Under the Dome

Barbie managed to open his eyes by placing the heels of his hands over his eyebrows and shoving upward. He saw Andy Sanders standing outside the cell with tears rolling down his cheeks. And what was Sanders seeing? A guy in a cell, and a guy in a cell always looked guilty.

Sanders screamed, “She was all I had!”

Randolph stood behind him, looking embarrassed and shuffling like a kid twenty minutes overdue for a bathroom pass. Even with his eyes burning and his sinuses pounding, Barbie wasn’t surprised that Randolph had let Sanders come down here. Not because Sanders was the town’s First Selectman, but because Peter Randolph found it almost impossible to say no.

“Now, Andy,” Randolph said. “That’s enough. You wanted to see him and I let you, even though it was against my better judgment. He’s jugged good and proper, and he’ll pay the price for what he did. So now come on upstairs and I’ll pour you a cup of—”

Andy grabbed the front of Randolph’s uniform. He was four inches shorter, but Randolph still looked scared. Barbie didn’t blame him. He was viewing the world through a deep red film, but he could see Andy Sanders’s fury clearly enough.

“Give me your gun! A trial’s too good for him! He’s apt to get off, anyway! He’s got friends in high places, Jim says so! I want some satisfaction! I deserve some satisfaction, so give me your gun!”

Barbie didn’t think Randolph’s desire to please would go so far as handing over his weapon so that Andy could shoot him in this cell like a rat in a rainbarrel, but he wasn’t entirely sure; there might be a reason other than the craven need to please that had caused Randolph to bring Sanders down here, and to bring him down alone.

He struggled to his feet. “Mr. Sanders.” Some of the Mace had gotten into his mouth. His tongue and throat were swollen, his voice an unconvincing nasal croak. “I did not kill your daughter, sir. I did not kill anyone. If you think about this you’ll see that your friend Rennie needs a scapegoat and I’m the most convenient—”

But Andy was in no shape to think about anything. He dropped his hands to Randolph’s holster and began clawing at the Glock there. Alarmed, Randolph struggled to keep it where it was.

At that moment, a large-bellied figure descended the stairs, moving gracefully despite his bulk.

“Andy!” Big Jim boomed. “Andy, pal—come here!”

He opened his arms. Andy stopped struggling for the gun and rushed to him like a weeping child to the arms of his father. And Big Jim enfolded him.

“I want a gun!” Andy babbled, lifting his tear-streaked, snot-creamy face to Big Jim’s. “Get me a gun, Jim! Now! Right now! I want to shoot him for what he did! It’s my right as a father! He killed my baby girl!”

“Maybe not just her,” Big Jim said. “Maybe not just Angie, Lester, and poor Brenda, either.”

This halted the verbal flood. Andy stared up into Big Jim’s slab of a face, dumbfounded. Fascinated.

“Maybe your wife, too. Duke. Myra Evans. All the others.”

“Wha…”

“Somebody’s responsible for the Dome, pal—am I right?”

“Ye…” Andy was capable of no more, but Big Jim nodded benignly.

“And it seems to me that the people who did it had to have at least one inside man. Someone to stir the pot. And who’s better at pot-stirring than a short-order cook?” He put an arm around Andy’s shoulder and led him to Chief Randolph. Big Jim glanced back at Barbie’s red and swollen face as if looking at some species of bug. “We’ll find proof. I have no doubt of it. He’s already demonstrated he’s not smart enough to cover his tracks.”

Barbie fixed his attention on Randolph. “This is a setup,” he said in his nasal foghorning voice. “It might have started just because Rennie needed to cover his ass, but now it’s just a naked power-grab. You may not be expendable yet, Chief, but when you are, you’ll go, too.”

“Shut up,” Randolph said.

Rennie was stroking Andy’s hair. Barbie thought of his mother and how she used to stroke their cocker spaniel, Missy, when Missy got old and stupid and incontinent. “He’ll pay the price, Andy—you have my word on that. But first we’re going to get all the details: the what, the when, the why, and who else was involved. Because he’s not in it alone, you can bet your rooty-toot on that. He’s got accomplices. He’ll pay the price, but first we’re going to wring him dry of information.”

“What price?” Andy asked. He was looking up at Big Jim almost rapturously now. “What price will he pay?”

“Well, if he knows how to lift the Dome—and I wouldn’t put it past him—I guess we’ll have to be satisfied with seeing him in Shawshank. Life without parole.”

“Not good enough,” Andy whispered.

Rennie was still stroking Andy’s head. “If the Dome doesn’t let go?” He smiled. “In that case, we’ll have to try him ourselves. And when we find him guilty, we’ll execute him. Do you like that better?”

“Much,” Andy whispered.

“So do I, pal.”

Stroking. Stroking.

“So do I.”

18

They came out of the woods three abreast and stopped, looking up at the orchard.

“There’s something up there!” Benny said. “I see it!” His voice sounded excited, but to Joe it also sounded strangely far away.

“So do I,” Norrie said. “It looks like a… a…” Radio beacon were the words she wanted to say, but she never got them out. She managed only an rrr-rrr-rrr sound, like a toddler playing trucks in a sandpile. Then she fell off her bike and lay on the road with her arms and legs jerking.

“Norrie?” Joe looked down at her—more with bemusement than alarm—then up at Benny. Their eyes met for just a moment and then Benny also toppled, pulling his bike over on top of him. He began to thrash, kicking the High Plains off to one side. The Geiger counter flew into the ditch dial-side down.

Joe tottered toward it and reached out an arm that seemed to stretch like rubber. He turned the yellow box over. The needle had jumped to +200, just below the red danger zone. He saw this, then fell into a black hole full of orange flames. He thought they were coming from a huge heap of pumpkins—a funeral pyre of blazing jack-o- lanterns. Somewhere voices were calling: lost and terrified. Then the darkness swallowed him.

19

When Julia came into the Democrat office after leaving the supermarket, Tony Guay, the former sports reporter who was now the entire news department, was typing on his laptop. She handed him the camera and said, “Stop what you’re doing and print these.”

She sat down at her computer to write her story. She’d been holding the open in her head all the way up Main Street: Ernie Calvert, the former manager of Food City, called for people to come in the back. He said he had opened the doors for them. But by then it was too late. The riot was on. It was a good lead. The problem was, she couldn’t write it. She kept hitting all the wrong keys.

“Go upstairs and lie down,” Tony said.

“No, I have to write—”

“You’re not going to write anything like you are. You’re shaking like a leaf. It’s shock. Lie down for an hour. I’ll print the pictures and send them to your computer desktop. Transcribe your notes, too. Go on up.”

She didn’t like what he was saying, but recognized the wisdom of it. Only it turned out to be more than an hour. She hadn’t slept well since Friday night, which seemed a century ago, and she had no more than put her head