by Stephen King
Big Jim raised a teacherly finger. “I’m going to tell you what my father told me, Frank—there’s no such thing as an unloaded gun. We’ve got a good town here. They’ll behave, that’s what I’m banking on. If they change, we’ll change. Got it?”
“Yessir, Mr. Rennie.” Frank didn’t sound happy about it. That was fine with Big Jim.
He rose. Only instead of leading them out, Big Jim extended his hands. He saw their hesitation and nodded, still smiling. “Come on, now. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day, and we don’t want to let this one go without a word of prayer. So grab on.”
They grabbed on. Big Jim closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Dear Lord—”
It went on for some time.
3
Barbie mounted the outside steps to his apartment at a few minutes to midnight, his shoulders sagging with weariness, thinking that the only thing in the world he wanted was six hours of oblivion before answering the alarm and going up to Sweetbriar Rose to cook breakfast.
The weariness left him as soon as he snapped on the lights—which, courtesy of Andy Sanders’s generator, still worked.
Someone had been in here.
The sign was so subtle that at first he couldn’t isolate it. He closed his eyes, then opened them and let them swing casually about his combination living-room/kitchenette, trying to take in everything. The books he’d been planning to leave behind hadn’t been moved around on the shelves; the chairs were where they had been, one under the lamp and the other by the room’s only window, with its scenic view of the alley outside; the coffee cup and the toast plate were still in the dish drainer beside the tiny sink.
Then it clicked home, as such things usually did if you didn’t push too hard. It was the rug. What he thought of as his Not Lindsay rug.
About five feet long and two wide, Not Lindsay was a repeating diamond pattern in blue, red, white, and brown. He had bought it in Baghdad, but had been assured by an Iraqi policeman he trusted that it was of Kurdish manufacture. “Very old, very beautiful,” the policeman had said. His name was Latif abd al-Khaliq Hassan. A good troop. “Look Turkey, but no-no-no.” Big grin. White teeth. A week after that day in the marketplace, a sniper’s bullet had blown Latif abd al-Khaliq Hassan’s brains right out through the back of his head. “Not Turkey, Iraqi!”
The rug-merchant wore a yellow tee-shirt that had said DON’T SHOOT ME, I’M ONLY THE PIANO PLAYER. Latif listened to him, nodding. They laughed together. Then the merchant had made a startlingly American jackoff gesture and they laughed even harder.
“What was that about?” Barbie had asked.
“He says American senator bought five like these. Lindsay Graham. Five rug, five hundred dollar. Five hundred out front, for press. More on the down-low. But all senator rug fake. Yes-yes-yes. This one not fake, this one real. I, Latif Hassan, tell you this, Barbie. Not Lindsay Graham rug.”
Latif had raised his hand and Barbie slapped him five. That had been a good day. Hot, but good. He had bought the rug for two hundred dollars American and an all-territories Coby DVD player. Not Lindsay was his one souvenir of Iraq, and he never stepped on it. He always stepped around it. He had planned to leave it behind when he left The Mill—he supposed down deep his idea had been to leave Iraq behind when he left The Mill, but fat chance of that. Wherever you went, there you were. The great Zen truth of the age.
He hadn’t stepped on it, he was superstitious about that, he always detoured around it, as if to step on it would activate some computer in Washington and he would find himself back in Baghdad or fucking Fallujah. But somebody had, because Not Lindsay was mussed. Wrinkled. And a little crooked. It had been perfectly straight when he left this morning, a thousand years ago.
He went into the bedroom. The coverlet was as neat as always, but that sense that someone had been here was equally strong. Was it a lingering smell of sweat? Some psychic vibe? Barbie didn’t know and didn’t care. He went to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and saw that the pair of extra-faded jeans which had been on top of the pile was now on the bottom. And his khaki shorts, which he’d laid in with the zippers up, were now zippers-down.
He went immediately to the second drawer, and the socks. It took less than five seconds to verify that his dog tags were gone, and he wasn’t surprised. No, not surprised at all.
He grabbed the disposable cell he had also been planning to leave behind and went back into the main room. The combined Tarker’s-Chester’s telephone directory was sitting on a table by the door, a book so skinny it was almost a pamphlet. He looked for the number he wanted, not really expecting it to be there; Chiefs of Police did not make a practice of listing their home phone numbers.
Except, it seemed, in small towns, they did. At least this one had, although the listing was discreet: H and B Perkins 28 Morin Street. Even though it was now past midnight, Barbie punched in the number without hesitation. He couldn’t afford to wait. He had an idea that time might be extremely short.
4
Her phone was tweeting. Howie, no doubt, calling to tell her he was going to be late, to just lock up the house and go to bed—
Then it came down on her again, like unpleasant presents raining from a poison piñata: the realization that Howie was dead. She didn’t know who could be calling her at—she checked her watch—twenty past midnight, but it wasn’t Howie.
She winced as she sat up, rubbing her neck, cursing herself for falling asleep on the couch, also cursing whoever had wakened her at such an ungodly hour and refreshed her recollection of her strange new singularity.
Then it occurred to her that there could be only one reason for such a late call: the Dome was either gone or had been breached. She bumped her leg on the coffee table hard enough to make the papers there rattle, then limped to the phone beside Howie’s chair (how it hurt her to look at that empty chair) and snatched it up. “What? What ?”
“It’s Dale Barbara.”
“Barbie! Has it broken? Has the Dome broken?”
“No. I wish that’s why I was calling, but it’s not.”
“Then why ? It’s almost twelve-thirty in the morning!”
“You said your husband was investigating Jim Rennie.”
Brenda paused, getting the sense of this. She had put her palm against the side of her throat, the place where Howie had caressed her for the last time. “He was, but I told you, he had no absolute—”
“I remember what you said,” Barbie told her. “You need to listen to me, Brenda. Can you do that? Are you awake?”
“I am now.”
“Your husband had notes?”
“Yes. On his laptop. I printed them.” She was looking at the VADER file, spread out on the coffee table.
“Good. Tomorrow morning, I want you to put the printout in an envelope and take it to Julia Shumway. Tell her to put it in a safe place. An actual safe, if she’s got one. A cash strongbox or a locked file cabinet, if she doesn’t. Tell her she’s only to open it if something happens to you or me or both of us.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“She is not to open it otherwise. If you tell her that, will she do it? My instincts say she will.”
“Of course she will, but why not let her look?”
“Because if the editor of the local paper sees what your husband had on Big Jim and Big Jim knows she’s seen it, most of the leverage we have will be gone. Do you follow that?”
“Ye-es …” She found herself wishing desperately that Howie were the one having this post-midnight conversation.
“I said I might be arrested today if the missile strike didn’t work. Do you remember me telling you that?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I wasn’t. That fat sonofabitch knows how to bide his time. But he won’t bide it much longer. I’m almost positive it’s going to happen tomorrow—later today, I mean. If, that is, you can’t put a stop to it by threatening to air whatever dirt your husband dug up.”
“What do you think they’re going to arrest you for
?”
“No idea, but it won’t be shoplifting. And once I’m in jail, I think I might have an accident. I saw plenty of accidents like that in Iraq.”
“That’s crazy.” But it had the horrid plausibility she had sometimes experienced in nightmares.
“Think about it, Brenda. Rennie has something to cover up, he needs a scapegoat, and the new Police Chief is in his pocket. The stars are in alignment.”
“I was planning to go see him anyway,” Brenda said. “And I was going to take Julia with me, for safety’s sake.”
“Don’t take Julia,” he said, “but don’t go alone.”
“You don’t actually think he’d—”
“I don’t know what he’d do, how far he’d go. Who do you trust besides Julia?”
She flashed back to that afternoon, the fires almost out, standing beside Little Bitch Road, feeling good in spite of her grief because she was flush with endorphins. Romeo Burpee telling her she ought to at least stand for Fire Chief.
“Rommie Burpee,” she said.
“Okay, then he’s the one.”
“Do I tell him what Howie had on—”
“No,” Barbie said. “He’s just your insurance policy. And here’s another one: lock up your husband’s laptop.”
“Okay … but if I lock up the laptop and leave the printout with Julia, what am I going to show Jim? I guess I could print a second copy—”
“No. One of those floating around is enough. For now, at least. Putting the fear of God into him is one thing. Freaking him out would make him too unpredictable. Brenda, do you believe he’s dirty?”
She did not hesitate. “With all my heart.” Because Howie believed it—that’s good enough for me.
“And you remember what’s in the file?”
“Not the exact figures and the names of all the banks they used, but enough.”
“Then he’ll believe you,” Barbie said. “With or without a second copy of the paperwork, he’ll believe you.”
5
Brenda put the VADER file in a manila envelope. On the front she printed Julia’s name. She put the envelope on the kitchen table, then went into Howie’s study and locked his laptop in the safe. The safe was small and she had to turn the Mac on its side, but in the end it just fit. She finished by giving the combination dial not just one but two spins, as per her dead husband’s instructions. As she did, the lights went out. For a moment some primitive part of her was certain she had blown them just by giving the dial that extra spin.
Then she realized that the generator out back had died.
6
When Junior came in at five minutes past six on Tuesday morning, his pale cheeks stubbly, his hair standing up in haystacks, Big Jim was sitting at the kitchen table in a white bathrobe the approximate size of a clipper ship’s mainsail. He was drinking a Coke.
Junior nodded at it. “A good day starts with a good breakfast.”
Big Jim raised the can, took a swallow, and set it down. “There’s no coffee. Well, there is, but there’s no electricity. The generator’s out of LP. Grab yourself a pop, why don’t you? They’re still fairly cold, and you look like you could use it.”
Junior opened the fridge and peered into its dark interior. “Am I supposed to believe you couldn’t score some bottled gas anytime you wanted it?”
Big Jim started a little at that, then relaxed. It was a reasonable question, and didn’t mean Junior knew anything. The guilty man flees where none pursueth, Big Jim reminded himself.
“Let’s just say it might not be politic at this point in time.”
“Uh-huh.”
Junior closed the refrigerator door and sat down on the other side of the table. He looked at his old man with a certain hollow amusement (which Big Jim mistook for affection).
The family that slays together stays together, Junior thought. At least for the time being. As long as it’s …
“Politic,” he said.
Big Jim nodded and studied his son, who was supplementing his early-morning beverage with a Big Jerk beefstick.
He did not ask Where have you been? He did not ask What’s wrong with you?, although it was obvious, in the unforgiving first light that flooded the kitchen, that something was. But he did have a question.
“There are bodies. Plural. Is that right?”
“Yes.” Junior took a big bite of his beefstick and washed it down with Coke. The kitchen was weirdly silent without the hum of the fridge and the burble of the Mr. Coffee.
“And all these bodies can be laid at Mr. Barbara’s door?”
“Yes. All.” Another chomp. Another swallow. Junior looking at him steadily, rubbing his left temple as he did so.
“Can you plausibly discover those bodies around noon today?”
“No prob.”
“And the evidence against our Mr. Barbara, of course.”
“Yes.” Junior smiled. “It’s good evidence.”
“Don’t report to the police station this morning, son.”
“I better,” Junior said. “It might look funny if I don’t. Besides, I’m not tired. I slept with …” He shook his head. “I slept, leave it at that.”
Big Jim also did not ask Who did you sleep with? He had other concerns than whom his son might be diddling; he was just glad the boy hadn’t been among the fellows who’d done their business with that nasty piece of trailer trash out on Motton Road. Doing business with that sort of girl was a good way to catch something and get sick.
He’s already sick, a voice in Big Jim’s head whispered. It might have been the fading voice of his wife. Just look at him.
That voice was probably right, but this morning he had greater concerns than Junior Rennie’s eating disorder, or whatever it was.
“I didn’t say go to bed. I want you on motor patrol, and I want you to do a job for me. Just stay away from Food City while you’re doing it. There’s going to be trouble there, I think.”
Junior’s eyes livened up. “What kind of trouble?”
Big Jim didn’t answer directly. “Can you find Sam Verdreaux?”
“Sure. He’ll be in that little shack out on God Creek Road. Ordinarily he’d be sleeping it off, but today he’s more apt to be shaking himself awake with the DTs.” Junior snickered at this image, then winced and went back to rubbing his temple. “You really think I’m the person to talk to him? He’s not my biggest fan right now. He’s probably even deleted me from his Facebook page.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a joke, Dad. Forget it.”
“Do you think he’d warm up to you if you offered him three quarts of whiskey? And more later, if he does a good job?”
“That skanky old bastard would warm up to me if I offered him half a juice glass of Two-Buck Chuck.”
“You can get the whiskey from Brownie’s,” Big Jim said. In addition to cheapass groceries and beaver-books, Brownie’s was one of three agency liquor stores in The Mill, and the PD had keys to all three. Big Jim slid the key across the table. “Back door. Don’t let anyone see you going in.”
“What’s Sloppy Sam supposed to do for the booze?”
Big Jim explained. Junior listened impassively … except for his bloodshot eyes, which danced. He had only one more question: Would it work?
Big Jim nodded. “It will. I’m feeling it. ”
Junior took another chomp on his beefstick and another swallow of his soda. “So’m I, Dad,” he said. “So’m I.”
7
When Junior was gone, Big Jim went into his study with his robe billowing grandly around him. He took his cell phone from the center drawer of his desk, where he kept it as much as possible. He thought they were Godless things that did nothing but encourage a lot of loose and useless talk—how many man-hours had been lost to useless gabble on these things? And what kind of nasty rays did they shoot into your head while you were gabbling?
Still, they could come in handy. He reckoned that Sam Verdreaux would do as Junior told him, but h
e also knew it would be foolish not to take out insurance.
He selected a number in the cell phone’s “hidden” directory, which could be accessed only via numeric code. The phone rang half a dozen times before it was picked up. “What?” the sire of the multitudinous Killian brood barked.
Big Jim winced and held the phone away from his ear for a second. When he put it back, he heard low clucking sounds in the background. “Are you in the chickenhouse, Rog?”
“Uh … yessir, Big Jim, I sure am. Chickens got to be fed, come hell or high water.” A 180-degree turn from irritation to respect. And Roger Killian ought to be respectful; Big Jim had made him a gosh-darn millionaire. If he was wasting what could have been a good life with no financial worries by still getting up at dawn to feed a bunch of chickens, that was God’s will. Roger was too dumb to stop. It was his heaven-sent nature, and would no doubt serve Big Jim well today.
And the town, he thought. It’s the town I’m doing this for. The good of the town.
“Roger, I’ve got a job for you and your three oldest sons.”
“Only got two t’home,” Roger said. In his thick Yankee accent, home came out hum. “Ricky and Randall are here, but Roland was in Oxford buying feed when the Christing Dome came down.” He paused and considered what he had just said. In the background, the chickens clucked. “Sorry about the profanity.”
“I’m sure God forgives you,” Big Jim said. “You and your two oldest, then. Can you get them to town by—” Big Jim calculated. It didn’t take long. When you were feeling it, few decisions did. “Say, nine o’clock, nine fifteen at the latest?”
“I’ll have to rouse em, but sure,” Roger said. “What are we doin? Bringin in some of the extra propa—”
“No,” Big Jim said, “and you hush about that, God love you. Just listen.”
Big Jim talked.
Roger Killian, God love him, listened.
In the background roughly eight hundred chickens clucked as they stuffed themselves with steroid-laced feed.
8