Under the Dome: A Novel

by Stephen King

  “I don’t know.”

  “And what could they be using them for?”

  “I don’t know,” Rusty said, “but I mean to find out.”

  PINK STARS FALLING

  1

  Barbie and Rusty stepped outside and breathed deeply of the open air. It had a smoky tang from the recently extinguished fire west of town, but seemed very fresh after the exhaust fumes in the shed. A lackadaisical little breeze cat’s-pawed their cheeks. Barbie was carrying the Geiger counter in a brown shopping bag he’d found in the fallout shelter.

  “This shit will not stand,” Rusty said. His face was set and grim.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Barbie asked.

  “Now? Nothing. I’m going back to the hospital and do rounds. Tonight, though, I intend to knock on Jim Rennie’s door and ask for a goddam explanation. He better have one, and he better have the rest of our propane as well, because we’re going to be dead out at the hospital by the day after tomorrow, even with every nonessential shut down.”

  “This might be over by the day after tomorrow.”

  “Do you believe it will be?”

  Instead of answering the question, Barbie said, “Selectman Rennie could be a dangerous man to press right about now.”

  “Just now? That tags you for a town newbie like nothing else could. I’ve been hearing that about Big Jim for the ten thousand or so years he’s been running this town. He either tells people to get lost or pleads patience. ‘For the good of the town,’ he says. That’s number one on his hit parade. Town meeting in March is a joke. An article to authorize a new sewer system? Sorry, the town can’t afford the taxes. An article to authorize more commercial zoning? Great idea, the town needs the revenue, let’s build a Walmart out on 117. The University of Maine Small Town Environmental Study says there’s too much graywater in Chester Pond? The selectmen recommend tabling discussion because everybody knows all those scientific studies are run by radical humanist bleeding-heart atheists. But the hospital is for the good of the town, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes. I would.” Barbie was a little bemused by this outburst.

  Rusty stared at the ground with his hands in his back pockets. Then he looked up. “I understand the President tapped you to take over. I think it’s high time you did so.”

  “It’s an idea.” Barbie smiled. “Except … Rennie and Sanders have got their police force; where’s mine?”

  Before Rusty could reply, his cell phone rang. He flipped it open and looked at the little window. “Linda? What?”

  He listened.

  “All right, I understand. If you’re sure they’re both okay now. And you’re sure it was Judy? Not Janelle?” He listened some more, then said: “I think this is actually good news. I saw two other kids this morning—both with transient seizures that passed off quickly, long before I saw them, and both fine afterward. Had calls on three more. Ginny T. took another one. It could be a side effect of whatever force is powering the Dome.”

  He listened.

  “Because I didn’t have a chance to,” he said. His tone patient, nonconfrontational. Barbie could imagine the question which had prompted that: Kids have been having seizures all day and now you tell me?

  “You’re picking the kids up?” Rusty asked. He listened. “Okay. That’s good. If you sense anything wrong, call me ASAP. I’ll come on the run. And make sure Audi stays with them. Yes. Uh-huh. Love you, too.” He hooked the phone on his belt and ran both hands through his hair hard enough to make his eyes look briefly Chinese. “Jesus jumped-up Christ.”

  “Who’s Audi?”

  “Our golden retriever.”

  “Tell me about these seizures.”

  Rusty did so, not omitting what Jannie had said about Halloween and what Judy had said about pink stars.

  “The Halloween thing sounds like what the Dinsmore boy was raving about,” Barbie said.

  “Does, doesn’t it?”

  “What about the other kids? Any of them talking about Halloween? Or pink stars?”

  “The parents I saw today said their kids babbled while the seizure was ongoing, but they were too freaked to pay any attention.”

  “The kids themselves didn’t remember?”

  “The kids didn’t even know they’d had seizures.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “It’s not ab normal.”

  “Any chance your younger daughter was copying the older one? Maybe … I don’t know … vying for attention?”

  Rusty hadn’t considered this—hadn’t had the time, really. Now he did. “Possible, but not likely.” He nodded to the old-fashioned yellow Geiger counter in the bag. “You going prospecting with that thing?”

  “Not me,” Barbie said. “This baby’s town property, and the powers that be don’t like me much. I wouldn’t want to be caught with it.” He held the bag out to Rusty.

  “Can’t. I’m just too busy right now.”

  “I know,” Barbie said, and told Rusty what he wanted him to do. Rusty listened closely, smiling a little.

  “Okay,” he said. “Works for me. What are you going to be doing while I’m running your errands?”

  “Cooking dinner at Sweetbriar. Tonight’s special is chicken à la Barbara. Want me to send some up to the hospital?”

  “Sweet,” Rusty said.

  2

  On his way back to Cathy Russell, Rusty stopped by the the Democrat ’s office and handed off the Geiger counter to Julia Shumway.

  She listened as he relayed Barbie’s instructions, smiling faintly. “The man knows how to delegate, I’ll say that for him. I’ll see to this with pleasure.”

  Rusty thought of cautioning her to be careful about who saw the town’s Geiger counter in her possession, but didn’t need to. The bag had disappeared into the kneehole of her desk.

  On his way to the hospital, he reached Ginny Tomlinson and asked her about the seizure call she’d taken.

  “Little kid named Jimmy Wicker. The grandfather called it in. Bill Wicker?”

  Rusty knew him. Bill delivered their mail.

  “He was taking care of Jimmy while the boy’s mom went to gas up their car. They’re almost out of regular at the Gas and Grocery, by the way, and Johnny Carver’s had the nerve to jack the price of regular to eleven dollars a gallon. Eleven! ”

  Rusty bore this patiently, thinking he could have had his conversation with Ginny face-to-face. He was almost back to the hospital. When she was done complaining, he asked her if little Jimmy had said anything while he was seizing.

  “Yes indeed. Bill said he babbled quite a bit. I think it was something about pink stars. Or Halloween. Or maybe I’m getting it confused with what Rory Dinsmore said after he was shot. People have been talking about that.”

  Of course they have, Rusty thought grimly. And they’ll be talking about this, too, if they find out. As they probably will.

  “All right,” he said. “Thanks, Ginny.”

  “When you comin back, Red Ryder?”

  “Almost there now.”

  “Good. Because we have a new patient. Sammy Bushey. She was raped.”

  Rusty groaned.

  “It gets better. Piper Libby brought her in. I couldn’t get the names of the doers out of the girl, but I think Piper did. She went out of here like her hair was on fire and her ass—” A pause. Ginny yawned loud enough for Rusty to hear. “—her ass was catching.”

  “Ginny my love—when’s the last time you got some sleep?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Go home.”

  “Are you kidding ?” Sounding aghast.

  “No. Go home. Sleep. No setting the alarm, either.” Then an idea struck him. “But stop by Sweetbriar Rose on the way, why don’t you? They’re having chicken. I heard it from a reliable source.”

  “The Bushey girl—”

  “I’ll be checking on her in five minutes. What you’re going to do is make like a bee and buzz.”

  He closed his phone before she
could protest again.

  3

  Big Jim Rennie felt remarkably good for a man who had committed murder the night before. This was partially because he did not see it as murder, no more than he had seen the death of his late wife as murder. It was cancer that had taken her. Inoperable. Yes, he had probably given her too many of the pain pills over the last week, and in the end he’d still had to help her with a pillow over her face (but lightly, ever so lightly, slowing her breathing, easing her into the arms of Jesus), but he had done it out of love and kindness. What had happened to Reverend Cog-gins was a bit more brutal—admittedly—but the man had been so bullish. So completely unable to put the town’s welfare ahead of his own.

  “Well, he’s eating dinner with Christ the Lord tonight,” Big Jim said. “Roast beef, mashed with gravy, apple crisp for dessert.” He himself was eating a large plate of fettuccini alfredo, courtesy of the Stouffer’s company. A lot of cholesterol, he supposed, but there was no Dr. Haskell around to nag him about it.

  “I outlasted you, you old poop,” Big Jim told his empty study, and laughed goodnaturedly. His plate of pasta and a glass filled with milk (Big Jim Rennie did not drink alcohol) were set on his desk blotter. He often ate in the study, and he saw no need to change that simply because Lester Coggins had met his end here. Besides, the room was once more squared away and spandy-clean. Oh, he supposed one of those investigation units like the ones on TV would be able to find plenty of blood-spatter with their luminol and special lights and things, but none of those people was going to be here in the immediate future. As for Pete Randolph doing any sleuthing in the matter … the idea was a joke. Randolph was an idiot.

  “But,” Big Jim told the empty room in a lecturely tone, “he’s my idiot.”

  He slurped up the last few strands of pasta, mopped his considerable chin with a napkin, then once more began to jot notes on the yellow legal pad beside the blotter. He had jotted plenty of notes since Saturday; there was so much to do. And if the Dome stayed in place, there would be more still.

  Big Jim sort of hoped it would remain in place, at least for a while. The Dome offered challenges to which he felt certain he could rise (with God’s help, of course). The first order of business was to consolidate his hold on the town. For that he needed more than a scapegoat; he needed a bogeyman. The obvious choice was Barbara, the man the Democrat Party’s Commie-in-Chief had tapped to replace James Rennie.

  The study door opened. When Big Jim looked up from his notes, his son was standing there. His face was pale and expressionless. There was something not quite right about Junior lately. As busy as he was with the town’s affairs (and their other enterprise; that had also kept him busy), Big Jim realized this. But he felt confident in the boy just the same. Even if Junior let him down, Big Jim was sure he could handle it. He’d spent a lifetime making his own luck; that wasn’t going to change now.

  Besides, the boy had moved the body. That made him part of this. Which was good—the essence of smalltown life, in fact. In a small town, everybody was supposed to be a part of everything. How did that silly song put it? We all support the team.

  “Son?” he asked. “All right?”

  “I’m fine,” Junior said. He wasn’t, but he was better, the latest poisonous headache finally lifting. Being with his girlfriends had helped, as he’d known it would. The McCain pantry didn’t smell so good, but after he’d sat there awhile, holding their hands, he’d gotten used to it. He thought he could even come to like that smell.

  “Did you find anything in his apartment?”

  “Yes.” Junior told him what he had found.

  “That’s excellent, Son. Really excellent. And are you ready to tell me where you put the … where you put him?”

  Junior shook his head slowly back and forth, but his eyes stayed in exactly the same place while he did it—pinned on his father’s face. It was a little eerie. “You don’t need to know. I told you that. It’s a safe place, and that’s enough.”

  “So now you’re telling me what I need to know.” But he said it without his usual heat.

  “In this case, yes.”

  Big Jim considered his son carefully. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look pale.”

  “I’m fine. Just a headache. It’s going now.”

  “Why not have something to eat? There are a few more fettuccinis in the freezer, and the microwave does a great job on them.” He smiled. “Might as well enjoy them while we can.”

  The dark, considering eyes dropped for a moment to the puddle of white sauce on Big Jim’s plate, then rose again to his father’s face. “Not hungry. When should I find the bodies?”

  “Bodies?” Big Jim stared. “What do you mean, bodies ?”

  Junior smiled, lips lifting just enough to show the tips of his teeth. “Never mind. It’ll help your cred if you’re surprised like everyone else. Let’s put it this way—once we pull the trigger, this town will be ready to hang Baaarbie from a sour apple tree. When do you want to do it? Tonight? Because that’ll work.”

  Big Jim considered the question. He looked down at his yellow pad. It was crammed with notes (and splattered with alfredo sauce), but only one was circled: newspaper bitch.

  “Not tonight. We can use him for more than Coggins if we play this right.”

  “And if the Dome comes down while you’re playing it?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Big Jim said. Thinking, And if Mr. Barbara is somehow able to squirm free of the frame—not likely, but cockroaches have a way of finding cracks when the lights go on—there’s always you. You and those other bodies. “Now get yourself something to eat, even if it’s only a salad.”

  But Junior didn’t move. “Don’t wait too long, Dad,” he said. “I won’t.”

  Junior considered it, considered him with those dark eyes that seemed so strange now, then seemed to lose interest. He yawned. “I’m going up to my room and sleep awhile. I’ll eat later.”

  “Just make sure you do. You’re getting too thin.”

  “Thin is in,” his son replied, and offered a hollow smile that was even more disquieting than his eyes. To Big Jim, it looked like a skull’s smile. It made him think of the fellow who now just called himself The Chef—as if his previous life as Phil Bushey had been canceled. When Junior left the room, Big Jim breathed a sigh of relief without even being aware of it.

  He picked up his pen: so much to do. He would do it, and do it well. It was not impossible that when this thing was over, his picture would be on the cover of Time magazine.

  4

  With her generator still running—although it wouldn’t be for much longer unless she could find some more LP canisters—Brenda Perkins was able to fire up her husband’s printer and make a hard copy of everything in the VADER file. The incredible list of offenses Howie had compiled—and which he had apparently been about to act on at the time of his death—seemed more real to her on paper than they had on the computer screen. And the more she looked at them, the more they seemed to fit the Jim Rennie she’d known for most of her life. She had always known he was a monster; just not how big a monster.

  Even the stuff about Coggins’s Jesus-jumping church fit … although if she was reading this right, it was really not a church at all but a big old holy Maytag that washed money instead of clothes. Money from a drug-manufacturing operation that was, in her husband’s words, “maybe one of the biggest in the history of the United States.”

  But there were problems, which both Police Chief Howie “Duke” Perkins and the State AG had acknowledged. The problems were why the evidence-gathering phase of Operation Vader had gone on as long as it had. Jim Rennie wasn’t just a big monster; he was a smart monster. That was why he had always been content to remain the Second Selectman. He had Andy Sanders to break trail for him.

  And to wear a target—that, too. For a long time, Andy was the only one against whom Howie had had hard evidence. He was the frontman and probably didn’t even know it, cheery gladhanding dumbshit that h
e was. Andy was First Selectman, First Deacon at Holy Redeemer, first in the hearts of the townsfolk, and out front on a trail of corporate documents that finally disappeared into the obfuscatory financial swamps of Nassau and Grand Cayman Island. If Howie and the State Attorney General had moved too soon, he would also have been first to get his picture taken while holding a number. Maybe the only one, should he believe Big Jim’s inevitable promises that all would be well if Andy just kept mum. And he probably would. Who was better at dummying up than a dummy?

  Last summer, things had begun working toward what Howie had seen as the endgame. That was when Rennie’s name had started showing up on some of the paperwork the AG had obtained, most notably that of a Nevada corporation called Town Ventures. The Town Ventures money had disappeared west instead of east, not into the Caribbean but into mainland China, a country where the key ingredients of decongestant drugs could be bought in bulk, with few or any questions.

  Why would Rennie allow such exposure? Howie Perkins had been able to think of only one reason: the money had gotten too big too fast for one holy washing machine. Rennie’s name had subsequently appeared on papers concerning half a dozen other fundamentalist churches in the northeast. Town Ventures and the other churches (not to mention half a dozen other religious radio stations and AM talkers, none as big as WCIK) were Rennie’s first real mistakes. They left dangling strings. Strings could be pulled, and sooner or later—usually sooner—everything unraveled.

  You couldn’t let go, could you? Brenda thought as she sat behind her husband’s desk, studying the papers. You’d made millions—maybe tens of millions—and the risks were becoming outrageous, but you still couldn’t let go. Like a monkey who traps himself because he won’t let go of the food. You were sitting on a damn fortune and you just kept on living in that old three-story and selling cars at that pit of yours out on 119. Why?

  But she knew. It wasn’t the money; it was the town. What he saw as his town. Sitting on a beach somewhere in Costa Rica or presiding over a guarded estate in Namibia, Big Jim would become Small Jim. Because a man without a sense of purpose, even one whose bank accounts are stuffed with money, is always a small man.