyn snapped it off, thought of saying The nightmare is officially complete, and didn’t. All she wanted was to get out of Weirdsville as soon as possible.

2

On the map, the Chester Pond camp road was a thin hooklike thread, almost not there. After leaving the Marshall cabin, Junior and Frankie sat for a moment in Frankie’s car, studying this.

“Can’t be anybody else down there,” Frankie said. “Not at this time of the year. What do you think? Say fuck it and go back to town?” He cocked a thumb at the cabin. “They’ll be along, and if they’re not, who really gives a shit?”

Junior considered it for a moment, then shook his head. They had taken the Oath of Duty. Besides, he wasn’t anxious to get back and face his father’s pestering about what he’d done with the Reverend’s body. Coggins was now keeping his girlfriends company in the McCain pantry, but there was no need for his dad to know that. At least not until the big man figured out how to nail Barbara with it. And Junior believed his father would figure it out. If there was one thing Big Jim Rennie was good at, it was nailing people.

Now it doesn’t even matter if he finds out I left school, Junior thought, because I know worse about him. Way worse.

Not that dropping out seemed very important now; it was chump change compared to what was going on in The Mill. But he’d have to be careful, just the same. Junior wouldn’t put it past his father to nail him, if the situation seemed to call for it.

“Junior? Earth to Junior.”

“I’m here,” he said, a little irritated. “Back to town?”

“Let’s check out the other cabins. It’s only a quarter of a mile, and if we go back to town, Randolph’ll find something else for us to do.”

“Wouldn’t mind a little chow, though.”

“Where? At Sweetbriar? Want some rat poison in your scrambled eggs, courtesy of Dale Barbara?”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“You positive?”

“Okay, okay.” Frankie started the car and backed down the little stub of driveway. The brightly colored leaves hung moveless on the trees, and the air felt sultry. More like July than October. “But the Massholes better be gone when we come back, or I just might have to introduce Titsy McGee to my helmeted avenger.”

“I’ll be happy to hold her down,” Junior said. “Yippee-ki-yi-yay, motherfucker.”

3

The first three cabins were clearly empty; they didn’t even bother getting out of the car. By now the camp road was down to a pair of wheelruts with a grassy hump between them. Trees overhung it on both sides, some of the lower branches almost close enough to scrape the roof.

“I think the last one’s just around this curve,” Frankie said. “The road ends at this shitpot little boat land—”

“Look out!” Junior shouted.

They came out of the blind curve and two kids, a boy and a girl, were standing in the road. They made no effort to get out of the way. Their faces were shocked and blank. If Frankie hadn’t been afraid of tearing the Toyota’s exhaust system out on the camp road’s center hump—if he’d been making any kind of speed at all—he would have hit them. Instead he stood on the brake, and the car stopped two feet short.

“Oh my God, that was close,” he said. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“If my father didn’t, you won’t,” Junior said.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” Junior got out. The kids were still standing there. The girl was taller and older. Maybe nine. The boy looked about five. Their faces were pale and dirty. She was holding his hand. She looked up at Junior, but the boy looked straight ahead, as if examining something of interest in the Toyota’s driver’s side headlamp.

Junior saw the terror on her face and dropped to one knee in front of her. “Honey, are you okay?”

It was the boy who answered. He spoke while still examining the headlamp. “I want my mother. And I want my breffus.”

Frankie joined him. “Are they real?” Speaking in a voice that said I’m joking, but not really. He reached out and touched the girl’s arm.

She jumped a little, and looked at him. “Mumma didn’t come back.” She spoke in a low voice.

“What’s your name, hon?” Junior asked.

“And who’s your mommy?”

“I’m Alice Rachel Appleton,” she said. “This is Aidan Patrick Appleton. Our mother is Vera Appleton. Our father is Edward Appleton, but he and Mommy got a divorce last year and now he lives in Plano, Texas. We live in Weston, Massachusetts, at Sixteen Oak Way. Our telephone number is—” She recited it with the toneless accuracy of a directory assistance recording.

Junior thought, Oh boy. More Massholes. But it made sense; who else would burn expensive gasoline just to watch the fucking leaves fall off the fucking trees?

Frankie was also kneeling now. “Alice,” he said, “listen to me, sweetheart. Where is your mother now?”

“Don’t know,” Tears—big clear globes—began to roll down her cheeks. “We came to see the leaves. Also, we were going to go in the kayak. We like the kayak, don’t we, Aide?”

“I’m hungry,” Aidan said mournfully, and then he too began to cry.

Seeing them like that made Junior feel like crying himself. He reminded himself he was a cop. Cops didn’t cry, at least not on duty. He asked the girl again where her mother was, but it was the little boy who answered.

“She went to get Woops.”

“He means Whoopie Pies,” Alice said. “But she went to get other stuff, too. Because Mr. Killian didn’t caretake the cabin like he was supposed to. Mommy said I could take care of Aidan because I’m a big girl now and she’d be right back, she was only going to Yoder’s. She just said don’t let Aide go near the pond.”

Junior was starting to get the picture. Apparently the woman had expected to find the cabin stocked with food—a few staples, at least—but if she’d known Roger Killian well, she would have known better than to depend on him. The man was a class-A dumbbell, and had passed his less-than-sterling intellect on to his entire brood. Yoder’s was a nasty little store just across the Tarker’s Mills town line specializing in beer, coffee brandy, and canned spaghetti. Ordinarily it would have been a twenty-minute run there and another twenty back. Only she hadn’t come back, and Junior knew why.

“Did she go Saturday morning?” he asked. “She did, didn’t she?”

“I want her!” Aidan cried. “And I want my breffus! My belly hurts!”

“Yes,” the girl said. “Saturday morning. We were watching cartoons, only now we can’t watch anything, because the electricity’s broke.”

Junior and Frankie looked at each other. Two nights alone in the dark. The girl maybe nine, the boy about five. Junior didn’t like to think about that.

“Did you have anything to eat?” Frankie asked Alice Appleton. “Sweetheart? Anything at all?”

“There was a onion in the vegetable draw,” she whispered. “We each had half. With sugar.”

“Oh, fuck,” Frankie said. Then: “I didn’t say that. You didn’t hear me say that. Just a second.” He went back to the car, opened the passenger door, and began to rummage in the glove compartment.

“Where were you going, Alice?” Junior asked.

“To town. To look for Mommy and to find something to eat. We were going to walk past the next camp and then cut through the woods.” She pointed vaguely north. “I thought that would be quicker.”

Junior smiled, but he was cold inside. She wasn’t pointing toward Chester’s Mill; she was pointing in the direction of TR-90. At nothing but miles of tangled second-growth and boggy sumps. Plus the Dome, of course. Out there, Alice and Aidan would almost certainly have died of starvation; Hansel and Gretel minus the happy ending.

And we came so close to turning around. Jesus.

Frankie returned. He had a Milky Way. It looked old and squashed, but it was still in the wrapper. The way the children fixed their eyes on it made Junior think of the kids you saw on the news sometimes. That look on American faces was unreal, horrible.

“It’s all I could find,” Frankie said, stripping off the wrapper. “We’ll get you something better in town.”

He broke the Milky Way in two and gave a piece to each child. The candy was gone in five seconds. When he had finished his piece, the boy stuck his fingers knuckle-deep into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed rhythmically in and out as he sucked them.

Like a dog licking grease off a stick, Junior thought.

He turned to Frankie. “Never mind waiting until we get back to town. We’re gonna stop at the cabin where the old man and the chick were. And whatever they got, these kids are going to get it.”

Frankie nodded and picked up the boy. Junior picked up the little girl. He could smell her sweat, her fear. He stroked her hair as if he could stroke that oily reek away.

“You’re all right, honey,” he said. “You and your brother both.

You’re all right. You’re safe.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

Her arms tightened around his neck. It was one of the best things Junior had ever felt in his life.

4

The western side of Chester’s Mill was the least populated part of town, and by quarter of nine that morning it was almost entirely clear. The only police car left on Little Bitch was Unit 2. Jackie Wettington was driving and Linda Everett was riding shotgun. Chief Perkins, a smalltown cop of the old school, would never have sent two women out together, but of course Chief Perkins was no longer in charge, and the women themselves enjoyed the novelty. Men, especially male cops with their endless yee-haw banter, could be tiring.

“Ready to go back?” Jackie asked. “Sweetbriar’ll be closed, but we might be able to beg a cup of coffee.”

Linda didn’t reply. She was thinking about where the Dome cut across Little Bitch. Going out there had been unsettling, and not just because the sentries were still standing with their backs turned, and hadn’t budged when she gave them a good morning through the car’s roof speaker. It was unsettling because there was now a great big red X spray-painted on the Dome, hanging in midair like a sci-fi hologram. That was the projected point of impact. It seemed impossible that a missile fired from two or three hundred miles away could hit such a small spot, but Rusty had assured her that it could.

“Lin?”

She came back to the here and now. “Sure, I’m ready if you are.”

The radio crackled. “Unit Two, Unit Two, do you read, over?”

Linda unracked the mike. “Base, this is Two. We hear you, Stacey, but reception out here isn’t very good, over?”

“Everybody says the same,” Stacey Moggin replied. “It’s worse near the Dome, better as you get closer to town. But you’re still on Little Bitch, right? Over.”

“Yes,” Linda said. “Just checked the Killians and the Bouchers. Both gone. If that missile busts through, Roger Killian’s going to have a lot of roast chickens, over.”

“We’ll have a picnic. Pete wants to talk to you. Chief Randolph, I mean. Over.”

Jackie pulled the cruiser to the side of the road. There was a pause with static crackling in it, then Randolph came on. He didn’t bother with any overs, never had.

“Did you check the church, Unit Two?”

“Holy Redeemer?” Linda asked. “Over.”

“That’s the only one I know out there, Officer Everett. Unless a Hindu mosque grew overnight.”

Linda didn’t think Hindus were the ones who worshipped in mosques, but this didn’t seem like the right time for corrections. Randolph sounded tired and grouchy. “Holy Redeemer wasn’t in our sector,” she said. “That one belonged to a couple of the new cops. Thibodeau and Searles, I think. Over.”

“Check it again,” Randolph said, sounding more irritable than ever. “No one’s seen Coggins, and a couple of his parishioners want to canoodle with him, or whatever they call it.”

Jackie put a finger to her temple and mimed shooting herself. Linda, who wanted to get back and check on her kids at Marta Edmunds’s house, nodded.

“Roger that, Chief,” Linda said. “Will do. Over.”

“Check the parsonage, too.” There was a pause. “Also the radio station. The damn thing keeps bellowing away, so there must be someone there.”

“Will do.” She started to say over and out, then thought of something else. “Chief, is there anything new on the TV? Has the President said anything? Over?”

“I don’t have time to listen to every word that guy drops out of his silly mouth. Just go on and hunt up the padre and tell him to get his butt back here. And get your butts back, too. Out.”

Linda racked the mike and looked at Jackie.

“Get our butts back there?” Jackie said. “Our butts?”

“He’s a butt,” Linda said.

The remark was supposed to be funny, but it fell flat. For a moment they just sat in the idling car, not talking. Then Jackie spoke in a voice that was almost too low to be heard. “This is so bad.”

“Randolph instead of Perkins, you mean?”

“That, and the new cops.” She gave the last word verbal quotation marks. “Those kids. You know what? When I was punching in, Henry Morrison told me Randolph hired two more this morning. They came in off the street with Carter Thibodeau and Pete just signed em up, no questions asked.”

Linda knew the sort of guys who hung out with Carter, either at Dipper’s or at the Gas & Grocery, where they used the garage to tune up their finance-company motorcycles. “Two more? Why? ”

“Pete told Henry we might need em if that missile doesn’t work. ‘To make sure the situation doesn’t get out of hand,’ he said. And you know who put that idea in his head.”

Linda knew, all right. “At least they’re not carrying guns.”

“A couple are. Not department issue; their personals. By tomorrow—if this doesn’t end today, that is—they all will be. And as of this morning Pete’s letting them ride together instead of pairing them with real cops. Some training period, huh? Twenty-four hours, give or take. Do you realize those kids now outnumber us?”

Linda considered this silently.

“Hitler Youth,” Jackie said. “That’s what I keep thinking. Probably overreacting, but I hope to God this thing ends today and I don’t have to find out.”

“I can’t quite see Peter Randolph as Hitler.”

“Me, either. I see him more as Hermann Goering. It’s Rennie I think of when I think of Hitler.” She put the cruiser in gear, made a K-turn, and headed them back toward Christ the Holy Redeemer Church.

5

The church was unlocked and empty, the generator off. The parson-age was silent, but Reverend Coggins’s Chevrolet was parked in the little garage. Peering in, Linda could read two stickers on the bumper. The one on the right: IF THE RAPTURE’S TODAY, SOMEBODY GRAB MY STEERING WHEEL! The one on the left boasted MY OTHER CAR IS A 10-SPEED.

Linda called the second one to Jackie’s attention. “He does have a bike—I’ve seen him riding it. But I don’t see it in the garage, so maybe he rode it into town. Saving gas.”

“Maybe,” Jackie said. “And maybe we ought to check the house to make sure he didn’t slip in the shower and break his neck.”

“Does that mean we might have to look at him naked?”

“No one said police work was pretty,” Jackie said. “Come on.”

The house was locked, but in towns where seasonal residents form a large part of the population, the police are adept at gaining entry. They checked the usual places for a spare key. Jackie was the one who found it, hanging on a hook behind a kitchen shutter. It opened the back door.

“Reverend Coggins?” Linda called, sticking her head in. “It’s the police, Reverend Coggins, are you here?”

No answer. They went in. The lower floor was neat and orderly, but it gave Linda an uncomfortable feeling. She told herself it was just being in someone else’s house. A religious person’s house, and uninvited.

Jackie went upstairs. “Reverend Coggins? Police. If you’re here, please make yourself known.”

Linda stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up. The house felt wrong, somehow. That made her think of Janelle, shaking in the grip of her seizure. That had been wrong, too. A queer certainty stole into her mind: if Janelle were here right now, she would have another seizure. Yes, and start talking about queer things. Halloween and the Great Pumpkin, maybe.

It was a perfectly ordinary flight of stairs, but she didn’t want to go up there, just wanted Jackie to report the place was empty so they could go on to the radio station. But when her partner called for her to come up, Linda did.

6

Jackie was standing in the middle of Coggins’s bedroom. There was a plain wooden cross on one wall and a plaque on another. The plaque read HIS EYE IS ON THE SPARROW. The coverlet of the bed was turned back. There were traces of blood on the sheet beneath.

“And this,” Jackie said.

“Come around here.”

Reluctantly, Linda did. Lying on the polished wood floor between the bed and the wall was a knotted length of rope. The knots were bloody.

“Looks like somebody beat him,” Jackie said grimly. “Hard enough to knock him out, maybe. Then they laid him on the…” She looked at the other woman. “No?”

“I take it you didn’t grow up in a religious home,” Linda said.

“I did so. We worshipped the Holy Trinity: Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. What about you?”

“Plain old tapwater Baptist, but I heard about things like this. I think he was flagellating himself.”

“Yug! People did that for sins, right?”

“Yes. And I don’t think it ever went entirely out of style.”

“Then this makes sense. Sort of. Go in the bathroom and look on the toilet tank.”

Linda made no move to do so. The knotted rope was bad enough, the feel of the house—too empty, somehow—was worse.

“Go on. It’s nothing that’ll bite you, and I’ll bet you a dollar to a dime that you’ve seen worse.”

Linda went into the bathroom. Two magazines were lying on top of the toilet tank. One was a devotional, The Upper Room. The other was called Young Oriental Slits. Linda doubted if that one was sold in many religious bookshops.

“So,” Jackie said. “Are we getting a picture here? He sits on the john, tosses the truffle—”

“Tosses the truffle?” Linda giggled in spite of her nerves. Or because of them.

“It’s what my mother used to call it,” Jackie said. “Anyway, after he’s done with that, he opens a medium-sized can of whoop-ass to expiate his sins, then goes to bed and has happy Asian dreams. This morning he gets up, refreshed and sin-free, does his morning devotionals, then rides into town on his bike. Make sense?”

It did. It just didn’t explain why the house felt so wrong to her. “Let’s check the radio station,” she said. “Then we’ll head into town ourselves and get coffee. I’m buying.”

“Good,” Jackie said. “I want mine black. Preferably in a hypo.”

7

The low-slung, mostly glass WCIK studio was also locked, but speakers mounted beneath the eaves were playing “Good Night, Sweet Jesus” as interpreted by that noted soul singer Perry Como. Behind the studio the broadcast tower loomed, the flashing red lights at the top barely visible in the strong morning light. Near the tower was a long barnlike structure which Linda assumed must hold the station’s generator and whatever other supplies it needed to keep beaming the miracle of God’s love to western Maine, eastern New Hampshire, and possibly the inner planets of the solar system.

Jackie knocked, then hammered.

“I don’t think anybody’s here,” Linda said… but this place seemed wrong, too. And the air had a funny smell, stale and sallow. It reminded her of the way her mother’s kitchen smelled, even after a good airing. Because her mother smoked like a chimney and believed the only things worth eating were those fried in a hot skillet greased with plenty of lard.

Jackie shook her head. “We heard someone, didn’t we?”

Linda had no answer for that, because it was true. They had been listening to the station on their drive from the parsonage, and had heard a smooth deejay announcing the next record as “Another message of God’s love in song.”

This time the hunt for the key was longer, but Jackie finally found it in an envelope taped beneath the mailbox. With it was a scrap of paper on which someone had scrawled 1 6 9 3.

The key was a dupe, and a little sticky, but after some chivvying, it worked. As soon as they were in, they heard the steady beep of the security system. The keypad was on the wall. When Jackie punched in the numbers, the beeping quit. Now there was only the music. Perry Como had given way to something instrumental; Linda thought it sounded suspiciously like the organ solo from “In-AGadda-Da-Vida.” The speakers in here were a thousand times better than the ones outside and the music was louder, almost like a living thing.

Did people work in this holier-than-thou racket? Linda wondered. Answer the phones? Do business? How could they?

There was something wrong in here, too. Linda was sure of it. The place felt more than creepy to her; it felt outright dangerous. When she saw that Jackie had unsnapped the strap on her service automatic, Linda did the same. The feel of the gun-butt under her hand was good. Thy rod and thy gun-butt, they comfort me, she thought.

“Hello?” Jackie called. “Reverend Coggins? Anybody?”

There was no answer. The reception desk was empty. To the left of it were two closed doors. Straight ahead was a window running the entire length of the main room. Linda could see blinking lights inside it. The broadcast studio, she assumed.

Jackie pushed the closed doors open with her foot, standing well back. Behind one was an office. Behind the other was a conference room of surprising luxury, dominated by a giant flat-screen TV. It was on, but muted. Anderson Cooper, almost life-sized, looked like he was doing his standup on Castle Rock’s Main Street. The buildings were draped with flags and yellow ribbons. Linda saw a sign on the hardware store that read: SET THEM FREE. That made Linda feel even eerier. The super running across the bottom of the screen read DEFENSE DEPARTMENT SOURCES CLAIM MISSILE STRIKE IS IMMINENT.

“Why is the TV on?” Jackie asked.

“Because whoever was minding the store left it that way when—”

A booming voice interrupted her. “That was Raymond Howell’s version of ‘Christ My Lord and Leader.’ ”

Both women jumped.

“And this is Norman Drake, reminding you of three important facts: you’re listening to the Revival Time Hour on WCIK, God loves you, and He sent his Son to die for you on Calvary’s cross. It’s nine twenty-five AM, and as we always like to remind you, time is short. Have you given your heart to the Lord? Back after this.”

Norman Drake gave way to a silver-tongued devil selling the entire Bible on DVDs, and the best thing about it was you could pay in monthly installments and return the whole deal if you weren’t just as happy as a pig in shit. Linda and Jackie went to the broadcast studio window and looked in. Neither Norman Drake nor the silver-tongued devil was there, but when the commercial ended and the deejay came back to announce the next song of praise, a green light turned red and a red light turned green. When the music started up, another red light went green.

“It’s automated!” Jackie said. “The whole freaking thing!”

“Then why do we feel like someone’s here? And don’t say you don’t.”

Jackie didn’t. “Because it’s weird. The jock even does time-checks. Honey, this setup must have cost a fortune! Talk about the ghost in the machine—how long do you think it will run?”

“Probably till the propane runs out and the generator stops.” Linda spotted another closed door and opened it with her foot, as Jackie had… only, unlike Jackie, she drew her gun and held it, safety on and muzzle down, beside her leg.

It was a bathroom, and it was empty. There was, however, a picture of a very Caucasian Jesus on the wall.

“I’m not religious,” Jackie said, “so you’ll have to explain to me why people would want Jesus watching them poop.”

Linda shook her head.

“Let’s get out of here before I lose it,” she said. “This place is the Radioland version of the Mary Celeste. ”

Jackie looked around uneasily. “Well, the vibe is spooky, I’ll give you that.” She suddenly raised her voice in a harsh shout that made Linda jump. She wanted to tell Jackie not to yell like that. Because someone might hear her and come. Or something.

“Hey! Yo! Anybody here? Last chance!”

Nothing. No one.

Outside, Linda took a deep breath. “Once, when I was a teenager, some friends and I went to Bar Harbor, and we stopped for a picnic at this scenic turnout. There were half a dozen of us. The day was clear, and you could see practically all the way to Ireland. When we were done eating, I said I wanted to take a picture. My friends were all horsing around and grabassing, and I kept backing up, trying to get everyone in the frame. Then this one girl—Arabella, my best friend back then—stopped trying to give this other girl a wedgie and shouted, ‘Stop, Linda, stop!’ I stopped and looked around. Know what I saw?”

Jackie shook her head.

“The Atlantic Ocean. I’d backed up all the way to the drop-off at the edge of the picnic area. There was a warning sign, but no fence or guardrail. One more step and I would have gone down. And how I felt then is how I felt in there.”

“Lin, it was empty. ”

“I don’t think so. And I don’t think you do, either.”

“It was spooky, sure. But we checked the rooms—”

“Not the studio. Plus the TV was on and the music was too loud. You don’t think they turn it up that loud ordinarily, do you?”

“How do I know what holy rollers do?” Jackie asked. “Maybe they were expecting the Apocolick.”

“Lypse.”

“Whatever. Do you want to check the storage barn?”

“Absolutely not,” Linda said, and that made Jackie snort laughter.

“Okay. Our report is no sign of the Rev, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Then we’re off to town. And coffee.”

Before getting into unit Two’s shotgun seat, Linda took one more look at the studio building, sitting there wreathed in white-bread audio joy. There was no other sound; she realized she didn’t hear a single bird singing, and wondered if they had all killed themselves smashing into the Dome. Surely that wasn’t possible. Was it?

Jackie pointed at the mike. “Want me to give the place a shout through the loudspeaker? Say if anyone’s hiding in there they should beat feet into town? Because—I just thought of this—maybe they were scared of us.”

“What I want is for you to stop screwing around and get out of here.”

Jackie didn’t argue. She reversed down the short driveway to Little Bitch Road, and turned the cruiser toward The Mill.

8

Time passed. Religious music played. Norman Drake returned and announced that it was nine thirty-four, Eastern Daylight God Loves You Time. This was followed by an ad for Jim Rennie’s Used Cars, delivered by the Second Selectman himself. “It’s our annual Fall Sales Spectacular, and boy, did we overstock!” Big Jim said in a rueful thejoke’s-on-me voice. “We’ve got Fords, Chevvies, Plymouths! We’ve got the hard-to-get Dodge Ram and even the harder-to-get Mustang! Folks, I’m sitting on not one or two but three Mustangs that are like new, one the famous V6 convertible, and each comes with the famous Jim Rennie Christian Guarantee. We service what we sell, we finance, and we do it all at low low prices. And right now”—he chuckled more ruefully than ever—“we’ve just GOT to clear this LOT! So come on down! The coffeepot’s always on, neighbor, and you’ll love the feelin when Big Jim’s dealin!”

A door neither woman had noticed eased open at the back of the studio. Inside were more blinking lights—a galaxy of them. The room was little more than a cubby choked with wires, splitters, routers, and electronic boxes. You would have said there was no room for a man. But The Chef was beyond skinny; he was emaciated. His eyes were only glitters sunk deep in his skull. His skin was pale and blotchy. His lips folded loosely inward over gums that had lost most of their teeth. His shirt and pants were filthy, and his hips were naked wings; Chef’s underwear days were now just a memory. It is doubtful that Sammy Bushey would have recognized her missing husband. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in one hand (he could only eat soft things now) and a Glock 9 in the other.

He went to the window overlooking the parking lot, thinking he’d rush out and kill the intruders if they were still there; he had almost done it while they were inside. Only he’d been afraid. Because demons couldn’t actually be killed. When their human bodies died, they just flew into another host. When they were between bodies, the demons looked like blackbirds. Chef had seen this in vivid dreams that came on the increasingly rare occasions when he slept.

They were gone, however. His atman had been too strong for them.

Rennie had told him he had to shut down out back, and Chef Bushey had, but he might have to start up some of the cookers again, because there had been a big shipment to Boston a week ago and he was almost out of product. He needed smoke. It was what his atman fed on these days.

But for now he had enough. He had given up on the blues music that had been so important to him in his Phil Bushey stage of life—B. B. King, Koko and Hound Dog Taylor, Muddy and Howlin’ Wolf, even the immortal Little Walter—and he had given up on fucking; he had even pretty much given up on moving his bowels, had been constipated since July. But that was okay. What humiliated the body fed the atman.

He checked the parking lot and the road beyond once more to make sure the demons weren’t lurking, then tucked the automatic into his belt at the small of his back and headed for the storage shed, which was actually more of a factory these days. A factory that was shut down, but he could and would fix that if necessary.

Chef went to get his pipe.

9

Rusty Everett stood looking into the storage shed behind the hospital. He was using a flashlight, because he and Ginny Tomlinson—now the administrative head of medical services in Chester’s Mill, crazy as that was—had decided to kill the power to every part of the plant that didn’t absolutely need it. From his left, in its own shed, he could hear the big generator roaring away, eating ever deeper into the current long tank of propane.

Most of the tanks are gone, Twitch had said, and by God, they were. According to the card on the door, there’s supposed to be seven, but there’s only two. On that, Twitch was wrong. There was only one. Rusty ran the beam of his flashlight over the blue CR HOSP stenciled on the tank’s silver side below the supply company’s Dead River logo.

“Told you,” Twitch said from behind him, making Rusty jump.

“You told me wrong. There’s only one.”

“Bullshit!” Twitch stepped into the doorway. Looked while Rusty shone the beam around, highlighting boxes of supplies surrounding a large—and largely empty—center area. Said: “It’s not bullshit.”

“No.”

“Fearless leader, someone is stealing our propane.”

Rusty didn’t want to believe this, but saw no way around it.

Twitch squatted down. “Look here.”

Rusty dropped to one knee. The quarter-acre behind the hospital had been asphalted the previous summer, and without any cold weather to crack or buckle it—not yet, anyway—the area was a smooth black sheet. It made it easy to see the tire tracks in front of the shed’s sliding doors.

“That looks like it could have been a town truck,” Twitch remarked.

“Or any other big truck.”

“Nevertheless, you might want to check the storage shed behind the Town Hall. Twitch no trust-um Big Chief Rennie. Him bad medicine.”

“Why would he take our propane? The Selectmen have plenty of their own.”

They walked to the door leading into the hospital’s laundry—also shut down, at least for the time being. There was a bench beside the door. A sign posted on the bricks read SMOKING HERE WILL BE BANNED AS OF JANUARY 1^ST. QUIT NOW AND AVOID THE RUSH!

Twitch took out his Marlboros and offered them to Rusty. Rusty waved them away, then reconsidered and took one. Twitch lit them up. “How do you know?” he asked.

“How do I know what?”

“That they’ve got plenty of their own. Have you checked?”

“No,” Rusty said. “But if they were going to poach, why from us? Not only is stealing from the local hospital usually considered bad form by the better class of people, the post office is practically right next door. They must have some.”

“Maybe Rennie and his friends already snatched the post office’s gas. How much would they have, anyway? One tank? Two? Peanuts.”

“I don’t understand why they’d need any. It makes no sense.”

“Nothing about any of this makes sense,” Twitch said, and yawned so hugely that Rusty could hear his jaws creak.

“You finished rounds, I take it?” Rusty had a moment to consider the surreal quality of that question. Since Haskell’s death, Rusty had become the hospital’s head doc, and Twitch—a nurse just three days ago—was now what Rusty had been: a physician’s assistant.

“Yep.” Twitch sighed. “Mr. Carty isn’t going to live out the day.”

Rusty had thought the same thing about Ed Carty, who was suffering from end-stage stomach cancer, a week ago, and the man was still hanging in. “Comatose?”

“Roger that, sensei.”

Twitch was able to count their other patients off on the digits of one hand—which, Rusty knew, was extraordinarily lucky. He thought he might even have felt lucky, if he hadn’t been so tired and worried.

“George Werner I’d call stable.”

Werner, an Eastchester resident, sixty years old and obese, had suffered a myocardial infarction on Dome Day. Rusty thought he would pull through… this time.

“As for Emily Whitehouse…” Twitch shrugged. “It ain’t good, sensei.”

Emmy Whitehouse, forty years old and not even an ounce over-weight, had suffered her own MI an hour or so after Rory Dinsmore’s accident. It had been much worse than George Werner’s because she’d been an exercise freak and had suffered what Doc Haskell had called “a health-club blowout.”

“The Freeman girl is getting better, Jimmy Sirois is holding up, and Nora Coveland is totally cool. Out after lunch. On the whole, not so bad.”

“No,” Rusty said, “but it’ll get worse. I guarantee you. And… if you suffered a catastrophic head injury, would you want me to operate on you?”

“Not really,” Twitch said. “I keep hoping Gregory House will show up.”

Rusty butted his cigarette in the can and looked at the nearly empty supply shed. Maybe he should have a peek into the storage facility behind the Town Hall—what could it hurt?

This time he was the one who yawned.

“How long can you keep this up?” Twitch asked. All the banter had gone out of his voice. “I only ask because right now you’re what this town’s got.”

“As long as I have to. What worries me is getting so tired I screw something up. And of facing stuff that’s way beyond my skill set.” He thought of Rory Dinsmore… and Jimmy Sirois. Thinking of Jimmy was worse, because Rory was now beyond the possibility of medical mistakes. Jimmy, on the other hand…

Rusty saw himself back in the operating room, listening to the soft bleep of the equipment. Saw himself looking down at Jimmy’s pale bare leg, with a black line drawn on it where the cut would have to be made. Thought of Dougie Twitchell trying out his anesthesiologist skills. Felt Ginny Tomlinson slapping a scalpel into his gloved hand and then looking at him over the top of her mask with her cool blue eyes.

God spare me from that, he thought.

Twitch put a hand on Rusty’s arm. “Take it easy,” he said. “One day at a time.”

“Fuck that, one hour at a time,” Rusty said, and got up. “I have to go over to the Health Center, see what’s shaking there. Thank Christ this didn’t happen in the summer; we would’ve had three thousand tourists and seven hundred summer-camp kids on our hands.”

“Want me to come?”

Rusty shook his head. “Check on Ed Carty again, why don’t you? See if he’s still in the land of the living.”

Rusty took one more look at the supply shed, then plodded around the corner of the building and on a diagonal toward the Health Center on the far side of Catherine Russell Drive.

10

Ginny was at the hospital, of course; she would give Mrs. Coveland’s new bundle of joy a final weigh-in before sending them home. The receptionist on duty at the Health Center was seventeen-year-old Gina Buffalino, who had exactly six weeks’ worth of medical experience. As a candy striper. She gave Rusty a deer-in-the-headlights look when he came in that made his heart sink, but the waiting room was empty, and that was a good thing. A very good thing.

“Any call-ins?” Rusty asked.

“One. Mrs. Venziano, out on the Black Ridge Road. Her baby got his head caught between the bars of his playpen. She wanted an ambulance. I… I told her to grease the kid’s head up with olive oil and see if she could get him out that way. It worked.”

Rusty grinned. Maybe there was hope for this kid yet. Gina, looking divinely relieved, grinned back.

“Place is empty, at least,” Rusty said. “Which is great.”

“Not quite. Ms. Grinnell is here—Andrea? I put her in three.” Gina hesitated. “She seemed pretty upset.”

Rusty’s heart, which had begun to rise, sank back down again. Andrea Grinnell. And upset. Which meant she wanted a bump on her OxyContin prescription. Which he, in all good conscience, could not give, even supposing Andy Sanders had enough stock to fill it.

“Okay.” He started down the hall to exam room three, then stopped and looked back. “You didn’t page me.”

Gina flushed. “She asked me specifically not to.”

This puzzled Rusty, but only for a second. Andrea might have a pill problem, but she was no dummy. She’d known that if Rusty was over at the hospital, he was probably with Twitch. And Dougie Twitchell happened to be her baby brother, who even at the age of thirty-nine must be protected from the evil facts of life.

Rusty stood at the door with the black 3 decaled on it, trying to gather himself. This was going to be hard. Andrea wasn’t one of the defiant boozers he saw who claimed that alcohol formed absolutely no part of their problems; nor was she one of the meth-heads who had been showing up with increasing frequency over the last year or so. Andrea’s responsibility for her problem was more difficult to pinpoint, and that complicated the treatment. Certainly she’d been in agony after her fall. Oxy had been the best thing for her, allowing her to cope with the pain so she could sleep and begin therapy. It wasn’t her fault that the drug which allowed her to do those things was the one doctors sometimes called hillbilly heroin.

He opened the door and went in, rehearsing his refusal. Kind but firm, he told himself. Kind but firm.

She was sitting in the corner chair under the cholesterol poster, knees together, head bowed over the purse in her lap. She was a big woman who now looked small. Diminished, somehow. When she raised her head to look at him and he saw how haggard her face was—the lines bracketing her mouth deep, the skin under her eyes almost black—he changed his mind and decided to write the scrip on one of Dr. Haskell’s pink pads after all. Maybe after the Dome crisis was over, he’d try to get her into a detox program; threaten to tattle to her brother, if that was what it took. Now, however, he would give her what she needed. Because he had rarely seen need so stark.

“Eric… Rusty… I’m in trouble.”

“I know. I can see it. I’ll write you a—”

“No!” She was looking at him with something like horror. “Not even if I beg! I’m a drug addict and I have to get off! I’m just a darn old junkie!” Her face folded in on itself. She tried to will it straight again and couldn’t. She put her hands over it instead. Big wrenching sobs that were hard to listen to came through her fingers.

Rusty went to her, going down on one knee and putting an arm around her. “Andrea, it’s good that you want to stop—excellent—but this might not be the best time—”

She looked at him with streaming, reddened eyes. “You’re right about that, it’s the worst time, but it has to be now! And you mustn’t tell Dougie or Rose. Can you help me? Can it even be done? Because I haven’t been able to, not on my own. Those hateful pink pills! I put them in the medicine cabinet and say ‘No more today,’ and an hour later I’m taking them down again! I’ve never been in a mess like this, not in my whole life.”

She dropped her voice as if confiding a great secret. “I don’t think it’s my back anymore, I think it’s my brain telling my back to hurt so I can go on taking those damn pills.”

“Why now, Andrea?”

She only shook her head. “Can you help me or not?”

“Yes, but if you’re thinking about going cold turkey, don’t. For one thing, you’re apt to…” For a brief moment he saw Jannie, shaking in her bed, muttering about the Great Pumpkin. “You’re apt to have seizures.”

She either didn’t register that or set it aside. “How long?”

“To get past the physical part? Two weeks. Maybe three.” And that’s putting you on the fast track, he thought but didn’t say.

She gripped his arm. Her hand was very cold. “Too slow.”

An exceedingly unpleasant idea surfaced in Rusty’s mind. Probably just transient paranoia brought on by stress, but persuasive. “Andrea, is someone blackmailing you?”

“Are you kidding? Everyone knows I take those pills, it’s a small town.” Which did not, in Rusty’s opinion, actually answer the question. “What’s the absolute shortest it can take?”

“With B₁₂ shots—plus thiamine and vitamins—you might manage it in ten days. But you’d be miserable. You wouldn’t be able to sleep much, and you’ll have restless leg syndrome. Not mild, either, they don’t call it kicking the habit for nothing. And you’d have to have someone administer the step-down dosage—someone who can hold the pills and won’t give them to you when you ask. Because you will.”

“Ten days?” She looked hopeful. “And this might be over by then anyway, yes? This Dome thing?”

“Maybe this afternoon. That’s what we all hope.”

“Ten days,” she said. “Ten days.”

And, he thought, you’ll want those goddam things for the rest of your life. But this he didn’t say aloud either.

11

Sweetbriar Rose had been extraordinarily busy for a Monday morning… but of course there had never been a Monday morning like this in the town’s history. Still, the patrons had left willingly enough when Rose announced the grill was closed, and wouldn’t reopen until five that afternoon. “And by then, maybe you can all go over to Moxie’s in Castle Rock and eat there!” she finished. That had brought spontaneous applause, even though Moxie’s was a famously filthy greasepit.

“No lunch?” Ernie Calvert asked.

Rose looked at Barbie, who raised his hands to his shoulders. Don’t ask me.

“Sandwiches,” Rose said. “Until they’re gone.”

This had brought more applause. People seemed surprisingly upbeat this morning; there had been laughter and raillery. Perhaps the best sign of the town’s improved mental health was at the rear of the restaurant, where the bullshit table was back in session.

The TV over the counter—now locked on CNN—was a big part of the reason. The talking heads had little more to broadcast than rumors, but most were hopeful. Several scientists who’d been interviewed said the Cruise had a good chance of smashing through and ending the crisis. One estimated the chances of success as “better than eighty percent.” But of course he’s at MIT in Cambridge, Barbie thought. He can afford optimism.

Now, as he scraped the grill, a knock came at the door. Barbie looked around and saw Julia Shumway, with three children clustered around her. They made her look like a junior high school teacher on a field trip. Barbie went to the door, wiping his hands on his apron.

“If we let everyone in who wants to eat, we’ll be out of food in no time,” Anson said irritably from where he was swabbing down tables. Rose had gone back to Food City to try and purchase more meat.

“I don’t think she wants to eat,” Barbie said, and he was right about that.

“Good morning, Colonel Barbara,” Julia said with her little Mona Lisa smile. “I keep wanting to call you Major Barbara. Like the—”

“The play, I know.” Barbie had heard this one a few times before. Like ten thousand. “Is this your posse?”

One of the children was an extremely tall, extremely skinny boy with a mop of dark brown hair; one was a stocky young fellow wearing baggy shorts and a faded 50 Cent tee-shirt; the third was a pretty little girl with a lightning bolt on her cheek. A decal rather than a tattoo, but it still gave her a certain savoir faire. He realized if he told her she looked like the middle-school version of Joan Jett, she wouldn’t know who he was talking about.

“Norrie Calvert,” Julia said, touching the riot grrl’s shoulder. “Benny Drake. And this tall drink of water is Joseph McClatchey. Yesterday’s protest demonstration was his idea.”

“But I never meant anyone to get hurt,” Joe said.

“And it wasn’t your fault they did,” Barbie told him. “So rest easy on that.”

“Are you really the bull goose?” Benny asked, looking him over.

Barbie laughed. “No,” he said. “I’m not even going to try and be the bull goose unless I absolutely have to.”

“But you know the soldiers out there, right?” Norrie asked.

“Well, not personally. For one thing, they’re Marines. I was Army.”

“You’re still Army, according to Colonel Cox,” Julia said. She was wearing her cool little smile, but her eyes were dancing with excitement. “Can we talk to you? Young Mr. McClatchey has had an idea, and I think it’s brilliant. If it works.”

“It’ll work,” Joe said. “When it comes to computer shi—stuff, I’m the bull goose.”

“Step into my office,” Barbie said, and escorted them toward the counter.

12

It was brilliant, all right, but it was already going on ten thirty, and if they were really going to make this thing happen, they would have to move fast. He turned to Julia. “Do you have your cell ph—”

Julia slapped it smartly into his palm before he could finish. “Cox’s number is in memory.”

“Great. Now if I knew how to access the memory.”

Joe took the phone. “What are you, from the Dark Ages?”

“Yes!” Barbie said. “When knights were bold and ladies fair went without their underwear.”

Norrie laughed hard at that, and when she raised her fist, Barbie tapped her small fist with his big one.

Joe pushed a couple of buttons on the minuscule keypad. He listened, then handed the cell to Barbie.

Cox must still have been sitting with one hand on the phone, because he was already on when Barbie put Julia’s cell to his ear.

“How’s it going, Colonel?” Cox asked.

“We’re basically okay.”

“And that’s a start.”

Easy for you to say, Barbie thought. “I imagine things will remain basically okay until the missile either bounces off or punches through and does gross damage to the woods and farms on our side. Which the citizens of Chester’s Mill would welcome. What are your guys saying?”

“Not much. No one is making any predictions.”

“That’s not what we’re hearing on the TV.”

“I don’t have time to keep up with the talking heads.” Barbie could hear the shrug in Cox’s voice. “We’re hopeful. We think we’ve got a shot. To coin a phrase.”

Julia was opening and closing her hands in a What gives? gesture.

“Colonel Cox, I’m sitting here with four friends. One of them is a young man named Joe McClatchey, who’s had a pretty cool idea. I’m going to put him on the phone with you right now—”

Joe was shaking his head hard enough to make his hair fly. Barbie paid no attention.

“—to explain it.”

And he handed Joe the cell. “Talk,” he said.

“But—”

“Don’t argue with the bull goose, son. Talk.”

Joe did so, diffidently at first, with a lot of ah s and erm s and y’know s, but as his idea took hold of him again he sped up, became articulate. Then he listened. After a little while he started to grin. A few moments later he said, “Yessir! Thank you, sir!” and handed the phone back to Barbie. “Check it out, they’re gonna try to augment our Wi-Fi before they shoot the missile! Jesus, this is hot!” Julia grabbed his arm and Joe said, “I’m sorry, Miz Shumway, I mean jeepers. ”

“Never mind that, can you really work this thing?”

“You kidding? No prob.”

“Colonel Cox?” Barbie asked. “Is this true about the Wi-Fi?”

“We can’t stop anything you folks want to try to do,” Cox said. “I think you were the one who originally pointed that out to me. So we might as well help. You’ll have the fastest Internet in the world, at least for today. That’s some bright kid you got there, by the way.”

“Yes sir, that was my impression,” Barbie said, and gave Joe a thumbs-up. The kid was glowing.

Cox said, “If the boy’s idea works and you record it, make sure we get a copy. We’ll be making our own, of course, but the scientists in charge of this thing will want to see what the hit looks like from your side of the Dome.”

“I think we can do better than that,” Barbie said. “If Joe here can put this together, I think most of the town will be able to watch it live.”

This time Julia raised her fist. Grinning, Barbie bumped it.

13

“Holee shit,” Joe said. The awe on his face made him look eight instead of thirteen. The whipcrack confidence was gone from his voice. He and Barbie were standing about thirty yards from where Little Bitch Road ran up against the Dome. It wasn’t the soldiers he was looking at, although they had turned around to observe; it was the warning band and the big red X sprayed on the Dome that had fascinated him.

“They’re moving their bivouac point, or whatever you call it,” Julia said. “The tents are gone.”

“Sure. In about”—Barbie looked at his watch—“ninety minutes, it’s going to get very hot over there. Son, you better get to it.” But now that they were actually out here on the deserted road, Barbie began to wonder if Joe could do what he had promised.

“Yeah, but… do you see the trees?”

Barbie didn’t understand at first. He looked at Julia, who shrugged. Then Joe pointed, and he saw. The trees on the Tarker’s side of the Dome were dancing in a moderate fall wind, shedding leaves in colorful bursts that fluttered down around the watching Marine sentries. On The Mill side, the branches were barely moving and most of the trees were still fully dressed. Barbie was pretty sure air was coming through the barrier, but not with any force. The Dome was damping the wind. He thought of how he and Paul Gendron, the guy in the Sea Dogs cap, had come to the little stream and had seen the water piling up.

Julia said, “The leaves over here look… I don’t know… listless, somehow. Limp.”

“It’s just because they’ve got a wind on their side and we’ve only got a puff of breeze,” Barbie said, then wondered if that was really it. Or all of it. But what good did it do to speculate about the current air quality in Chester’s Mill, when there was nothing they could do about it? “Go on, Joe. Do your thing.”

They had swung by the McClatchey house in Julia’s Prius to get Joe’s PowerBook. (Mrs. McClatchey had made Barbie swear he would keep her son safe, and Barbie had so sworn.) Now Joe pointed at the road. “Here?”

Barbie raised his hands to the sides of his face and sighted at the red X. “Little to the left. Can you try it? See how it looks?”

“Yeah.” Joe opened the PowerBook and turned it on. The Mac power-up chime sounded as pretty as ever, but Barbie thought he had never seen anything quite so surreal as the silver computer sitting on the patched asphalt of Little Bitch Road with its screen up. It seemed to summarize the last three days perfectly.

“Battery’s fresh, so it should run for at least six hours,” Joe said.

“Won’t it go to sleep?” Julia asked.

Joe gave her an indulgent Mother, please look. Then he turned back to Barbie. “If the missile roasts my Pro, do you promise to buy me another one?”

“Uncle Sam will buy you another one,” Barbie promised. “I’ll put in the requisition myself.”

“Sweet.”

Joe bent over the PowerBook. There was a little silver barrel mounted atop the screen. This, Joe had told them, was some current compu-miracle called iSight. He ran his finger over the computer’s touchpad, hit ENTER, and suddenly the screen filled with a brilliant image of Little Bitch Road. From ground level, each little bump and irregularity in the tar looked like a mountain. At mid-range, Barbie could see the Marine sentries up to their knees.

“Sir, does he have a picture, sir?” one of them asked.

Barbie looked up. “Let’s put it this way, Marine—if I was doing inspection, you’d be doing push-ups with my foot in your ass. There’s a scuff on your left boot. Unacceptable on a noncombat assignment.”

The Marine looked down at his boot, which was indeed scuffed. Julia laughed. Joe did not. He was absorbed. “It’s too low. Miz Shumway, have you got something in the car we can use to—?” He raised his hand about three feet off the road.

“I do,” she said.

“And get me my little gym bag, please.” He fiddled some more with the PowerBook, then held out his hand. “Cell?”

Barbie handed it to him. Joe hit the tiny buttons with blinding speed. Then: “Benny? Oh, Norrie, okay. You guys there?… Good. Never been in a beerjoint before, I bet. You ready?… Excellent. Stand by.” He listened, then grinned. “Are you kidding? Dude, according to what I’m getting, the jack is awesome. They’re blasting the Wi-Fi. Gotta jet.” He snapped the phone closed and handed it back to Barbie.

Julia came back with Joe’s gym bag and a carton containing undistributed sheets of the Democrat ’s Sunday extra edition. Joe set the PowerBook on the carton (the sudden rise in the image from ground level made Barbie a bit dizzy), then checked it and pronounced it totally rad. He rummaged in the gym bag, brought out a black box with an antenna, and plugged it into the computer. The soldiers were clustered on their side of the Dome, watching with interest. Now I know how a fish feels in an aquarium, Barbie thought.

“Looks okay,” Joe murmured. “I got a green bulb.”

“Shouldn’t you call your—”

“If it’s working, they’ll call me,” Joe said. Then: “Uh-oh, this could be trouble.”

Barbie thought he was referring to the computer, but the boy wasn’t even looking at it. Barbie followed his gaze and saw the green Chief of Police car. It wasn’t moving fast, but the bubblegums were pulsing. Pete Randolph got out from behind the wheel. Emerging from the passenger side (the cruiser rocked a little when his weight left the springs) came Big Jim Rennie.

“Just what in the heck do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

The phone in Barbie’s hand buzzed. He handed it to Joe without taking his eyes from the approaching Selectman and Chief of Police.

14

The sign over the door of Dipper’s said WELCOME TO THE BIGGEST DANCE FLOOR IN MAINE!, and for the first time in the roadhouse’s history, that floor was crowded at eleven forty-five in the morning. Tommy and Willow Anderson greeted people at the door as they arrived, a little like ministers welcoming parishioners to church. In this case, the First Church of Rock Bands Direct from Boston.

At first the audience was quiet, because there was nothing on the big screen but one blue word: WAITING. Benny and Norrie had plugged in their equipment and switched the TV’s feed to Input 4. Then, suddenly, Little Bitch Road appeared in living color, complete with brightly colored leaves swirling down around the Marine sentries.

The crowd broke into applause and cheers.

Benny gave Norrie a high five, but that wasn’t enough for Norrie; she kissed him on the mouth, and hard. It was the happiest moment of Benny’s life, even better than staying vertical while doing a full-pipe roughie.

“Call him!” Norrie demanded.

“Right on,” Benny said. His face felt as if it might actually catch fire and burn, but he was grinning. He punched REDIAL and held the phone to his ear. “Dude, we got it! The picture’s so radical it—”

Joe cut him off. “Houston, we have a problem.”

15

“I don’t know what you folks think you’re doing,” Chief Randolph said, “but I want an explanation, and that thing’s shut down until I get one.” He pointed at the PowerBook.

“Pardon me, sir,” one of the Marines said. He was wearing a second lieutenant’s stripes. “That’s Colonel Barbara, and he has official government sanction for this operation.”

To this, Big Jim offered his most sarcastic smile. A vein in his neck was throbbing. “This man is a colonel of nothing but troublemakers. He cooks in the local restaurant.”

“Sir, my orders—”

Big Jim shook his finger at the second lieutenant. “In Chester’s Mill, the only official government we’re recognizing right now is our own, soldier, and I am its representative.” He turned to Randolph. “Chief, if that kid won’t turn it off, pull the plug.”

“It has no plug that I can see,” Randolph said. He was looking from Barbie to the Marine second lieutenant to Big Jim. He had begun to sweat.

“Then put a boot through the darn screen! Just kill it!”

Randolph stepped forward. Joe, looking scared but determined, stepped in front of the PowerBook on the carton. He still had the cell phone in his hand. “You better not! It’s mine, and I’m not breaking any laws!”

“Get back, Chief,” Barbie said. “That’s an order. If you still recognize the government of the country you live in, you’ll obey it.”

Randolph looked around. “Jim, maybe—”

“Maybe nothing,” Big Jim said. “Right now this is the country you live in. Kill that cotton-picking computer. ”

Julia stepped forward, grabbed the PowerBook, and turned it so that the iVision camera was taking in the new arrivals. Tendrils of hair had escaped her businesslike bun and hung against her pink cheeks. Barbie thought she looked extraordinarily beautiful.

“Ask Norrie if they see!” she told Joe.

Big Jim’s smile froze into a grimace. “Woman, put that down!”

“Ask them if they see!”

Joe spoke into the phone. Listened. Then said: “They do. They’re seeing Mr. Rennie and Officer Randolph. Norrie says they want to know what’s happening.”

There was dismay on Randolph’s face; fury on Rennie’s. “ Who wants to know?” Randolph asked.

Julia said, “We’ve set up a live feed to Dipper’s—”

“That sinpit!” Big Jim said. His hands were clenched. Barbie estimated the man was probably a hundred pounds overweight, and he grimaced when he moved his right arm—as if he’d strained it—but he looked like he could still hit. And right now he looked mad enough to take a swing… although whether at him, Julia, or the boy, he didn’t know. Maybe Rennie didn’t, either.

“People have been gathering there since quarter of eleven,” she said. “News travels fast.” She smiled with her head cocked to one side. “Would you like to wave to your constituency, Big Jim?”

“It’s a bluff,” Big Jim said.

“Why would I bluff about something so easy to check?” She turned to Randolph. “Call one of your cops and ask them where the big gathering in town is this morning.” Then back to Jim again. “If you shut this down, hundreds of people will know you closed off their view of an event that vitally concerns them. One their lives may depend on, in fact.”

“You had no sanction!”

Barbie, ordinarily quite good at controlling himself, felt his temper fraying. It wasn’t that the man was stupid; he clearly wasn’t. And that was exactly what was making Barbie mad.

“What is your problem, exactly? Do you see any danger here? Because I don’t. The idea is to set this thing up, leave it broadcasting, then clear out.”

“If the missile doesn’t work, it could cause a panic. Knowing something failed is one thing; actually seeing it fail is another. They’re apt to do any darn old thing.”

“You have a very low opinion of the people you govern, Selectman.”

Big Jim opened his mouth to retort—something like And they have justified it time and again would have been Barbie’s guess—but then remembered that a good portion of the town was watching this confrontation on the big-screen TV. Possibly in HD. “I’d like you to wipe that sarcastic smile off your face, Barbara.”

“Are we now policing expressions, too?” Julia asked.

Scarecrow Joe covered his mouth, but not before Randolph and Big Jim saw the kid’s grin. And heard the snicker that escaped from between his fingers.

“People,” the second lieutenant said, “you had better clear the scene. Time is passing.”

“Julia, turn that camera on me,” Barbie said.

She did so.

16

Dipper’s had never been so packed, not even at the memorable New Year’s Eve show in 2009 featuring the Vatican Sex Kittens. And it had never been so silent. Over five hundred people stood shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, watching as the camera on Joe’s PowerBook Pro did a dizzying one-eighty and came to rest on Dale Barbara.

“There’s my boy,” Rose Twitchell murmured, and smiled.

“Hello there, folks,” Barbie said, and the picture was so good that several people hello ’d back. “I’m Dale Barbara, and I’ve been recommissioned as a colonel in the United States Army.”

A general ripple of surprise greeted this.

“The video deal out here on Little Bitch Road is entirely my responsibility, and as you may have gathered, there has been a difference of opinion between myself and Selectman Rennie about whether or not to continue the feed.”

This time the ripple was louder. And not happy.

“We have no time to argue the fine points of command this morning,” Barbie continued. “We’re going to train the camera on the point where the missile is supposed to hit. Whether or not the broadcast continues is in the hands of your Second Selectman. If he kills the feed, take it up with him. Thanks for your attention.”

He walked out of the picture. For a moment the gathering on the dance floor had a view of nothing but woods, then the image rotated again, sank, and settled on the floating X. Beyond it, the sentries were packing the last of their gear into two big trucks.

Will Freeman, owner and operator of the local Toyota dealership (and no friend of James Rennie) spoke directly to the TV. “Leave it alone, Jimmy, or there’s gonna be a new Selectman in The Mill by the end of the week.”

There was a general rumble of agreement. The townspeople stood quietly, watching and waiting to see if the current program—both dull and unbearably exciting—would continue, or if the transmission would end.

17

“What do you want me to do, Big Jim?” Randolph asked. He took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped the back of his neck.

“What do you want to do?” Big Jim responded.

For the first time since he’d taken the keys to the green Chief’s car, Pete Randolph thought he would be quite willing to turn them over to someone else. He sighed and said, “I want to let this alone.”

Big Jim nodded as if to say Be it on your own head. Then he smiled—if, that is, a pulling-back of the lips can be so characterized. “Well, you’re the Chief.” He turned back to Barbie, Julia, and Scarecrow Joe. “We’ve been outmaneuvered. Haven’t we, Mr. Barbara?”

“I assure you that there’s no maneuvering going on here, sir,” Barbie said.

“Bull… pucky. This is a bid for power, pure and simple. I’ve seen plenty in my time. I’ve seen them succeed… and I’ve seen them fail.” He stepped closer to Barbie, still favoring his sore right arm. Up close, Barbie could smell cologne and sweat. Rennie was breathing harshly. He lowered his voice. Perhaps Julia didn’t hear what came next. But Barbie did.

“You’re all in the pot, sonny. Every cent. If the missile punches through, you win. If it just bounces off… beware me. ” For a moment his eyes—almost buried in their deep folds of flesh, but glinting with cold, clear intelligence—caught Barbie’s and held them. Then he turned away. “Come on, Chief Randolph. This situation is complicated enough, thanks to Mr. Barbara and his friends. Let’s go back to town. We’ll want to get your troops in place in case of a riot.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Julia said. Big Jim flapped a hand at her without turning around.

“Do you want to go to Dipper’s, Jim?” Randolph asked. “We’ve got time.”

“I wouldn’t set foot in that whore-hole,” Big Jim said. He opened the passenger door of the cruiser. “What I want is a nap. But I won’t get one, because there’s a lot to do. I’ve got big responsibilities. I didn’t ask for them, but I have them.”

“Some men are great, and some men have greatness thrust upon them, isn’t that so, Jim?” Julia asked. She was smiling her cool smile.

Big Jim turned to her, and the expression of naked hate on his face made her fall back a step. Then Rennie dismissed her. “Come on, Chief.”

The cruiser headed back toward The Mill, its lights still flashing in the hazy, oddly summery light.

“Whew,” Joe said. “Scary dude.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Barbie said.

Julia was surveying Barbie, all traces of her smile gone. “You had an enemy,” she said. “Now you have a blood-foe.”

“I think you do, too.”

She nodded. “For both our sakes, I hope this missile thing works.”

The second lieutenant said, “Colonel Barbara, we’re leaving. I’d feel much more comfortable if I saw you three doing the same.”

Barbie nodded and for the first time in years snapped off a salute.

18

A B-52 which had taken off from Carswell Air Force Base in the early hours of that Monday morning had been on-station above Burlington, Vermont, since 1040 hours (the Air Force believes in showing up early for the prom whenever possible). The mission was code-named GRAND ISLE. The pilot-commander was Major Gene Ray, who had served in both the Gulf and Iraq wars (in private conversations he referred to the latter as “Big Dubya’s fuck-a-monkey show”). He had two Fasthawk Cruise missiles in his bomb bay. It was a good stick, the Fasthawk, more reliable and powerful than the old Tomahawk, but it felt very weird to be planning to shoot a live one at an American target.

At 1253, a red light on his control panel turned amber. The COMCOM took control of the plane from Major Ray and began to turn it into position. Below him, Burlington disappeared under the wings.

Ray spoke into his headset. “It’s just about show-time, sir.”

In Washington, Colonel Cox said: “Roger that, Major. Good luck. Blast the bastard.”

“It’ll happen,” Ray said.

At 1254, the amber light began to pulse. At 1254:55, it turned green. Ray flicked the switch marked 1. There was no sensation and only a faint whoosh from below, but he saw the Fasthawk begin its flight on vid. It quickly accelerated to its maximum speed, leaving a jet contrail like a fingernail scratch across the sky.

Gene Ray crossed himself, finishing with a kiss at the base of his thumb. “Go with God, my son,” he said.

The Fasthawk’s maximum speed was thirty-five hundred miles an hour. Fifty miles from its target—about thirty miles west of Conway, New Hampshire, and now on the east side of the White Mountains—its computer first calculated and then authorized final approach. The missile’s speed dropped from thirty-five hundred miles an hour to eighteen hundred and fifty as it descended. It locked on Route 302, which is North Conway’s Main Street. Pedestrians looked up uneasily as the Fasthawk passed overhead.

“Isn’t that jet way too low?” a woman in the parking lot of Settlers Green Outlet Village asked her shopping companion, shading her eyes. If the Fasthawk’s guidance system could have talked, it might have said, “You ain’t seen nothin yet, sweetheart.”

It passed over the Maine–New Hampshire border at three thousand feet, trailing a sonic boom that rattled teeth and broke windows. When the guidance system picked up Route 119, it slipped first to a thousand feet, then down to five hundred. By now the computer was in high gear, sampling the guidance system’s data and making a thousand course corrections a minute.

In Washington, Colonel James O. Cox said, “Final approach, people. Hang onto your false teeth.”

The Fasthawk found Little Bitch Road and dropped almost to ground-level, still blasting at near–Mach 2 speed, reading every hill and turn, its tail burning too brightly to look at, leaving a toxic stench of propellant in its wake. It tore leaves from the trees, even ignited some. It imploded a roadside stand in Tarker’s Hollow, sending boards and smashed pumpkins flying into the sky. The boom followed, causing people to fall to the floor with their hands over their heads.

This is going to work, Cox thought. How can it not?

19

In Dipper’s, there were now eight hundred people crammed together. No one spoke, although Lissa Jamieson’s lips moved soundlessly as she prayed to whatever New Age oversoul happened to be currently claiming her attention. She clutched a crystal in one hand; the Reverend Piper Libby was holding her mother’s cross against her lips.

Ernie Calvert said, “Here it comes.”

“Where?” Marty Arsenault demanded. “I don’t see noth—”

“Listen!” Brenda Perkins said.

They heard it come: a growing otherworldly hum from the western edge of town, a mmmm that rose to MMMMMM in a space of seconds. On the big-screen TV they saw almost nothing, until half an hour later, long after the missile had failed. For those still remaining in the roadhouse, Benny Drake was able to slow the recording down until it was advancing frame by frame. They saw the missile come slewing around what was known as Little Bitch Bend. It was no more than four feet off the ground, almost kissing its own blurred shadow. In the next frame the Fasthawk, tipped with a blast-fragmentation warhead designed to explode on contact, was frozen in midair about where the Marines’ bivouac had been.

In the next frames, the screen filled with a white so bright it made the watchers shade their eyes. Then, as the white began to fade, they saw the missile fragments—so many black dashes against the diminishing blast—and a huge scorch mark where the red X had been. The missile had hit its spot exactly.

After that, the people in Dipper’s watched the woods on the Tarker’s side of the Dome burst into flame. They watched the asphalt on that side first buckle and then begin to melt.

20

“Fire the other one,” Cox said dully, and Gene Ray did. It broke more windows and scared more people in eastern New Hampshire and western Maine.

Otherwise, the result was the same.