Under the Dome: A Novel

by Stephen King

  “Good morning, Mr. Barbara.” There was a slight, satisfied emphasis on the civilian title.

  “Selectman Rennie,” Barbie said. “What can I do for you besides give you my name, rank, and serial number … which I’m not sure I remember?”

  “Confess. Save us some trouble and soothe your own soul.”

  “Mr. Searles mentioned something last night about waterboarding,” Barbie said. “He asked me if I’d ever seen it in Iraq.”

  Rennie’s mouth was pursed in a slight smile that seemed to say Tell me more, talking animals are so interesting.

  “In fact, I did. I have no idea how often the technique was actually used in the field—reports varied—but I saw it twice. One of the men confessed, although his confession was worthless. The man he named as an Al Qaeda bombmaker turned out to be a school-teacher who’d left Iraq for Kuwait fourteen months previous. The other man had a convulsion and suffered brain damage, so there was no confession from him. Had he been capable, though, I’m sure he would have given one. Everybody confesses when they’re water-boarded, usually in a matter of minutes. I’m sure I would, too.”

  “Then save yourself some grief,” Big Jim said.

  “You look tired, sir. Are you well?”

  The tiny smile was replaced by a tiny frown. It emanated from the deep crease between Rennie’s eyebrows. “My current condition is none of your concern. A word of advice, Mr. Barbara. Don’t bullspit me and I won’t bullspit you. What you should be concerned about is your own condition. It may be fine now, but that could change. In a matter of minutes. You see, I am indeed thinking of having you waterboarded. Am, in fact, seriously considering it. So confess to these murders. Save yourself a lot of pain and trouble.”

  “I think not. And if you waterboard me, I’m apt to talk about all sorts of things. Probably ought to keep that in mind when you decide who you want in the room when I start talking.”

  Rennie considered this. Although he was neatly put together, especially for such an early hour, his complexion was sallow and his small eyes were rimmed with purple flesh-like bruises. He really did not look well. If Big Jim just dropped dead, Barbie could see two possible results. One was that the ugly political weather in The Mill would clear without spawning any further tornadoes. The other was a chaotic bloodbath in which Barbie’s own death (quite likely by lynching rather than firing squad), would be followed by a purge of his suspected co-conspirators. Julia might be first on that list. And Rose could be number two; frightened people were great believers in guilt by association.

  Rennie turned to Thibodeau. “Step back, Carter. All the way to the stairs, if you please.”

  “But if he makes a grab for you—”

  “Then you’d kill him. And he knows it. Don’t you, Mr. Barbara?”

  Barbie nodded.

  “Besides, I’m not getting any closer than this. Which is why I want you to step back. We’re having a private conversation here.”

  Thibodeau stepped back.

  “Now, Mr. Barbara—what things would you talk about?”

  “I know all about the meth lab.” Barbie kept his voice pitched low. “Chief Perkins knew, and he was getting ready to arrest you. Brenda found the file on his computer. It’s why you killed her.”

  Rennie smiled. “That’s an ambitious fantasy.”

  “The State Attorney General won’t think so, given your motive. We’re not talking about some half-assed cook-up in a mobile home; this is the General Motors of meth.”

  “By the end of the day,” Rennie said, “Perkins’s computer will be destroyed. Hers, as well. I suppose there may be a copy of certain papers in Duke’s home safe—meaningless, of course; vicious, politically motivated garbage from the mind of a man who always loathed me—and if so, the safe will be opened and the papers will be burned. For the town’s good, not mine. This is a crisis situation. We all need to pull together.”

  “Brenda passed on a copy of that file before she died.”

  Big Jim grinned, revealing a double row of tiny teeth. “One confabulation deserves another, Mr. Barbara. Shall I confabulate?”

  Barbie spread his hands: Be my guest.

  “In my confabulation, Brenda comes to see me and tells me that same thing. She says she gave the copy of which you speak to Julia Shumway. But I know it’s a lie. She may have meant to, but she did not. Even if she had—” He shrugged. “Your cohorts burned down Shumway’s newspaper last night. That was a bad decision on their part. Or was it your idea?”

  Barbara repeated: “There is another copy. I know where it is. If you waterboard me, I will confess that location. Loudly.”

  Rennie laughed. “Put with great sincerity, Mr. Barbara, but I’ve spent my whole life dickering, and I know a bluff when I hear one. Perhaps I should just have you summarily executed. The town would cheer.”

  “How loudly, if you did it without discovering my co-conspirators first? Even Peter Randolph might question that decision, and he’s nothing but a dumb and frightened lickspittle.”

  Big Jim stood up. His hanging cheeks had gone the color of old brick. “You don’t know who you’re playing with here.”

  “Sure I do. I saw your kind again and again in Iraq. They wear turbans instead of ties, but otherwise they’re just the same. Right down to the blather about God.”

  “Well, you’ve talked me out of waterboarding,” Big Jim said. “It’s a shame, too, because I always wanted to see it firsthand.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “For now we’ll just keep you in this cozy cell, all right? I don’t think you’ll eat much, because eating interferes with thinking. Who knows? With constructive thinking, you may come up with better reasons for me to allow you to go on living. The names of those in town who are against me, for instance. A complete list. I’ll give you forty-eight hours. Then, if you can’t convince me otherwise, you’ll be executed in War Memorial Plaza with the entire town looking on. You’ll serve as an object lesson.”

  “You really don’t look well, Selectman.”

  Rennie studied him gravely. “It’s your kind that causes most of the trouble in the world. If I didn’t think your execution would serve this town as a unifying principle and a much-needed catharsis, I’d have Mr. Thibodeau shoot you right now.”

  “Do that and it all comes out,” Barbie said. “People from one end of this town to the other will know about your operation. Try getting a consensus at your motherfucking town meeting then, you tinpot tyrant.”

  The veins swelled on the sides of Big Jim’s neck; another beat in the center of his forehead. For a moment he looked on the verge of exploding. Then he smiled. “A for effort, Mr. Barbara. But you lie.”

  He left. They all left. Barbie sat on his bunk, sweating. He knew how close to the edge he was. Rennie had reasons to keep him alive, but not strong ones. And then there was the note delivered by Jackie Wettington and Linda Everett. The expression on Mrs. Everett’s face suggested that she knew enough to be terrified, and not just for herself. It would have been safer for him to try and escape using the knife. Given the current level of professionalism in the Chester’s Mill PD, he thought it could be done. It would take a little luck, but it could be done.

  He had, however, no way of telling them to let him try it on his own.

  Barbie lay down and put his hands behind his head. One question nagged him above all others: what had happened to the copy of the VADER file meant for Julia? Because it hadn’t reached her; about that he was sure Rennie had been telling the truth.

  No way of knowing, and nothing to do but wait.

  Lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, Barbie began to do it.

  PLAY THAT DEAD BAND SONG

  1

  When Linda and Jackie came back from the PD, Rusty and the girls were sitting on the front step waiting for them. The Js were still in their nighties—light cotton ones, not the flannels they were used to at this time of year. Although it was still not quite seven AM, the thermometer outside the kitchen w
indow had the temperature at sixty-six degrees.

  Ordinarily, the two girls would have flown down the walk to embrace their mother far in advance of Rusty, but this morning he beat them by several yards. He seized Linda around the waist and she wrapped her arms around his neck with almost painful tight-ness—not a hello-handsome hug, but a drowner’s grip.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered in her ear.

  Her hair brushed up and down against his cheek as she nodded. Then she drew back. Her eyes were shining. “I was sure Thibodeau would look in the cereal, it was Jackie’s idea to spit in it, that was genius, but I was certain—”

  “Why is mommy crying?” Judy asked. She sounded ready to cry herself.

  “I’m not,” she said, then wiped her eyes. “Well, maybe a little. Because I’m so happy to see your dad.”

  “We’re all happy to see him!” Janelle told Jackie. “Because my Daddy, HE’S THE BOSS! ”

  “News to me,” Rusty said, then kissed Linda on the mouth, hard.

  “Lips-kissin!” Janelle said, fascinated. Judy covered her eyes and giggled.

  “Come on, girls, swings,” Jackie said. “Then you get dressed for school.”

  “I WANT TO LOOPIE DA LOOP!” Janelle screamed, leading the way.

  “School?” Rusty asked. “Really?”

  “Really,” Linda said. “Just the little ones, at East Street Grammar. Half a day. Wendy Goldstone and Ellen Vanedestine volunteered to take classes. K through three in one room, four through six in another. I don’t know if any actual learning will happen, but it’ll give the kids a place to go, and a sense of normalcy. Maybe.” She looked up at the sky, which was cloudless but had a yellowish tinge all the same. Like a blue eye with a cataract growing on it, she thought. “I could use some normalcy myself. Look at that sky.”

  Rusty glanced up briefly, then held his wife at arm’s length so he could study her. “You got away with it? You’re sure?”

  “Yes. But it was close. This kind of thing may be fun in spy movies, but in real life it’s awful. I won’t break him out, honey. Because of the girls.”

  “Dictators always hold the children hostage,” Rusty said. “At some point people have to say that no longer works.”

  “But not here and not yet. This is Jackie’s idea, so let her handle it. I won’t be a part of it, and I won’t let you be a part of it.” Yet he knew that if he demanded this of her, she would do as he asked; it was the expression under her expression. If that made him the boss, he didn’t want to be.

  “You’re going in to work?” he asked.

  “Of course. Kids go to Marta, Marta takes kids to school, Linda and Jackie report for another day of police work under the Dome. Anything else would look funny. I hate having to think this way.” She blew out a breath. “Also, I’m tired.” She glanced to make sure the kids were out of earshot. “Fucking exhausted. I hardly slept at all. Are you going in to the hospital?”

  Rusty shook his head. “Ginny and Twitch are going to be on their own at least until noon … although with the new guy to help them out, I think they’ll be okay. Thurston’s kind of New Age-y, but he’s good. I’m going over to Claire McClatchey’s. I need to talk to those kids, and I need to go out to where they got the radiation spike on the Geiger counter.”

  “What do I tell people who ask where you are?”

  Rusty considered this. “The truth, I guess. Some of it, anyway. Say I’m investigating a possible Dome generator. That might make Rennie think twice about whatever next step he’s planning.”

  “And when I’m asked about the location? Because I will be.”

  “Say you don’t know, but you think it’s on the western side of town.”

  “Black Ridge is north.”

  “Yep. If Rennie tells Randolph to send out some of his Mounties, I want them to go to the wrong place. If someone calls you on it later, just say you were tired and must have gotten mixed up. And listen, hon—before you go in to the PD, make a list of people who may believe Barbie’s innocent of the murders.” Thinking again, Us and them. “We need to talk to those people before the town meeting tomorrow. Very discreetly.”

  “Rusty, are you sure about this? Because after the fire last night, this whole town is going to be on the lookout for the Friends of Dale Barbara.”

  “Am I sure? Yes. Do I like it? Most assuredly not.”

  She looked up again at the yellow-tinged sky, then at the two oaks in their front yard, the leaves hanging limp and moveless, their bright colors fading to drab brown. She sighed. “If Rennie framed Barbara, then he probably had the newspaper burned down. You know that, right?”

  “I do.”

  “And if Jackie can get Barbara out of jail, where will she put him? Where in town is safe?”

  “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “If you can find the generator and turn it off, all this I Spy crap becomes unnecessary.”

  “You pray that happens.”

  “I will. What about radiation? I don’t want you coming down with leukemia, or something.”

  “I have an idea about that.”

  “Should I ask?”

  He smiled. “Probably not. It’s pretty crazy.”

  She twined her fingers through his. “Be careful.”

  He kissed her lightly. “You too.”

  They looked at Jackie pushing the girls on the swings. They had a lot to be careful for. All the same, Rusty thought that risk was coming into his life as a major factor. If, that was, he wanted to be able to continue looking at his reflection when he took his morning shave.

  2

  Horace the Corgi liked peoplefood.

  In fact, Horace the Corgi loved peoplefood. Being a little over-weight (not to mention a little gray about the muzzle in these latter years), he wasn’t supposed to have it, and Julia had been good about stopping the table feeding after the vet had told her bluntly that her generosity was shortening her housemate’s life. That conversation had taken place sixteen months ago; since then Horace had been restricted to Bil-Jac and the occasional dietetic dog treat. The treats resembled Styrofoam packing-poppers, and judging from the reproachful way Horace looked at her before eating them, she guessed they probably tasted like packing-poppers, too. But she stuck to her guns: no more fried chicken skin, no more Cheez Doodles, no more bites of her morning doughnut.

  This limited Horace’s intake of verboten comestibles, but did not entirely end it; the imposed diet simply reduced him to foraging, which Horace rather enjoyed, returning him as it did to the hunting nature of his foxy forebears. His morning and evening walks were especially rich in culinary delights. It was amazing what people left in the gutters along Main Street and West Street, which formed his usual walkie-walk route. There were french fries, potato chips, discarded peanut butter crackers, the occasional ice cream bar wrapper with some chocolate still adhering to it. Once he came upon an entire Table Talk pie. It was out of its dish and in his stomach before you could say cholesterol.

  He didn’t succeed in snarking all the goodies he came upon; sometimes Julia saw what he was after and jerked him along on his leash before he could ingest it. But he got a lot, because Julia often walked him with a book or a folded copy of the New York Times in one hand. Being ignored in favor of the Times wasn’t always good—when he wanted a thorough belly-scratch, for instance—but during walkies, ignorance was bliss. For small yellow Corgis, ignorance meant snacks.

  He was being ignored this morning. Julia and the other woman—the one who owned this house, because her smell was all over it, especially in the vicinity of the room where humans went to drop their scat and mark their territory—were talking. Once the other woman cried, and Julia hugged her.

  “I’m better, but not all better,” Andrea said. They were in the kitchen. Horace could smell the coffee they were drinking. Cold coffee, not hot. He could also smell pastries. The kind with icing. “I still want it.” If she was talking about pastries with icing, so did Horace.

  �
��The craving may go on for a long time,” Julia said, “and that’s not even the important part. I salute your courage, Andi, but Rusty was right—cold turkey is foolish and dangerous. You’re damn lucky you haven’t had a convulsion.”

  “For all I know, I have.” Andrea drank some of her coffee. Horace heard the slurp. “I’ve been having some damned vivid dreams. One was about a fire. A big one. On Halloween.”

  “But you’re better.”

  “A little. I’m starting to think I can make it. Julia, you’re welcome to stay here with me, but I think you could find a better place. The smell—”

  “We can do something about the smell. We’ll get a battery-powered fan from Burpee’s. If room and board is a firm offer—one that includes Horace—I’ll take you up on it. No one trying to kick an addiction should have to do it on her own.”

  “I don’t think there’s any other way, hon.”

  “You know what I mean. Why did you do it?”

  “Because for the first time since I got elected, this town might need me. And because Jim Rennie threatened to withhold my pills if I objected to his plans.”

  Horace tuned the rest of this out. He was more interested in a smell wafting to his sensitive nose from the space between the wall and one end of the couch. It was on this couch that Andrea liked to sit in better (if considerably more medicated) days, sometimes watching shows like The Hunted Ones (a clever sequel to Lost ) and Dancing with the Stars, sometimes a movie on HBO. On movie nights she often had microwave popcorn. She’d put the bowl on the endtable. Because stoners are rarely neat, there was a scattering of popcorn down there below the table. This was what Horace had smelled.

  Leaving the women to their blah, he worked his way under the little table and into the gap. It was a narrow space, but the endtable formed a natural bridge and he was a fairly narrow dog, especially since going on the Corgi version of WeightWatchers. The first kernels were just beyond the VADER file, lying there in its manila envelope. Horace was actually standing on his mistress’s name (printed in the late Brenda Perkins’s neat hand) and hoovering up the first bits of a surprisingly rich treasure trove, when Andrea and Julia walked back into the living room.