Under the Dome

practically all day. Plus Sammy usually had bitchin weed. Dodee guessed she got it from the guys she partied with. Her trailer was a popular place on the weekends. But the thing was, Dodee had sworn off weed. Never again, not since all that trouble with the cook. Never again had lasted over a week on the day Sammy called.

“You can have Jade and Yasmin,” Sammy coaxed. “Also, I’ve got some great you-know.” She always said that, as if someone listening in wouldn’t know what she was talking about. “Also, we can you-know.”

Dodee knew what that you-know was, too, and she felt a little tingle Down There (in her you-know), even though that was also kid-stuff, and they should have left it behind long ago.

“I don’t think so, Sam. I have to be at work at two, and—”

“Yasmin awaits,” Sammy said. “And you know you hate dat bitch.”

Well, that was true. Yasmin was the bitchiest of the Bratz, in Dodee’s opinion. And it was almost four hours until two o’clock. Further and, if she was a little late, so what? Was Rose going to fire her? Who else would work that shit job?

“Okay. But just for a little while. And only because I hate Yasmin.”

Sammy giggled.

“But I don’t you-know anymore. Either you-know.”

“Not a problem,” Sammy said. “Come quick.”

So Dodee had driven out, and of course she discovered Bratz-torture was no fun if you weren’t a little high, so she got a little high and so did Sammy. They collaborated on giving Yasmin some drain-cleaner plastic surgery, which was pretty hilarious. Then Sammy wanted to show her this sweet new camisole she’d gotten at Deb, and although Sam was getting a little bit of a potbelly, she still looked good to Dodee, perhaps because they were a little bit stoned—wrecked, in fact—and since Little Walter was still asleep (his father had insisted on naming the kid after some old bluesman, and all that sleeping, yow, Dodee had an idea Little Walter was retarded, which would be no surprise given the amount of rope Sam had smoked while carrying him), they ended up getting into Sammy’s bed and doing a little of the old you-know. Afterward they’d fallen asleep, and when Dodee woke up Little Walter was blatting—holy shit, call NewsCenter 6—and it was past five. Really too late to go in to work, and besides, Sam had produced a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, and they had one-shot two-shot three- shot-four, and Sammy decided she wanted to see what happened to a Baby Bratz in the microwave, only the power was out.

Dodee had crept back to town at roughly sixteen miles an hour, still high and paranoid as hell, constantly checking the rearview mirror for cops, knowing if she did get stopped it would be by that redhaired bitch Jackie Wettington. Or her father would be taking a break from the store and he’d smell the booze on her breath. Or her mother would be home, so tired out from her stupid flying lesson that she had decided to stay home from the Eastern Star Bingo.

Please, God, she prayed. Please get me through this and I’ll never you-know again. Either you-know. Never in this life.

God heard her prayer. Nobody was home. The power was out here too, but in her altered state, Dodee hardly noticed. She crept upstairs to her room, shucked out of her pants and shirt, and laid down on her bed. Just for a few minutes, she told herself. Then she’d put her clothes, which smelled of ganja, in the washer, and put herself in the shower. She smelled of Sammy’s perfume, which she must buy a gallon at a time down at Burpee’s.

Only she couldn’t set the alarm with the power out and when the knocking at the door woke her up it was dark. She grabbed her robe and went downstairs, suddenly sure that it would be the redheaded cop with the big boobs, ready to put her under arrest for driving under the influence. Maybe for crack-snacking, too. Dodee didn’t think that particular you-know was against the law, but she wasn’t entirely sure.

It wasn’t Jackie Wettington. It was Julia Shumway, the editor-publisher of the Democrat. She had a flashlight in one hand. She shined it in Dodee’s face—which was probably puffed with sleep, her eyes surely still red and her hair a haystack—and then lowered it again. Enough light kicked up to show Julia’s own face, and Dodee saw a sympathy there that made her feel confused and afraid.

“Poor kid,” Julia said. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know what?” Dodee had asked. It was around then that the parallel universe feeling had started. “Don’t know what?”

And Julia Shumway had told her.

6

“Angie? Angie, please!”

Fumbling her way up the hall. Hand throbbing. Head throbbing. She could have looked for her father—Mrs. Shumway had offered to take her, starting at Bowie Funeral Home—but her blood ran cold at the thought of that place. Besides, it was Angie that she wanted. Angie who would hug her tight with no interest in the you-know. Angie who was her best friend.

A shadow came out of the kitchen and moved swiftly toward her.

“There you are, thank God!” She began to sob harder, and hurried toward the figure with her arms outstretched. “Oh, it’s awful! I’m being punished for being a bad girl, I know I am!”

The dark figure stretched out its own arms, but they did not enfold Dodee in a hug. Instead, the hands at the end of those arms closed around her throat.

THE GOOD OF THE TOWN, THE GOOD OF THE PEOPLE

1

Andy Sanders was indeed at the Bowie Funeral Home. He had walked there, toting a heavy load: bewilderment, grief, a broken heart.

He was sitting in Remembrance Parlor I, his only company in the coffin at the front of the room. Gertrude Evans, eighty-seven (or maybe eighty-eight), had died of congestive heart failure two days before. Andy had sent a condolence note, although God knew who’d eventually receive it; Gert’s husband had died a decade ago. It didn’t matter. He always sent condolences when one of his constituents died, handwritten on a sheet of cream stationery reading FROM THE DESK OF THE FIRST SELECTMAN. He felt it was part of his duty.

Big Jim couldn’t be bothered with such things. Big Jim was too busy running what he called “our business,” by which he meant Chester’s Mill. Ran it like his own private railroad, in point of fact, but Andy had never resented this; he understood that Big Jim was smart. Andy understood something else, as well: without Andrew DeLois Sanders, Big Jim probably couldn’t have been elected dog-catcher. Big Jim could sell used cars by promising eye-watering deals, low-low financing, and premiums like cheap Korean vacuum cleaners, but when he’d tried to get the Toyota dealership that time, the company had settled on Will Freeman instead. Given his sales figures and location out on 119, Big Jim hadn’t been able to understand how Toyota could be so stupid.

Andy could. He maybe wasn’t the brightest bear in the woods, but he knew Big Jim had no warmth. He was a hard man (some—those who’d come a cropper on all that low-low financing, for instance—would have said hardhearted), and he was persuasive, but he was also chilly. Andy, on the other hand, had warmth to spare. When he went around town at election time, Andy told folks that he and Big Jim were like the Doublemint Twins, or Click and Clack, or peanut butter and jelly, and Chester’s Mill wouldn’t be the same without both of them in harness (along with whichever third happened to be currently along for the ride—right now Rose Twitchell’s sister, Andrea Grinnell). Andy had always enjoyed his partnership with Big Jim. Financially, yes, especially during the last two or