Under the Dome: A Novel (75 page)

When she saw Rose, Julia waved her in energetically. Rose opened the door, then staggered a little. “Jeez, it’s hot in here.”

“Turned off the AC to save juice,” Pete Freeman said, “and the
copier gets hot when it’s overused. Which it has been tonight.” But he looked proud. Rose thought they all looked proud.

“Thought you’d be overwhelmed at the restaurant,” Tony said.

“Just the opposite. Could’ve shot deer in there tonight. I think a lot of people don’t want to face me because my cook’s been arrested for murder. And I think a lot of people don’t want to face each other because of what happened at Food City this morning.”

“Come on over here and grab a copy of the paper,” Julia said. “You’re a cover girl, Rose.”

At the top, in red, were the words
FREE
DOME CRISIS EDITION
FREE.
And below that, in sixteen-point type Julia had never used until the last two editions of the
Democrat
:

RIOT AND MURDERS AS CRISIS DEEPENS

The picture was of Rose herself. She was in profile. The bullhorn was to her lips. An errant lock of hair lay on her forehead and she looked extraordinarily beautiful. In the background was the pasta and juices aisle, with several bottles of what looked like spaghetti sauce smashed on the floor. The caption read: Quiet Riot: Rose Twitchell, owner and proprietor of Sweetbriar Rose, quells food riot with the help of Dale Barbara, who has been arrested for murder (see story below and Editorial, p. 4).

“Holy God,” Rose said. “Well … at least you got my good side. If I can be said to have one.”

“Rose,” Tony Guay said solemnly, “you look like Michelle Pfieffer.”

Rose snorted and flipped him the bird. She was already turning to the editorial.

PANIC NOW, SHAME LATER
By Julia Shumway

Not everybody in Chester’s Mill knows Dale Barbara—he is a relative newcomer to our town—but most people have eaten his cooking in Sweetbriar Rose. Those who do
know him would have said, before today, that he was a real addition to the community, taking his turn at umpiring softball games in July and August, helping out with the Middle School Book Drive in September, and picking up trash on Common Cleanup Day just two weeks ago.

Then, today, “Barbie” (as he is known by those who do know him) was arrested for four shocking murders. Murders of people who are well known and well loved in this town. People who, unlike Dale Barbara, have lived here most or all of their lives.

Under ordinary circumstances, “Barbie” would have been taken to the Castle County Jail, offered his one phone call, and provided with a lawyer if he couldn’t afford one. He would have been charged, and the evidence-gathering—by experts who know what they are doing—would have begun.

None of that has happened, and we all know why: because of the Dome that has now sealed our town off from the rest of the world. But have due process and common sense also been sealed off? No matter how shocking the crime, unproved accusations are not enough to excuse the way Dale Barbara has been treated, or to explain the new Police Chief’s refusal to answer questions or allow this correspondent to verify that Dale Barbara is still alive, although the father of Dorothy Sanders—First Selectman Andrew Sanders—was allowed to not only visit this uncharged prisoner but to vilify him …

“Phew,” Rose said, looking up. “You’re really going to print this?”

Julia gestured to the stacked copies. “It’s already printed. Why? Do you object?”

“No, but …” Rose was rapidly scanning the rest of the editorial, which was very long and increasingly pro-Barbie. It ended with an appeal for anyone with information about the crimes to come forward,
and the suggestion that when the crisis ended, as it surely would, the behavior of the residents regarding these murders would be closely scrutinized not just in Maine or the United States, but all over the world. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get in trouble?”

“Freedom of the press, Rose,” Pete said, sounding remarkably unsure himself.

“It’s what Horace Greeley would have done,” Julia said firmly, and at the sound of his name, her Corgi—who had been asleep on his dogbed in the corner—looked up. He saw Rose and came over for a pat or two, which Rose was happy to provide.

“Do you have more than what’s in here?” Rose asked, tapping the editorial.

“A little,” Julia said. “I’m holding it back. Hoping for more.”

“Barbie could never have done a thing like this. But I’m afraid for him, just the same.”

One of the cell phones scattered on the desk rang. Tony snared it. “
Democrat,
Guay.” He listened, then held out the phone to Julia. “Colonel Cox. For you. He doesn’t sound like a happy camper.”

Cox. Julia had forgotten all about him. She took the telephone.

“Ms. Shumway, I need to talk to Barbie and find out what sort of progress he’s making in taking administrative control there.”

“I don’t think that will be happening anytime soon,” Julia said. “He’s in jail.”

“
Jail?
Charged with what?”

“Murder. Four counts, to be exact.”

“You’re joking.”

“Do I sound like I’m joking, Colonel?”

There was a moment of silence. She could hear many voices in the background. When Cox spoke again, his voice was low. “Explain this.”

“No, Colonel Cox, I think not. I’ve been writing about it for the last two hours, and as my mother used to say when I was a little girl, I don’t chew my cabbage twice. Are you still in Maine?”

“Castle Rock. Our forward base is here.”

“Then I suggest that you meet me where we met before. Motton
Road. I can’t give you a copy of tomorrow’s
Democrat,
even though it’s free, but I can hold it up to the Dome and you can read it for yourself.”

“E-mail it to me.”

“I won’t. I think e-mail is antithetical to the newspaper business. I’m very old-fashioned that way.”

“You’re an irritating piece of work, dear lady.”

“I may be irritating, but I’m not your dear lady.”

“Tell me this: is it a frame job? Something to do with Sanders and Rennie?”

“Colonel, in your experience, does a bear defecate in the woods?” Silence. Then he said, “I’ll meet you in an hour.”

“I’ll be bringing company. Barbie’s employer. I think you’ll be interested in what she has to say.”

“Fine.”

Julia hung up the phone. “Want to take a little ride with me out to the Dome, Rose?”

“If it’ll help Barbie, sure.”

“We can hope, but I’m kind of thinking we’re on our own here.” Julia shifted her attention to Pete and Tony. “Will you two finish stapling those? Stack em by the door and lock up when you leave. Get a good night’s sleep, because tomorrow we all get to be news-boys. This paper’s getting the old-school treatment. Every house in town. The close-in farms. And Eastchester, of course. Lots of new people out there, theoretically less susceptible to the Big Jim mystique.”

Pete raised his eyebrows.

“Our Mr. Rennie’s the home team,” Julia said. “He’s going to climb onto the stump at the emergency town meeting Thursday night and try to wind this town up like a pocketwatch. The visitors get first ups, though.” She pointed at the newspapers. “Those are our first ups. If enough people read that, he’ll have some tough questions to answer before he gets to speechifying. Maybe we can disrupt his rhythm a little.”

“Maybe a lot, if we find out who did the rock-throwing at Food
City,” Pete said. “And you know what? I think we will. I think this whole thing was put together on the fly. There’s got to be loose ends.”

“I just hope Barbie’s still alive when we start pulling them,” Julia said. She looked at her watch. “Come on, Rosie, let’s take a ride. You want to come, Horace?”

Horace did.

18

“You can let me off here, sir,” Sammy said. It was a pleasant ranch-style in Eastchester. Although the house was dark, the lawn was lit, because they were now close to the Dome, where bright lights had been set up at the Chester’s Mill–Harlow town line.

“Wa’m nuther beer for the road, Missy Lou?”

“No, sir, this is the end of the road for me.” Although it wasn’t. She still had to go back to town. In the yellow glow cast by the domelight, Alden Dinsmore looked eighty-five instead of forty-five. She had never seen such a sad face … except maybe for her own, in the mirror of her hospital room before she set out on this journey. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. The stubble there prickled her lips. He put his hand to the spot, and actually smiled a little.

“You ought to go home now, sir. You’ve got a wife to think about. And another boy to take care of.”

“I s’pose you’re right.”

“I
am
right.”

“You be okay?”

“Yes, sir.” She got out, then turned back to him. “Will you?”

“I’ll try,” he said.

Sammy slammed the door and stood at the end of the driveway, watching him turn around. He went into the ditch, but it was dry and he got out all right. He headed back toward 119, weaving at first. Then the taillights settled into a more or less straight line. He was in the middle of the road again—fucking the white line, Phil would have said—but she thought that would be okay. It was
going on eight thirty now, full dark, and she didn’t think he’d meet anyone.

When his taillights winked out of sight, she walked up to the dark ranch house. It wasn’t much compared to some of the fine old homes on Town Common Hill, but nicer than anything she’d ever had. It was nice inside, too. She had been here once with Phil, back in the days when he did nothing but sell a little weed and cook a little glass out back of the trailer for his own use. Back before he started getting his strange ideas about Jesus and going to that crappy church, where they believed everybody was going to hell but them. Religion was where Phil’s trouble had started. It had led him to Cog-gins, and Coggins or someone else had turned him into The Chef.

The people who had lived here weren’t tweekers; tweekers wouldn’t be able to keep a house like this for long, they’d freebase the mortgage. But Jack and Myra Evans
had
enjoyed a little wacky tobacky from time to time, and Phil Bushey had been happy to supply it. They were nice people, and Phil had treated them nice. Back in those days he’d still been capable of treating people nice.

Myra gave them iced coffee. Sammy had been seven or so months gone with Little Walter then, showing plenty, and Myra had asked her if she wanted a boy or a girl. Not looking down her nose a bit. Jack had taken Phil into his little office-den to pay him, and Phil had called to her. “Hey, honey, you should get a load of this!”

It all seemed so long ago.

She tried the front door. It was locked. She picked up one of the decorative stones that bordered Myra’s flowerbed and stood in front of the picture window, hefting it in her hand. After some thought, she went around back instead of throwing it. Climbing through a window would be difficult in her current condition. And even if she was able (and careful), she might cut herself badly enough to interfere with the rest of her plans for the evening.

Also, it was a nice house. She didn’t want to vandalize it if she didn’t have to.

And she didn’t. Jack’s body had been taken away, the town was still functioning well enough for that, but no one had thought to lock
the back door. Sammy walked right in. There was no generator and it was darker than a raccoon’s asshole, but there was a box of wooden matches on the kitchen stove, and the first one she lit showed her a flashlight on the kitchen table. It worked just fine. The beam illuminated what looked like a bloodstain on the floor. She switched it away from that in a hurry and started for Jack Evans’s office-den. It was right off the living room, a cubby so small that there was really room for no more than a desk and a glass-fronted cabinet.

She ran the beam of the flashlight across the desk, then raised it so that it reflected in the glassy eyes of Jack’s most treasured trophy: the head of a moose he’d shot up in TR-90 three years before. The moosehead was what Phil had called her in to see.

“I got the last ticket in the lottery that year,” Jack had told them. “And bagged him with that.” He pointed at the rifle in the cabinet. It was a fearsome-looking thing with a scope.

Myra had come into the doorway, the ice rattling in her own glass of iced coffee, looking cool and pretty and amused—the kind of woman, Sammy knew, she herself would never be. “It cost far too much, but I let him have it after he promised he’d take me to Bermuda for a week next December.”

“Bermuda,” Sammy said now, looking at the moosehead. “But she never got to go. That’s too sad.”

Phil, putting the envelope with the cash in it into his back pocket, had said: “Awesome rifle, but not exactly the thing for home protection.”

“I’ve got that covered, too,” Jack had replied, and although he hadn’t shown Phil just how he had it covered, he’d patted the top of his desk meaningfully. “Got a couple of damn good handguns.”

Phil had nodded back, just as meaningfully. Sammy and Myra had exchanged a
boys will be boys
look of perfect harmony. She still remembered how good that look had made her feel, how
included,
and she supposed that was part of the reason she had come here instead of trying someplace else, someplace closer to town.

She paused to chew down another Percocet, then started opening the desk drawers. They were unlocked, and so was the wooden box
in the third one she tried. Inside was the late Jack Evans’s extra gun: a.45 Springfield XD automatic pistol. She took it, and after a little fumbling, ejected the magazine. It was full, and there was a spare clip in the drawer. She took that one, too. Then she went back to the kitchen to find a bag to carry it in. And keys, of course. To whatever might be parked in the late Jack and Myra’s garage. She had no intention of walking back to town.

19

Julia and Rose were discussing what the future might hold for their town when their present nearly ended. Would have ended, if they had met the old farm truck on Esty Bend, about a mile and a half from their destination. But Julia got through the curve in time to see that the truck was in her lane, and coming at her head-on.