Under the Dome: A Novel (20 page)

Had
made sure. Howie would only be in the Congo church once more. Would lie there, unknowing, while Piper Libby preached his eulogy.

This realization—so stark and immutable—struck home. For the first time since she’d gotten the news, Brenda let loose and wailed. Perhaps because now she could. Now she was alone.

On the television, the President—looking solemn and frighteningly old—was saying, “My fellow Americans, you want answers. And I pledge to give them to you as soon as I have them. There will be no secrecy on this issue. My window on events will be your window. That is my solemn promise—”

“Yeah, and you’ve got a bridge you want to sell me,” Brenda said, and that made her cry harder, because it was one of Howie’s faves. She snapped off the TV, then dropped the remote on the floor. She felt like stepping on it and breaking it but didn’t, mostly because she could see Howie shaking his head and telling her not to be silly.

She went into his little study instead, wanting to touch him somehow while his presence here was still fresh.
Needing
to touch him. Out back, their generator purred.
Fat n happy,
Howie would have said. She’d hated the expense of that thing when Howie ordered it after nine-eleven (
Just to be on the safe side,
he’d told her), but now she regretted every sniping word she’d said about it. Missing him in the dark would have been even more terrible, more lonely.

His desk was bare except for his laptop, which was standing open. His screen saver was a picture from a long-ago Little League game. Both Howie and Chip, then eleven or twelve, were wearing the green jerseys of the Sanders Hometown Drug Monarchs; the picture had been taken the year Howie and Rusty Everett had taken the Sanders team to the state finals. Chip had his arms around his father and Brenda had her arms around both of them. A good day. But fragile. As fragile as a crystal goblet. Who knew such things at the time, when it still might be possible to hold on a little?

She hadn’t been able to get hold of Chip yet, and the thought of that call—supposing she could make it—undid her completely. Sobbing, she got down on her knees beside her husband’s desk. She didn’t fold her hands but put them together palm to palm, as she had as a child, kneeling in flannel pajamas beside her bed and reciting the mantra of
God bless Mom, God bless Dad, God bless my goldfish who doesn’t have a name yet.

“God, this is Brenda. I don’t want him back … well, I do, but I know You can’t do that. Only give me the strength to bear this, okay? And I wonder if maybe … I don’t know if this is blasphemy or not, probably it is, but I wonder if You could let him talk to me one more time. Maybe let him touch me one more time, like he did this morning.”

At the thought of it—his fingers on her skin in the sunshine—she cried even harder.

“I know You don’t deal in ghosts—except of course for the Holy one—but maybe in a dream? I know it’s a lot to ask, but … oh God, there’s such a hole in me tonight. I didn’t know there could
be
such holes in a person, and I’m afraid I’ll fall in. If You do this for me, I’ll do something for You. All You have to do is ask. Please, God, just a touch. Or a word. Even if it’s in a dream.” She took a deep, wet breath. “Thank you. Thy will be done, of course. Whether I like it or not.” She laughed weakly. “Amen.”

She opened her eyes and got up, holding the desk for support. One hand nudged the computer, and the screen brightened at once. He was always forgetting to turn it off, but at least he kept it plugged
in so the battery wouldn’t run down. And he kept his electronic desktop far neater than she did; hers was always cluttered with downloads and electronic sticky-notes. On Howie’s desktop, always just three files stacked neatly below the hard-disc icon: CURRENT, where he kept reports of ongoing investigations; COURT, where he kept a list of who (including himself) was down to testify, and where, and why. The third file was MORIN ST. MANSE, where he kept everything having to do with the house. It occurred to her that if she opened that one she might find something about the generator, and she needed to know about that so she could keep it running as long as possible. Henry Morrison from the PD would probably be happy to change the current propane canister, but what if there were no spares? If that were the case, she should buy more at Burpee’s or the Gas & Grocery before they were all gone.

She put her fingertip on the mousepad, then paused. There was a fourth file on the screen, lurking way down in the lefthand corner. She had never seen it before. Brenda tried to remember the last time she’d happened to look at the desktop of this computer, and couldn’t.

VADER, the filename read.

Well, there was only one person in town Howie referred to as Vader, as in Darth: Big Jim Rennie.

Curious, she moved the cursor to the file and double-clicked it, wondering if it was password protected.

It was. She tried WILDCATS, which opened his CURRENT file (he hadn’t bothered to protect COURT), and it worked. In the file were two documents. One was labeled ONGOING INVESTIGATION. The other was a PDF doc titled LETTER FROM SMAG. In Howie-speak, that stood for State of Maine Attorney General. She clicked on it.

Brenda scanned the AG’s letter with growing amazement as the tears dried on her cheeks. The first thing her eye happened on was the salutation: not
Dear Chief Perkins
but
Dear Duke.

Although the letter was couched in lawyer-speak rather than Howie-speak, certain phrases leaped out at her as if in boldface type.
Misappropriation of town goods and services
was the
first.
Selectman Sanders’s involvement seems all but certain
was the next. Then
This malfeasance is wider and deeper than we could have imagined three months ago.

And near the bottom, seeming not just in boldface but in capital letters:
MANUFACTURE AND SALE OF ILLEGAL DRUGS.

It appeared that her prayer had been answered, and in a completely unexpected way. Brenda sat down in Howie’s chair, clicked ONGOING INVESTIGATION in the VADER file, and let her late husband talk to her.

7

The President’s speech—long on comfort, short on information—wrapped up at 12:21 AM. Rusty Everett watched it in the third-floor lounge of the hospital, made a final check of the charts, and went home. He had ended days more tired than this during his medical career, but he had never been more disheartened or worried about the future.

The house was dark. He and Linda had discussed buying a generator last year (and the year before), because Chester’s Mill always lost its power four or five days each winter, and usually a couple of times in the summer as well; Western Maine Power was not the most reliable of service providers. The bottom line had been that they just couldn’t afford it. Perhaps if Lin went full-time with the cops, but neither of them wanted that with the girls still small.

At least we’ve got a good stove and a helluva woodpile. If we need it.

There was a flashlight in the glove compartment, but when he turned it on it emitted a weak beam for five seconds and then died. Rusty muttered an obscenity and reminded himself to stock up on batteries tomorrow—later today, now. Assuming the stores were open.

If I can’t find my way around here after twelve years, I’m a monkey.

Yes, well. He
felt
a little like a monkey tonight—one fresh-caught
and slammed into a zoo cage. And he definitely smelled like one. Maybe a shower before bed—

But nope. No power, no shower.

It was a clear night, and although there was no moon, there were a billion stars above the house, and they looked the same as ever. Maybe the barrier didn’t exist overhead. The President hadn’t spoken to that issue, so perhaps the people in charge of investigating didn’t know yet. If The Mill were at the bottom of a newly created well instead of caught underneath some weird bell jar, then things might still work out. The government could airdrop supplies. Surely if the country could spend hundreds of billions for corporate bailouts, then it could afford to parachute in extra Pop-Tarts and a few lousy generators.

He mounted the porch steps, taking out his housekey, but when he got to the door, he saw something hanging over the lockplate. He bent closer, squinting, and smiled. It was a mini-flashlight. At Burpee’s End of Summer Blowout Sale, Linda had bought six for five bucks. At the time he’d thought it a foolish expenditure, even remembered thinking,
Women buy stuff at sales for the same reason men climb mountains—because they’re there.

A small metal loop stuck out on the bottom of the light. Threaded through it was a lace from one of his old tennis shoes. A note had been taped to the lace. He took it off and trained the light on it.

Hello sweet man. Hope you’re OK. The 2 Js are finally down for the night. Both worried & upset, but finally corked off. I have the duty all day tomorrow & I do mean
all day
, from 7 to 7, Peter Randolph says (our new Chief—GROAN). Marta Edmunds said she’d take the girls, so God bless Marta. Try not to wake me. (Altho I may not be asleep.) We are in for hard days I fear, but we’ll get thru this. Plenty to eat in pantry, thank God.

Sweetie, I know you’re tired, but will you walk Audrey? She’s still doing that weird Whining Thing of hers. Is it possible she knew this was coming? They say dogs can sense earthquakes, so maybe … ?

Judy & Jannie say they love their Daddy. So do I.

We’ll find time to talk tomorrow, won’t we? Talk and take stock. I’m a little scared.

Lin

He was scared, too, and not crazy about his wife working a twelve tomorrow when he was likely to be working a sixteen or even longer. Also not crazy about Judy and Janelle spending a whole day with Marta when
they
were undoubtedly scared, too.

But the thing he was least crazy about was having to walk their golden retriever at nearly one in the morning. He thought it was possible she
had
sensed the advent of the barrier; he knew that dogs were sensitive to many impending phenomena, not just earthquakes. Only if that were the case, what he and Linda called the Whining Thing should have stopped, right? The rest of the dogs in town had been grave-quiet on his way back tonight. No barking, no howling. Nor had he heard other reports of dogs doing the Whining Thing.

Maybe she’ll be asleep on her bed beside the stove,
he thought as he unlocked the kitchen door.

Audrey wasn’t asleep. She came to him at once, not bounding joyfully as she usually did—
You’re home! You’re home! Oh thank God, you’re home!
—but sidling, almost
slinking,
with her tail tucked down over her withers, as if expecting a blow (which she had never received) instead of a pat on the head. And yes, she was once more doing the Whining Thing. It had actually been going on since before the barrier. She’d stop for a couple of weeks, and Rusty would begin to hope it was over, and then it would start again, sometimes soft, sometimes loud. Tonight it was loud—or maybe it only seemed that way in the dark kitchen where the digital readouts on the stove and the microwave were out and the usual light Linda left on for him over the sink was dark.

“Stop it, girl,” he said. “You’ll wake the house.”

But Audrey wouldn’t. She butted her head softly against his knee and looked up at him in the bright, narrow beam of light he
held in his right hand. He would have sworn that was a pleading look.

“All right,” he said. “All right, all right. Walkies.”

Her leash dangled from a peg beside the pantry door. As he went to get it (dropping the light around his neck to hang by the shoelace as he did), she skittered in front of him, more like a cat than a dog. If not for the flashlight, she might have tripped him up. That would have finished this whore of a day in grand fashion.

“Just a minute, just a minute, hold on.”

But she barked at him and backed away.

“Hush! Audrey, hush!”

Instead of hushing she barked again, the sound shockingly loud in the sleeping house. He jerked in surprise. Audrey darted forward and seized the leg of his pants in her teeth and began to back toward the hall, trying to pull him along.

Now intrigued, Rusty allowed himself to be led. When she saw he was coming, Audry let go and ran to the stairs. She went up two, looked back, and barked again.

A light went on upstairs, in their bedroom. “Rusty?” It was Lin, her voice muzzy.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he called, keeping it as low as he could. “Actually it’s Audrey.”

He followed the dog up the stairs. Instead of taking them at her usual all-out lope, Audrey kept pausing to look back. To dog-people, their animals’ expressions are often perfectly readable, and what Rusty was seeing now was anxiety. Audrey’s ears were laid flat, her tail still tucked. If this was the Whining Thing, it had been raised to a new level. Rusty suddenly wondered if there was a prowler in the house. The kitchen door had been locked, Lin was usually good about locking all the doors when she was alone with the girls, but—

Linda came to the head of the stairs, belting a white terry-cloth robe. Audrey saw her and barked again. A get-out-of-my-way bark.

“Audi,
stop
that!” she said, but Audrey ran past her, striking against Lin’s right leg hard enough to knock her back against the
wall. Then the golden ran down the hall toward the girls’ room, where all was still quiet.

Lin fished her own mini-flashlight from a pocket of her robe. “What in the name of
heaven
—”

“I think you better go back to the bedroom,” Rusty said.

“Like hell I will!” She ran down the hall ahead of him, the bright beam of the little light bouncing.

The girls were seven and five, and had recently entered what Lin called “the feminine privacy phase.” Audrey reached their door, rose up, and began scratching on it with her front paws.

Rusty caught up with Lin just as she opened the door. Audrey bounded in, not even giving Judy’s bed a look. Their five-year-old was fast asleep, anyway.