Under the Dome

At some point the fire whistle quit. Junior slept with the covers over his head. When he woke up, it was nine PM. His headache was gone.

And the house was still empty.

CLUSTERMUG

1

When Big Jim Rennie scrunched to a stop in his H3 Alpha Hummer (color: Black Pearl; accessories: you name it), he was a full three minutes ahead of the town cops, which was just the way he liked it. Keep ahead of the competish, that was Rennie’s motto.

Ernie Calvert was still on the phone, but he raised a hand in a half-assed salute. His hair was in disarray and he looked nearly insane with excitement. “Yo, Big Jim, I got through to em!”

“Through to who?” Rennie asked, not paying much attention. He was looking at the still-burning pyre of the pulp-truck, and at the wreckage of what was clearly a plane. This was a mess, one that could mean a black eye for the town, especially with the two newest firewagons over in The Rock. A training exercise he had approved of… but Andy Sanders’s signature was the one on the approval form, because Andy was First Selectman. That was good. Rennie was a great believer in what he called the Protectability Quotient, and being Second Selectman was a prime example of the Quotient in action; you got all of the power (at least when the First was a nit like Sanders), but rarely had to take the blame when things went wrong.

And this was what Rennie—who had given his heart to Jesus at age sixteen and did not use foul language— called “a clustermug.” Steps would have to be taken. Control would have to be imposed. And he couldn’t count on that elderly ass Howard Perkins to do the job. Perkins might have been a perfectly adequate police chief twenty years ago, but this was a new century.

Rennie’s frown deepened as he surveyed the scene. Too many spectators. Of course there were always too many at things such as this; people loved blood and destruction. And some of these appeared to be playing a bizarre sort of game: seeing how far they could lean over, or something.

Bizarre.

“You people get back from there!” he shouted. He had a good voice for giving orders, big and confident. “That’s an accident site!”

Ernie Calvert—another idiot, the town was full of them, Rennie supposed any town was—tugged at his sleeve. He looked more excited than ever. “Got through to the ANG, Big Jim, and—”

“The who? The what? What are you talking about?”

“The Air National Guard!”

Worse and worse. People playing games, and this fool calling the—

“Ernie, why would you call them, for gosh sakes?”

“Because he said… the guy said…” But Ernie couldn’t remember exactly what Barbie had said, so he moved on. “Well anyway, the colonel at the ANG listened to what I was telling him, then connected me with Homeland Security in their Portland office. Put me right through!”

Rennie slapped his hands to his cheeks, a thing he did often when he was exasperated. It made him look like a cold-eyed Jack Benny. Like Benny, Big Jim did indeed tell jokes from time to time (always clean ones). He joked because he sold cars, and because he knew politicians were supposed to joke, especially when election time came around. So he kept a small rotating stock of what he called “funnies” (as in “Do you boys want to hear a funny?”). He memorized these much as a tourist in a foreign land will pick up the phrases for stuff like Where is the bathroom or Is there a hotel with Internet in this village?

But he didn’t joke now. “Homeland Security! What in the cotton-picking devil for?” Cotton-picking was by far Rennie’s favorite epithet.

“Because the young guy said there’s somethin across the road. And there is, Jim! Somethin you can’t see! People can lean on it! See? They’re doin it now. Or… if you throw a stone against it, it bounces back! Look!” Ernie picked up a stone and threw it. Rennie did not trouble looking to see where it went; he reckoned if it had struck one of the rubberneckers, the fellow would have given a yell. “The truck crashed into it… into the whatever-it-is… and the plane did, too! And so the guy told me to—”

“Slow down. What guy exactly are we talking about?”

“He’s a young guy,” Rory Dinsmore said. “He cooks at Sweetbriar Rose. If you ask for a hamburg medium, that’s how you get it. My dad says you can hardly ever get medium, because nobody knows how to cook it, but this guy does.” His face broke into a smile of extraordinary sweetness. “I know his name.”

“Shut up, Roar,” his brother warned. Mr. Rennie’s face had darkened. In Ollie Dinsmore’s experience, this was the way teachers looked just before they slapped you with a week’s worth of detention.

Rory, however, paid no mind. “It’s a girl’s name! It’s Baaarbara. ”

Just when I think I’ve seen the last of him, that cotton-picker pops up again, Rennie thought. That darned useless no-account.

He turned to Ernie Calvert. The police were almost here, but Rennie thought he had time to put a stop to this latest bit of Barbara-induced lunacy. Not that Rennie saw him around. Nor expected to, not really. How like Barbara to stir up the stew, make a mess, then flee.

“Ernie,” he said, “you’ve been misinformed.”

Alden Dinsmore stepped forward. “Mr. Rennie, I don’t see how you can say that, when you don’t know what the information is.”

Rennie smiled at him. Pulled his lips back, anyway. “I know Dale Barbara, Alden; I have that much information.” He turned back to Ernie Calvert. “Now, if you’ll just—”

“Hush,” Calvert said, holding up a hand. “I got someone.”

Big Jim Rennie did not like to be hushed, especially by a retired grocery store manager. He plucked the phone from Ernie’s hand as though Ernie were an assistant who had been holding it for just that purpose.

A voice from the cell phone said, “To whom am I speaking?” Less than half a dozen words, but they were enough to tell Rennie that he was dealing with a bureaucratic son-of-a-buck. The Lord knew he’d dealt with enough of them in his three decades as a town official, and the Feds were the worst.

“This is James Rennie, Second Selectman of Chester’s Mill. Who are you, sir?”

“Donald Wozniak, Homeland Security. I understand you have some sort of problem out there on Highway 119. An interdiction of some kind.”

Interdiction? Interdiction? What kind of Fedspeak was that?

“You have been misinformed, sir,” Rennie said. “What we have is an airplane—a civilian plane, a local plane—that tried to land on the road and hit a truck. The situation is completely under control. We do not require the aid of Homeland Security.”

“Mister Rennie,” the farmer said, “that is not what happened.”

Rennie flapped a hand at him and began walking toward the first police cruiser. Hank Morrison was getting out. Big, six-five or so, but basically useless. And behind him, the gal with the big old tiddies. Wettington, her name was, and she was worse than useless: a smart mouth run by a dumb head. But behind her, Peter Randolph was pulling up. Randolph was the Assistant Chief, and a man after Rennie’s own heart. A man who could get ’er done. If Randolph had been the duty officer on the night Junior got in trouble at that stupid devilpit of a bar, Big Jim doubted if Mr. Dale Barbara would still have been in town to cause trouble today. In fact, Mr. Barbara might have been behind bars over in The Rock. Which would have suited Rennie fine.

Meanwhile, the man from Homeland Security—did they have the nerve to call themselves agents?—was still jabbering away.