by Stephen King
“You should’ve gone yourself, Fred. You’re the senior officer.”
“Then who’d be on the desk?”
Randolph had no answer for that—it was either too smart or too stupid. He supposed he better get his ass up to Cathy Russell.
I no longer want this job. No. Not even a little bit.
But it was too late now. And with Big Jim to help him, he’d manage. That was the thing to concentrate on; Big Jim would see him through.
Marty Arsenault tapped his shoulder. Randolph almost hauled off and hit him. Arsenault didn’t notice; he was looking across the street to where Julia Shumway was walking her dog. Walking her dog and … what?
Putting up newspapers, that was what. Tacking them to the goddam Christing telephone poles.
“That bitch won’t quit,” he breathed.
“Want me to go over there and make her quit?” Arsenault asked.
Marty looked eager for the chore, and Randolph almost gave it to him. Then he shook his head. “She’d just start giving you an earful about her damn civil rights. Like she doesn’t realize that scaring the holy hell out of everyone isn’t exactly in the town’s best interest.” He shook his head. “Probably she doesn’t. She’s incredibly …” There was a word for
what she was, a French word he’d learned in high school. He didn’t expect it to come to him, but it did. “Incredibly naïve.”
“I’ll stop her, Chief, I will. What’s she gonna do, call her lawyer?”
“Let her have her fun. At least it’s keeping her out of our hair. I better go up to the hospital. Denton says the Bushey girl murdered Frank DeLesseps and Georgia Roux. Then killed herself.”
“Christ,” Marty whispered, his face losing its color. “Is that down to Barbara too, do you think?”
Randolph started to say it wasn’t, then reconsidered. His second thought was of the girl’s rape accusation. Her suicide gave it a ring of truth, and rumors that Mill police officers could have done such a thing would be bad for department morale, and hence for the town. He didn’t need Jim Rennie to tell him that.
“Don’t know,” he said, “but it’s possible.”
Marty’s eyes were watering, either from smoke or from grief. Maybe both. “Gotta get Big Jim on top of this, Pete.”
“I will. Meanwhile”—Randolph nodded toward Julia—“keep an eye on her, and when she finally gets tired and goes away, take all that shit down and toss it where it belongs.” He indicated the torch that had been a newspaper office earlier in the day. “Put litter in its place.”
Marty snickered. “Roger that, boss.”
And that was just what Officer Arsenault did. But not before others in town had taken down a few of the papers for perusal in brighter light—half a dozen, maybe ten. They were passed from hand to hand in the next two or three days, and read until they quite literally fell apart.
14
When Andy got to the hospital, Piper Libby was already there. She was sitting on a bench in the lobby, talking to two girls in the white nylon pants and smock tops of nurses … although to Andy they seemed far too young to be real nurses. Both had been crying and looked like they might start again soon, but Andy could see Reverend Libby was having a calming effect on them. One thing he’d never had a problem with was judging human emotions. Sometimes he wished he’d been better at the thinking side of things.
Ginny Tomlinson was standing nearby, conversing quietly with an oldish-looking fellow. Both looked dazed and shaken. Ginny saw Andy and came over. The oldish-looking fellow trailed along behind. She introduced him as Thurston Marshall and said he was helping out.
Andy gave the new fellow a big smile and a warm handshake. “Nice to meet you, Thurston. I’m Andy Sanders. First Selectman.”
Piper glanced over from the bench and said, “If you were really the First Selectman, Andy, you’d rein in the Second Selectman.”
“I understand you’ve had a hard couple of days,” Andy said, still smiling. “We all have.”
Piper gave him a look of singular coldness, then asked the girls if they wouldn’t like to come down to the caff with her and have tea. “I could sure use a cup,” she said.
“I called her after I called you,” Ginny said, a little apologetically, after Piper had led the two junior nurses away. “And I called the PD. Got Fred Denton.” She wrinkled her nose as people do when they smell something bad.
“Aw, Freddy’s a good guy,” Andy said earnestly. His heart was in none of this—his heart felt like it was still back on Dale Barbara’s bed, planning to drink the poisoned pink water—but the old habits kicked in smoothly, nevertheless. The urge to make things all right, to calm troubled waters, turned out to be like riding a bicycle. “Tell me what happened here.”
She did so. Andy listened with surprising calmness, considering he’d known the DeLesseps family all his life and had in high school once taken Georgia Roux’s mother on a date (Helen had kissed with her mouth open, which was nice, but had stinky breath, which wasn’t). He thought his current emotional flatness had everything to do with knowing that if his phone hadn’t rung when it did, he’d be unconscious by now. Maybe dead. A thing like that put the world in perspective.
“Two of our brand-new officers,” he said. To himself he sounded like the recording you got when you called a movie theater to get showtimes. “One already badly hurt trying to clean up that supermarket mess. Dear, dear.”
“This is probably not the time to say so, but I’m not very fond of your police department,” Thurston said. “Although since the officer who actually punched me is now dead, lodging a complaint would be moot.”
“Which officer? Frank or the Roux girl?”
“The young man. I recognized him in spite of his … his mortal disfigurement.”
“Frank DeLesseps punched you?” Andy simply didn’t believe this. Frankie had delivered his Lewiston Sun for four years and never missed a day. Well, yes, one or two, now that he thought of it, but those had come during big snowstorms. And once he’d had the measles. Or had it been the mumps?
“If that was his name.”
“Well gosh … that’s …” It was what? And did it matter? Did anything? Yet Andy pushed gamely forward. “That’s regrettable, sir. We believe in living up to our responsibilities in Chester’s Mill. Doing the right thing. It’s just that right now we’re kind of under the gun. Circumstances beyond our control, you know.”
“I do know,” Thurse said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s water over the dam. But sir … those officers were awfully young. And very out of line.” He paused. “The lady I’m with was also assaulted.”
Andy just couldn’t believe this fellow was telling the truth. Chester’s Mill cops didn’t hurt people unless they were provoked (severely provoked); that was for the big cities, where folks didn’t know how to get along. Of course, he would have said a girl killing two cops and then taking her own life was also the kind of thing that didn’t happen in The Mill.
Never mind, Andy thought. He’s not just an out-of-towner, he’s an outof-stater. Put it down to that.
Ginny said, “Now that you’re here, Andy, I’m not sure what you can do. Twitch is taking care of the bodies, and—”
Before she could go on, the door opened. A young woman came in, leading two sleepy-looking children by the hands. The old fellow—Thurston—hugged her while the children, a girl and a boy, looked on. Both of them were barefooted and wearing tee-shirts as nightshirts. The boy’s, which came all the way down to his ankles, read PRISONER 9091 and PROPERTY OF SHAWSHANK STATE PRISON. Thurston’s daughter and grandchildren, Andy supposed, and that made him miss Claudette and Dodee all over again. He pushed the thought of them away. Ginny had called him for help, and it was clear she needed some herself. Which would no doubt mean listening while she told the whole story again—not for his benefit but for her own. So she could get the truth of it and start making peace with it. Andy didn’t mind. Listening was a thing he’d always been good at, and it was bett
er than looking at three dead bodies, one the discarded husk of his old paperboy. Listening was such a simple thing, when you got right down to it, even a moron could listen, but Big Jim had never gotten the hang of it. Big Jim was better at talking. And planning—that, too. They were lucky to have him at a time like this.
As Ginny was winding up her second recitation, a thought came to Andy. Possibly an important one. “Has anyone—”
Thurston returned with the newcomers in tow. “Selectman Sanders—Andy—this is my partner, Carolyn Sturges. And these are the children we’re taking care of. Alice and Aidan.”
“I want my binkie,” Aidan said morosely.
Alice said, “You’re too old for a binkie,” and elbowed him.
Aidan’s face scrunched, but he didn’t quite cry.
“Alice,” Carolyn Sturges said, “that’s mean. And what do we know about mean people?”
Alice brightened. “Mean people suck!” she cried, and collapsed into giggles. After considering a moment, Aidan joined her.
“I’m sorry,” Carolyn said to Andy. “I had no one to watch them, and Thurse sounded so distraught when he called….”
It was hard to believe, but it seemed possible the old guy was bumping sweet spots with the young lady. The idea was only of passing interest to Andy, although under other circumstances he might have considered it deeply, pondering positions, wondering about whether she frenched him with that dewy mouth of hers, etc., etc. Now, however, he had other things on his mind.
“Has anyone told Sammy’s husband that she’s dead?” he asked.
“Phil Bushey?” It was Dougie Twitchell, coming down the hall and into the reception area. His shoulders were slumped and his complexion was gray. “Sonofabitch left her and left town. Months ago.” His eyes fell on Alice and Aidan Appleton. “Sorry, kids.”
“That’s all right,” Caro said. “We have an open-language house. It’s much more truthful.”
“That’s right,” Alice piped up. “We can say shit and piss all we want, at least until Ma gets back.”
“But not bitch,” Aidan amplified. “Bitch is ex -ist.”
Caro took no notice of this byplay. “Thurse? What happened?”
“Not in front of the kids,” he said. “Open language or no open language.”
“Frank’s parents are out of town,” Twitch said, “but I got in touch with Helen Roux. She took it quite calmly.”
“Drunk?” Andy asked.
“As a skunk.”
Andy wandered a little way up the hall. A few patients, clad in hospital johnnies and slippers, were standing with their backs to him. Looking at the scene of the slaughter, he presumed. He had no urge to do likewise, and was glad Dougie Twitchell had taken care of whatever needed taking care of. He was a pharmacist and a politician. His job was to help the living, not process the dead.
And he knew something these people did not. He couldn’t tell them that Phil Bushey was still in town, living like a hermit out at the radio station, but he could tell Phil that his estranged wife was dead. Could and should. Of course it was impossible to predict what Phil’s reaction might be; Phil wasn’t himself these days. He might lash out. He might even kill the bearer of bad tidings. But would that be so awful? Suicides might go to hell and dine on hot coals for eternity, but murder victims, Andy was quite sure, went to heaven and ate roast beef and peach cobbler at the Lord’s table for all eternity.
With their loved ones.
15
In spite of the nap she’d had earlier in the day, Julia was more tired than ever in her life, or so it felt. And unless she took Rosie up on her offer, she had nowhere to go. Except her car, of course.
She went back to it, unclipped Horace’s leash so he could jump onto the passenger seat, and then sat behind the wheel trying to think. She liked Rose Twitchell just fine, but Rosie would want to rehash the entire long and harrowing day. And she’d want to know what, if anything, was to be done about Dale Barbara. She would look to Julia for ideas, and Julia had none.
Meanwhile Horace was staring at her, asking with his cocked ears and bright eyes what came next. He made her think of the woman who had lost her dog: Piper Libby. Piper would take her in and give her a bed without talking her ear off. And after a night’s sleep, Julia might be able to think again. Even plan a little.
She started the Prius and drove up to the Congo church. But the parsonage was dark, and a note was tacked to the door. Julia pulled the tack, took the note back to the car, and read it by the dome light.
I have gone to the hospital. There has been a shooting there.
Julia started to make the keening noise again, and when Horace
began to whine as if trying to harmonize, she made herself stop. She put the Prius in reverse, then put it back in park long enough to return the note to where she had found it, in case some other parishioner with the weight of the world on his shoulders (or hers) might come by looking for The Mill’s remaining spiritual advisor.
So now where? Rosie’s after all? But Rosie might already have turned in. The hospital? Julia would have forced herself to go there in spite of her shock and her weariness if it had served a purpose, but now there was no newspaper in which to report whatever had happened, and without that, no reason to expose herself to fresh horrors.
She backed out of the driveway and turned up Town Common Hill with no idea where she was going until she came to Prestile Street. Three minutes later, she was parking in Andrea Grinnell’s driveway. Yet this house was also dark. There was no answer to her soft knocks. Having no way of knowing that Andrea was in her bed upstairs, deeply asleep for the first time since dumping her pills, Julia assumed she had either gone to her brother Dougie’s house or was spending the night with a friend.
Meanwhile, Horace was sitting on the welcome mat, looking up at her, waiting for her to take charge, as she had always done. But Julia was too hollowed out to take charge and too tired to go further. She was more than half convinced that she would drive the Prius off the road and kill them both if she tried going anywhere.
What she kept thinking about wasn’t the burning building where her life had been stored but of how Colonel Cox had looked when she’d asked him if they had been abandoned.
Negative, he’d said. Absolutely not. But he hadn’t quite been able to look at her while he said it.
There was a lawn glider on the porch. If necessary, she could curl up there. But maybe—
She tried the door and found it unlocked. She hesitated; Horace did not. Secure in the belief that he was welcome everywhere, he went inside immediately. Julia followed on the other end of the leash, thinking, My dog is now making the decisions. This is what it’s come to.
“Andrea?” she called softly. “Andi, are you here? It’s Julia.”
Upstairs, lying on her back and snoring like a truck driver at the end of a four-day run, only one part of Andrea stirred: her left foot, which hadn’t yet given up its withdrawal-induced jerking and tapping.
It was gloomy in the living room, but not entirely dark; Andi had left a battery-powered lamp on in the kitchen. And there was a smell. The windows were open, but with no breeze, the odor of vomit hadn’t entirely vented. Had someone told her that Andrea was ill? With the flu, maybe?
Maybe it is the flu, but it could just as easily be withdrawal if she ran out of the pills she takes.
Either way, sickness was sickness, and sick people usually didn’t want to be alone. Which meant the house was empty. And she was so tired. Across the room was a nice long couch, and it called to her. If Andi came in tomorrow and found Julia there, she’d understand.
“She might even make me a cup of tea,” she said. “We’ll laugh about it.” Although the idea of laughing at anything, ever again, seemed out of the question to her right now. “Come on, Horace.”
She unclipped his leash and trudged across the room. Horace watched her until she lay down and put a sofa pillow behind her head. Then he laid down himself and put his snout on his paw
.
“You be a good boy,” she said, and closed her eyes. What she saw when she did was Cox’s eyes not quite meeting hers. Because Cox thought they were under the Dome for the long haul.
But the body knows mercies of which the brain is unaware. Julia fell asleep with her head less than four feet from the manila envelope Brenda had tried to deliver to her that morning. At some point, Horace jumped onto the couch and curled up between her knees. And that was how Andrea found them when she came downstairs on the morning of October twenty-fifth, feeling more like her true self than she had in years.
16
There were four people in Rusty’s living room: Linda, Jackie, Stacey Moggin, and Rusty himself. He served out glasses of iced tea, then summarized what he had found in the basement of the Bowie Funeral Home. The first question came from Stacey, and it was purely practical.
“Did you remember to lock up?”
“Yes,” Linda said. “Then give me the key. I have to put it back.”
Us and them, Rusty thought again. That’s what this conversation is going to be about. What it’s already about. Our secrets. Their power. Our plans. Their agenda.
Linda handed over the key, then asked Jackie if the girls had given her any problems.
“No seizures, if that’s what you’re worried about. Slept like lambs the whole time you were gone.”
“What are we going to do about this?” Stacey asked. She was a little thing, but determined. “If you want to arrest Rennie, the four of us will have to convince Randolph to do it. We three women as officers, Rusty as the acting pathologist.”
“No!” Jackie and Linda said it together, Jackie with decisiveness, Linda with fright.
“We have a hypothesis but no real proof,” Jackie said. “I’m not sure Pete Randolph would believe us even if we had surveillance photos of Big Jim snapping Brenda’s neck. He and Rennie are in it together now, sink or swim. And most of the cops would come down on Pete’s side.”
“Especially the new ones,” Stacey said, and tugged at her cloud of blond hair. “A lot of them aren’t very bright, but they’re dedicated. And they like carrying guns. Plus”—she leaned forward—“there’s six or eight more of them tonight. Just high-school kids. Big and stupid and enthusiastic. They scare the hell out of me. And something else. Thibodeau, Searles, and Junior Rennie are asking the newbies to recommend even more. Give this a couple of days and it won’t be a police force anymore, it’ll be an army of teenagers.”