Under the Dome

the dead, he was sure the town was better off with Perkins in heaven rather than down here, trying to manage a clustermug that was far beyond his limited abilities.

“I’ll tell you what, folks,” Randolph said, “it’s not that good. There’s Henry Morrison and Jackie Wettington, both of whom responded with me to the initial Code Three. There’s also Rupe Libby, Fred Denton, and George Frederick—although his asthma’s so bad I don’t know how much use he’ll be. He was planning to take early retirement at the end of this year.”

“Poor old George,” Andy said. “He just about lives on Advair.”

“And as you know, Marty Arsenault and Toby Whelan aren’t up to much these days. The only part-timer I’d call really able-bodied is Linda Everett. Between that damned firefighting exercise and the football game, this couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”

“Linda Everett?” Andrea asked, a little interested. “Rusty’s wife?”

“Pshaw!” Big Jim often said pshaw when he was irritated. “She’s just a jumped-up crossing guard.”

“Yes, sir,” Randolph said, “but she qualified on the county range over in The Rock last year and she has a sidearm. No reason she can’t carry it and go on duty. Maybe not full-time, the Everetts have got a couple of kids, but she can pull her weight. After all, it is a crisis.”

“No doubt, no doubt.” But Rennie was damned if he was going to have Everetts popping up like darned old jack-in-the-boxes every time he turned around. Bottom line: he didn’t want that cotton-picker’s wife on his first team. For one thing, she was still quite young, no more than thirty, and pretty as the devil. He was sure she’d be a bad influence on the other men. Pretty women always were. Wettington and her gunshell tiddies were bad enough.

“So,” Randolph said, “that’s only eight out of eighteen.”

“You forgot to count yourself,” Andrea said.

Randolph hit his forehead with the heel of his hand, as if trying to knock his brains back into gear. “Oh. Yeah. Right. Nine.”

“Not enough,” Rennie said. “We need to beef up the force. Just temporarily, you know; until this situation works itself out.”

“Who were you thinking about, sir?” Randolph asked.

“My boy, to begin with.”

“Junior?” Andrea raised her eyebrows. “He’s not even old enough to vote… is he?”

Big Jim briefly visualized Andrea’s brain: fifteen percent favorite online shopping sites, eighty percent dope receptors, two percent memory, and three percent actual thought process. Still, it was what he had to work with. And, he reminded himself, the stupidity of one’s colleagues makes life simpler.

“He’s twenty-one, actually. Twenty-two in November. And either by luck or the grace of God, he’s home from school this weekend.”

Peter Randolph knew that Junior Rennie was home from school permanently—he’d seen it written on the phone pad in the late Chief’s office earlier in the week, although he had no idea how Duke had gotten the information or why he’d thought it important enough to write down. Something else had been written there, too: Behavioral issues?

This was probably not the time to share such information with Big Jim, however.

Rennie was continuing, now in the enthusiastic tones of a game-show host announcing a particularly juicy prize in the Bonus Round. “And, Junior has three friends who would also be suitable: Frank DeLesseps, Melvin Searles, and Carter Thibodeau.”

Andrea was once more looking uneasy. “Um… weren’t those the boys… the young men… involved in that altercation at Dipper’s…?”

Big Jim turned a smile of such genial ferocity on her that Andrea shrank back in her seat.

“That business was overblown. And sparked by alcohol, as most such trouble is. Plus, the instigator was that fellow Barbara. Which is why no charges were filed. It was a wash. Or am I wrong, Peter?”

“Absolutely not,” Randolph said, although he too looked uneasy.

“These fellows are all at least twenty-one, and I believe Carter Thibodeau might be twenty-three.”

Thibodeau was indeed twenty-three, and had lately been working as a part-time mechanic at Mill Gas & Grocery. He’d been fired from two previous jobs—temper issues, Randolph had heard—but he seemed to have settled down at the Gas & Grocery. Johnny said he’d never had anyone so good with exhaust and electrical systems.

“They’ve all hunted together, they’re good shots—”

“Please God we don’t have to put that to the test,” Andrea said.

“No one’s going to get shot, Andrea, and no one’s suggesting we make these young fellows full-time police. What I’m saying is that we need to fill out an extremely depleted roster, and fast. So how about it, Chief? They can serve until the crisis is over, and we’ll pay them out of the contingency fund.”

Randolph didn’t like the idea of Junior toting a gun on the streets of Chester’s Mill—Junior with his possible behavioral issues—but he also didn’t like the idea of bucking Big Jim. And it really might be a good idea to have a few extra widebodies on hand. Even if they were young. He didn’t anticipate problems in town, but they could be put on crowd control out where the main roads hit the barrier. If the barrier was still there. And if it wasn’t? Problems solved.

He put on a team-player smile. “You know, I think that’s a great idea, sir. You send em around to the station tomorrow around ten—”

“Nine might be better, Pete.”

“Nine’s fine,” Andy said in his dreamy voice.

“Further discussion?” Rennie asked.

There was none. Andrea looked as if she might have had something to say but couldn’t remember what it was.

“Then I call the question,” Rennie said. “Will the board ask acting Chief Randolph to take on Junior, Frank DeLesseps, Melvin Searles, and Carter Thibodeau as deputies at base salary? Their period of service to last until this darn crazy business is sorted out? Those in favor signify in the usual manner.”

They all raised their hands.

“The measure is approv—”

He was interrupted by two reports that sounded like gunfire. They all jumped. Then a third came, and Rennie, who had worked with motors for most of his life, realized what it was.

“Relax, folks. Just a backfire. Generator clearing its throa—”

The elderly gennie backfired a fourth time, then died. The lights went out, leaving them for a moment in stygian blackness. Andrea shrieked.

On his left, Andy Sanders said: “Oh my gosh, Jim, the propane—”

Rennie reached out with his free hand and grabbed Andy’s arm. Andy shut up. As Rennie was relaxing his grip, light crept back into the long pine-paneled room. Not the bright overheads but the emergency box-lights mounted in the four corners. In their weak glow, the faces clustered at the conference table’s north end looked yellow and years older. They looked frightened. Even Big Jim Rennie looked frightened.

“No problem,” Randolph said with a cheeriness that sounded manufactured rather than organic. “Tank just ran dry, that’s all. Plenty more in the town supply barn.”

Andy shot Big Jim a look. It was no more than a shifting of the eyes, but Rennie had an idea Andrea saw it. What she might eventually make of it was another question.

She’ll forget it after her next dose of Oxy, he told himself. By morning for sure.

And in the meantime, the town’s supplies of propane—or lack thereof—didn’t concern him much. He would take care of that situation when it became necessary.

“Okay, folks, I know you’re as anxious to get out of here as I am, so let’s move on to our next order of business. I think we should officially confirm Pete here as our Chief of Police pro tem.”

“Yes, why not?” Andy asked. He sounded tired.