Under the Dome: A Novel (63 page)

“Good one, Mom,” Joe said, trying not to grin. The middle-school version had been revised to
She had so many children her cunt fell off.

He looked down at the sock again. “So does a sock have a middle?”

Benny and Norrie thought it over. Joe let them. The fact that such a question could interest them was one of the things he dug about them.

“Not like a circle or square has a center,” Norrie said at last. “Those are geometric shapes.”

Benny said, “I guess a sock is also a geometric shape—technically—but I don’t know what you’d call it. A socktagon?”

Norrie laughed. Even Claire smiled a little.

“On the map, The Mill’s closer to a hexagon,” Joe said, “but never mind that. Just use common sense.”

Norrie pointed to the place on the sock where the foot-shaped bottom flowed into the tube top. “There. That’s the middle.”

Joe dotted it with the tip of his pen.

“I’m not sure that’ll come out, mister.” Claire sighed. “But you need new ones anyway, I suppose.” And, before he could ask the next question, she said: “On a map, that would be about where the town common is. Is that where you’re going to look?”

“It’s where we’re going to look
first,
” Joe said, a little deflated at having his explicatory thunder stolen.

“Because if there’s a generator,” Mrs. McClatchey mused, “you think it should be in the middle of the township. Or as close to it as possible.”

Joe nodded.

“Cool, Mrs. McClatchey,” Benny said. He raised one hand. “Give me five, mother of my soul-brother.”

Smiling wanly, still holding the picture of her husband, Claire McClatchey slapped Benny five. Then she said, “At least the town common’s a safe place.” She paused to consider that, frowning slightly. “I hope so, anyway, but who really knows?”

“Don’t worry,” Norrie said. “I’ll watch out for them.”

“Just promise me that if you
do
find something, you’ll let the experts handle things,” Claire said.

Mom,
Joe thought,
I think maybe
we’re
the experts.
But he didn’t say it. He knew it would bum her out even more.

“Word up,” Benny said, and held his hand up again. “Five more, o mother of my—”

This time she kept both hands on the picture. “I love you, Benny, but sometimes you tire me out.”

He smiled sadly. “My mom says the exact same thing.”

5

Joe and his friends walked downhill to the bandstand that stood in the center of the common. Behind them, the Prestile murmured. It was lower now, dammed up by the Dome where it crossed into Chester’s Mill from the northwest. If the Dome was still in place tomorrow, Joe thought it would be nothing but a mudslick.

“Okay,” Benny said. “Enough with the Freddy Fuckaround. Time for the board-bangers to rescue Chester’s Mill. Let’s fire that baby up.”

Carefully (and with real reverence), Joe lifted the Geiger counter out of the shopping bag. The battery that powered it had been a long-dead soldier and the terminals had been thick with gunk, but a little baking soda took care of the corrosion, and Norrie had found not just one but three six-volt dry cells in her father’s tool closet. “He’s kind of a freak when it comes to batteries,” she had confided, “and he’s gonna kill himself trying to learn boarding, but I love him.”

Joe put his thumb on the power switch, then looked at them grimly. “You know, this thing could read zilch everywhere we take it and there still might be a generator, just not one that emits alpha or beta wa—”

“
Do
it, for God’s sakes!” Benny said. “The suspense is killin me.”

“He’s right,” Norrie said. “Do it.”

But here was an interesting thing. They had tested the Geiger counter plenty around Joe’s house, and it worked fine—when they tried it on an old watch with a radium dial, the needle jerked appreciably. They’d each taken a turn. But now that they were out
here—on-site, so to speak—Joe felt frozen. There was sweat on his forehead. He could feel it beading up and getting ready to trickle down.

He might have stood there quite awhile if Norrie hadn’t put her hand over his. Then Benny added his. The three of them ended up pushing the slide-switch together. The needle in the COUNTS PER SECOND window immediately jumped to +5, and Norrie clutched Joe’s shoulder. Then it settled back to +2, and she relaxed her hold. They had no experience with radiation counters, but they all guessed they were seeing no more than a background count.

Slowly, Joe walked around the bandstand with the Geiger-Müller tube held out on its coiled phone receiver–type cord. The power lamp glowed a bright amber, and the needle jiggled a little bit from time to time, but mostly it stayed close to the zero end of the dial. The little jumps they saw were probably being caused by their own movements. He wasn’t surprised—part of him knew it couldn’t be so easy—but at the same time, he was bitterly disappointed. It was amazing, really, how well disappointment and lack of surprise complimented each other; they were like the Olsen Twins of emotion.

“Let me,” Norrie said. “Maybe I’ll have better luck.”

He gave it over without protest. Over the next hour or so, they crisscrossed the town common, taking turns with the Geiger counter. They saw a car turn down Mill Street, but didn’t notice Junior Rennie—who was feeling better again—behind the wheel. Nor did he notice them. An ambulance sped down Town Common Hill in the direction of Food City with its lights flashing and its siren wailing. This they looked at briefly, but were again absorbed when Junior reappeared shortly after, this time behind the wheel of his father’s Hummer.

They never used the Frisbee they had brought as camouflage; they were too preoccupied. Nor did it matter. Few of the townspeople heading back to their homes bothered looking into the Common. A few were hurt. Most were carrying liberated foodstuffs, and some were wheeling loaded shopping carts. Almost all looked ashamed of themselves.

By noon, Joe and his friends were ready to give up. They were also hungry. “Let’s go to my house,” Joe said. “My mom’ll make us something to eat.”

“Great,” Benny said. “Hope it’s chop suey. Your ma’s chop suey is tight.”

“Can we go through the Peace Bridge and try the other side first?” Norrie asked.

Joe shrugged. “Okay, but there’s nothing over there but woods. Also, it’s moving away from the center.”

“Yes, but …” She trailed off.

“But what?”

“Nothing. Just an idea. It’s probably stupid.”

Joe looked at Benny. Benny shrugged and handed her the Geiger counter.

They went back to the Peace Bridge and ducked under the sagging police tape. The walkway was dim, but not too dim for Joe to look over Norrie’s shoulder and see the Geiger counter’s needle stir as they passed the halfway point, walking single file so as not to test the rotted boards under their feet too much. When they came out on the other side, a sign informed them YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE CHESTER’S MILL TOWN COMMON, EST. 1808. A well-worn path led up a slope of oak, ash, and beech. Their fall foliage hung limply, looking sullen rather than gay.

By the time they reached the foot of this path, the needle in the COUNTS PER SECOND window stood between +5 and +10. Beyond +10, the meter’s calibration rose steeply to +500 and then to +1000. The top end of the dial was marked in red. The needle was miles below that, but Joe was pretty sure its current position indicated more than just a background count.

Benny was looking at the faintly quivering needle, but Joe was looking at Norrie.

“What were you thinking about?” he asked her. “Don’t be afraid to spill it, because it doesn’t seem like such a stupid idea, after all.”

“No,” Benny agreed. He tapped the COUNTS PER SECOND window. The needle jumped, then settled back to +7 or 8.

“I was thinking a generator and a transmitter are practically the same thing,” Norrie said. “And a transmitter doesn’t have to be in the middle, just high up.”

“The CIK tower isn’t,” Benny said. “Just sits in a clearing, pumpin out the Jesus. I’ve seen it.”

“Yeah, but that thing’s, like, super-powerful,” Norrie replied. “My Dad said it’s a hundred thousand watts, or something. Maybe what we’re looking for has a shorter range. So then I thought, ‘What’s the highest part of the town?’”

“Black Ridge,” Joe said.

“Black Ridge,” she agreed, and held up a small fist.

Joe bumped her, then pointed. “That way, two miles. Maybe three.” He turned the Geiger-Müller tube in that direction and they all watched, fascinated, as the needle rose to +10.

“I’ll be fucked,” Benny said.

“Maybe when you’re forty,” Norrie said. Tough as ever … but blushing. Just a little.

“There’s an old orchard out on the Black Ridge Road,” Joe said. “You can see the whole Mill from it—TR-90, too. That’s what my dad says, anyway. It could be there. Norrie, you’re a genius.” He didn’t have to wait for her to kiss him, after all. He did the honors, although daring no more than the corner of her mouth.

She looked pleased, but there was still a frown line between her eyes. “It might not mean anything. The needle’s not exactly going crazy. Can we go out there on our bikes?”

“Sure!” Joe said.

“After lunch,” Benny added. He thought of himself as the practical one.

6

While Joe, Benny, and Norrie were eating lunch at the McClatchey house (it was indeed chop suey) and Rusty Everett, assisted by Barbie and the two teenage girls, were treating supermarket-riot casualties
at Cathy Russell, Big Jim Rennie sat in his study, going over a list and checking off items.

He saw his Hummer roll back up the driveway, and checked off another item: Brenda dropped off with the others. He thought he was ready—as ready as he could be, anyway. And even if the Dome disappeared this afternoon, he thought his butt was covered.

Junior came in and dropped the Hummer’s keys on Big Jim’s desk. He was pale and needed a shave worse than ever, but he no longer looked like death on a cracker. His left eye was red, but not flaming.

“All set, Son?”

Junior nodded. “Are we going to jail?” He spoke with an almost disinterested curiosity.

“No,” Big Jim said. The idea that he might go to jail had never crossed his mind, not even when the Perkins witch had shown up here and started making her accusations. He smiled. “But Dale Barbara is.”

“No one’s going to believe he killed Brenda Perkins.”

Big Jim continued to smile. “They will. They’re frightened, and they will. It’s how these things work.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’m a student of history. You ought to try it sometime.” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Junior why he had left Bowdoin—had he quit, flunked out, or been asked to leave? But this wasn’t the time or the place. Instead he asked his son if he was up to one more errand.

Junior rubbed at his temple. “I guess. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“You’ll need help. You could take Frank, I suppose, but I’d prefer the Thibodeau lad, if he’s able to move around today. Not Sear-les, though. A good fellow, but stupid.”

Junior said nothing. Big Jim wondered again what was wrong with the boy. But did he really want to know? Perhaps when this crisis was over. In the meantime, he had many pots and skillets on the stove, and dinner would be served soon.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Let me check one thing first.” Big Jim picked up his cell. Each time he did this, he expected to find it as useless as tits on a bull, but it was still working. At least for in-town calls, which was all he cared about. He selected PD. It rang three times at the cop-shop before Stacey Moggin picked up. She sounded harried, not at all like her usual businesslike self. Big Jim wasn’t surprised by that, given the morning’s festivities; he could hear quite an uproar in the background.

“Police,” she said. “If this isn’t an emergency, please hang up and call back later. We’re awfully bus—”

“It’s Jim Rennie, hon.” He knew that Stacey hated being called
hon.
Which was why he did it. “Put on the Chief. Chop-chop.”

“He’s trying to break up a fistfight in front of the main desk right now,” she said. “Maybe you could call back la—”

“No, I can’t call back later,” Big Jim said. “Do you think I’d be calling if this wasn’t important? Just go over there, hon, and Mace the most aggressive one. Then you send Pete into his office to—”

She didn’t let him finish, and she didn’t put him on hold, either. The phone hit the desk with a clunk. Big Jim was not put out of countenance; when he was getting under somebody’s skin, he liked to know it. In the far distance, he heard someone call someone else a thieving sonofabitch. This made him smile.

A moment later he
was
put on hold, Stacey not bothering to inform him. Big Jim listened to McGruff the Crime Dog for awhile. Then the phone was picked up. It was Randolph, sounding out of breath.

“Talk fast, Jim, because this place is a madhouse. The ones who didn’t go to the hospital with broken ribs or something are mad as hornets. Everybody’s blaming everybody else. I’m trying to keep from filling up the cells downstairs, but it’s like half of them
want
to go there.”

“Does increasing the size of the police force sound like a better idea to you today, Chief?”

“Christ, yes. We took a beating. I’ve got one of the new officers—
that Roux girl—up to the hospital with the whole lower half of her face broken. She looks like the Bride of Frankenstein.”

Big Jim’s smile widened to a grin. Sam Verdreaux had come through. But of course that was another thing about
feeling it
; when you
did
have to pass the ball, on those infrequent occasions when you couldn’t shoot it yourself, you always passed it to the right person.

“Someone nailed her with a rock. Mel Searles, too. He was knocked out for a while, but he seems to be all right now. It’s ugly, though. I sent him to the hospital to get patched up.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” Big Jim said.

“Someone was targeting my officers. More than
one
someone, I think. Big Jim, can we really get more volunteers?”

“I think you’ll find plenty of willing recruits among the upstanding young people of this town,” Big Jim said. “In fact, I know several from the Holy Redeemer congregation. The Killian boys, for instance.”