by Stephen King
"PA," Rusty said. "That means--"
"I know what it means."
"Okay, you win the waterless cookware." Rusty pointed at the Geiger counter. "That thing probably takes a six-volt dry cell. I'm pretty sure I saw some at Burpee's. Less sure anybody's there right now. So ... maybe a little more rekkie?"
"What exactly would we be reconning?"
"The supply shed out back."
"And we'd want to do that because?"
"That depends on what we find. If it's what we lost up at the hospital, you and I might exchange a little information."
"Want to share on what you lost?"
"Propane, brother."
Barbie considered this. "What the hell. Let's take a look."
10
Junior stood at the foot of the rickety stairs leading up the side of Sanders Hometown Drug, wondering if he could possibly climb them with his head aching the way it was. Maybe. Probably. On the other hand, he thought he might get halfway up and his skull would pop like a New Year's Eve noisemaker. The spot was back in front of his eye, jigging and jagging with his heartbeat, but it was no longer white. It had turned bright red.
I'd be okay in the dark, he thought. In the pantry, with my girlfriends.
If this went right, he could go there. Right now the pantry of the McCain house on Prestile Street seemed like the most desirable place on earth. Of course Coggins was there, too, but so what? Junior could always push that gospel-shouting asshole to one side. And Coggins had to stay hidden, at least for the time being. Junior had no interest in protecting his father (and was neither surprised nor dismayed at what his old man had done; Junior had always known Big Jim Rennie had murder in him), but he did have an interest in fixing Dale Barbara's little red wagon.
If we handle this right, we can do more than get him out of the way, Big Jim had said that morning. We can use him to unify the town in the face of this crisis. And that cotton-picking newspaperwoman. I have an idea about her, too. He had laid a warm and hammy hand on his son's shoulder. We're a team, son.
Maybe not forever, but for the time being, they were pulling the same plow. And they would take care of Baaarbie. It had even occurred to Junior that Barbie was responsible for his headaches. If Barbie really had been overseas--Iraq was the rumor--then he might have come home with some weird Middle Eastern souvenirs. Poison, for instance. Junior had eaten in Sweetbriar Rose many times. Barbara could easily have dropped a little sumpin-sumpin in his food. Or his coffee. And if Barbie wasn't working the grill personally, he could have gotten Rose to do it. That cunt was under his spell.
Junior mounted the stairs, walking slowly, pausing every four steps. His head didn't explode, and when he reached the top, he groped in his pocket for the apartment key Andy Sanders had given him. At first he couldn't find it and thought he might have lost it, but at last his fingers came upon it, hiding under some loose change.
He glanced around. A few people were still walking back from Dipper's, but no one looked at him up here on the landing outside Barbie's apartment. The key turned in the lock, and he slipped inside.
He didn't turn on the lights, although Sanders's generator was probably sending juice to the apartment. The dimness made the pulsing spot in front of his eye less visible. He looked around curiously. There were books: shelves and shelves of them. Had Baaarbie been planning on leaving them behind when he blew town? Or had he made arrangements--possibly with Petra Searles, who worked downstairs--to ship them someplace? If so, he'd probably made similar arrangements to ship the rug on the living room floor--some camel-jockey-looking artifact Barbie had probably picked up in the local bazaar when there were no suspects to waterboard or little boys to bugger.
He hadn't made arrangements to have the stuff shipped, Junior decided. He hadn't needed to, because he had never planned to leave at all. Once the idea occurred, Junior wondered why he hadn't seen it before. Baaarbie liked it here; would never leave of his own free will. He was as happy as a maggot in dog-puke.
Find something he can't talk away, Big Jim had instructed. Something that can only be his. Do you understand me?
What do you think I am, Dad, stupid? Junior thought now. If I'm stupid, how come it was me who saved your ass last night?
But his father had a mighty swing on him when he got his mad on, that much was undeniable. He had never slapped or spanked Junior as a child, something Junior had always attributed to his late mother's ameliorating influence. Now he suspected it was because his father understood, deep in his heart, that once he started, he might not be able to stop.
"Like father, like son," Junior said, and giggled. It hurt his head, but he giggled, anyway. What was that old saying about laughter being the best medicine?
He went into Barbie's bedroom, saw the bed was neatly made, and thought briefly of how wonderful it would be to take a big shit right in the middle of it. Yes, and then wipe himself with the pillow-case. How would you like that, Baaarbie?
He went to the dresser instead. Three or four pairs of jeans in the top drawer, plus two pairs of khaki shorts. Under the shorts was a cell phone, and for a moment he thought that was what he wanted. But no. It was a discount store special; what the kids at college called a burner or a throw-away. Barbie could always say it wasn't his.
There were half a dozen pairs of skivvies and another four or five pairs of plain white athletic socks in the second drawer. Nothing at all in the third drawer.
He looked under the bed, his head thudding and whamming--not better after all, it seemed. And nothing under there, not even dust-kitties. Baaarbie was a neatnik. Junior considered taking the Imitrex in his watch-pocket, but didn't. He'd taken two already, with absolutely no effect except for the metallic aftertaste in the back of his throat. He knew what medicine he needed: the dark pantry on Prestile Street. And the company of his girlfriends.
Meantime, he was here. And there had to be something.
"Sumpin," he whispered. "Gotta have a little sumpin-sumpin."
He started back to the living room, wiping water from the corner of his throbbing left eye (not noticing it was tinged with blood), then stopped, struck by an idea. He returned to the dresser, opened the sock-and-underwear drawer again. The socks were balled. When he was in high school, Junior had sometimes hidden a little weed or a couple of uppers in his balled-up socks; once one of Adriette Nedeau's thongs. Socks were a good hiding place. He took out the neatly made bundles one at a time, feeling them up.
He hit paydirt on the third ball, something that felt like a flat piece of metal. No, two of them. He unrolled the socks and shook the heavy one over the top of the dresser.
What fell out were Dale Barbara's dog tags. And in spite of his terrible headache, Junior smiled.
In the frame, Baaarbie, he thought. You are in the fucking frame.
11
On the Tarker's Mills side of Little Bitch Road, the fires set by the Fasthawk missiles were still raging, but would be out by dark; fire departments from four towns, augmented by a mixed detachment of Marine and Army grunts, were working on it, and gaining. It would have been out even sooner, Brenda Perkins judged, if the firefighters over there hadn't had a brisk wind to contend with. On The Mill side, they'd had no such problem. It was a blessing today. Later on, it might be a curse. There was no way to know.
Brenda wasn't going to let the question bother her this afternoon, because she felt good. If someone had asked her this morning when she thought she might feel good again, Brenda would have said, Maybe next year. Maybe never. And she was wise enough to know this feeling probably wouldn't last. Ninety minutes of hard exercise had a lot to do with it; exercise released endorphins whether the exercise was jogging or pounding out brushfires with the flat of a spade. But this was more than endorphins. It was being in charge of a job that was important, one that she could do.
Other volunteers had come to the smoke. Fourteen men and three women stood on either side of Little Bitch, some still holding the spades and rubber mats they'd been
using to put out the creeping flames, some with the Indian pumps they'd been wearing on their backs now unslung and sitting on the unpaved hardpack of the road. Al Timmons, Johnny Carver, and Nell Toomey were coiling hoses and tossing them into the back of the Burpee's truck. Tommy Anderson from Dipper's and Lissa Jamieson--a little New Age-y but also as strong as a horse--were carrying the sump pump they'd used to draw water from Little Bitch Creek to one of the other trucks. Brenda heard laughter, and realized she wasn't the only one currently enjoying an endorphin rush.
The brush on both sides of the road was blackened and still smoldering, and several trees had gone up, but that was all. The Dome had blocked the wind and had helped them in another way, as well, partially damming the creek and turning the area on this side into a marsh-in-progress. The fire on the other side was a different story. The men fighting it over there were shimmering wraiths seen through the heat and the accumulating soot on the Dome.
Romeo Burpee sauntered up to her. He was holding a soaked broom in one hand and a rubber floormat in the other. The price tag was still clinging to the underside of the mat. The words on it were charred but readable: EVERY DAY IS SALE DAY AT BURPEE'S! He dropped it and stuck out a grimy hand.
Brenda was surprised but willing. She shook firmly. "What's that for, Rommie?"
"For you doin one damn fine job out here," he said.
She laughed, embarrassed but pleased. "Anybody could have done it, given the conditions. It was only a contact fire, and the ground's so squelchy it probably would have put itself out by sunset."
"Maybe," he said, then pointed through the trees to a raggedy clearing with a tumbledown rock wall meandering across it. "Or maybe it would've gotten into that high grass, then the trees on the other side, and then Katy bar the door. It could have burned for a week or a month. Especially with no damn fire department." He turned his head aside and spat. "Even widdout wind, a fire will burn if it gets a foothold. They got mine fires down south that have burned for twenty, thirty years. I read it in National Geographic. No wind underground. And how do we know a good wind won't come up? We don't know jack about what that thing does or don't do."
They both looked toward the Dome. The soot and ash had rendered it visible--sort of--to a height of almost a hundred feet. It had also dimmed their view of the Tarker's side, and Brenda didn't like that. It wasn't anything she wanted to consider deeply, not when it might rob some of her good feelings about the afternoon's work, but no--she didn't like it at all. It made her think of last night's weird, smeary sunset.
"Dale Barbara needs to call his friend in Washington," she said. "Tell him when they get the fire out on their side, they have to hose that whatever-it-is off. We can't do it from our side."
"Good idea," Romeo said. But something else was on his mind. "Do you reckonize anything about your crew, ma'am? Because I sure do."
Brenda looked startled. "They're not my crew."
"Oh yes they are," he said. "You were the one givin orders, that makes em your crew. You see any cops?"
She took a look.
"Not a one," Romeo said. "Not Randolph, not Henry Morrison, not Freddy Denton or Rupe Libby, not Georgie Frederick ... none of the new ones, either. Those kids."
"They're probably busy with ..." She trailed off.
Romeo nodded. "Right. Busy wit what? You don't know and neither do I. But whatever they're busy wit, I'm not sure I like it. Or think it's wort bein busy wit. There's gonna be a town meeting Thursday night, and if this is still goin on, I think there should be some changes." He paused. "I could be gettin out of my place here, but I think maybe you ought to stand for Chief of Fire n Police."
Brenda considered it, considered the file she had found marked VADER, then shook her head slowly. "It's too soon for anything like that."
"What about just Fire Chief? How bout dat one?" The Lewiston on parle coming on stronger in his voice now.
Brenda looked around at the smoldering brush and charred trash-wood trees. Ugly, granted, like something out of a World War I battlefield photo, but no longer dangerous. The people who had shown up here had seen to that. The crew. Her crew.
She smiled. "That I might consider."
12
The first time Ginny Tomlinson came down the hospital hallway she was running, responding to a loud beeping that sounded like bad news, and Piper didn't have a chance to speak to her. Didn't even try. She had been in the waiting room long enough to get the picture: three people--two nurses and a teenage candy striper named Gina Buffalino--in charge of an entire hospital. They were coping, but barely. When Ginny came back, she was walking slowly. Her shoulders were slumped. A medical chart dangled from one hand.
"Ginny?" Piper asked. "Okay?"
Piper thought Ginny might snap at her, but she offered a tired smile instead of a snarl. And sat down next to her. "Fine. Just tired." She paused. "Also, Ed Carty just died."
Piper took her hand. "I'm very sorry to hear that."
Ginny squeezed her fingers. "Don't be. You know how women talk about having babies? This one had an easy delivery, this one had it hard?"
Piper nodded.
"Death is like that, too. Mr. Carty was in labor a long time, but now he's delivered."
To Piper the idea seemed beautiful. She thought she could use it in a sermon ... except she guessed that people wouldn't want to hear a sermon on death this coming Sunday. Not if the Dome was still in place.
They sat for a while, Piper trying to think of the best way to ask what she had to ask. In the end, she didn't have to.
"She was raped," Ginny said. "Probably more than once. I was afraid Twitch was going to have to try his suturing, but I finally got it stopped with a vaginal pack." She paused. "I was crying. Luckily, the girl was too stoned to notice."
"And the baby?"
"Your basic healthy eighteen-month-old, but he gave us a scare. He had a mini-seizure. It was probably exposure to the sun. Plus dehydration ... hunger ... and he has a wound of his own." Ginny traced a line across her forehead.
Twitch came down the hall and joined them. He looked light-years from his usual jaunty self.
"Did the men who raped her also hurt the baby?" Piper's voice remained calm, but a thin red fissure was opening in her mind.
"Little Walter? I think he just fell," Twitch said. "Sammy said something about the crib collapsing. It wasn't completely coherent, but I'm pretty sure it was an accident. That part, anyway."
Piper was looking at him, bemused. "That was what she was saying. I thought it was 'little water.'"
"I'm sure she wanted water," Ginny said, "but Sammy's baby really is Little, first name, Walter, second name. They named him after a blues harmonica player, I believe. She and Phil--" Ginny mimed sucking a joint and holding in the smoke.
"Oh, Phil was a lot more than a smokehound," Twitch said. "When it came to drugs, Phil Bushey was a multitasker."
"Is he dead?" Piper asked.
Twitch shrugged. "I haven't seen him around since spring. If he is, good riddance."
Piper looked at him reproachfully.
Twitch ducked his head a little. "Sorry, Rev." He turned to Ginny. "Any sign of Rusty?"
"He needed some time off," she said, "and I told him to go. He'll be back soon, I'm sure."
Piper sat between them, outwardly calm. Inside, the red fissure was widening. There was a sour taste in her mouth. She remembered a night when her father had forbidden her to go out to Skate Scene at the mall because she'd said something smart to her mother (as a teenager, Piper Libby had been an absolute font of smart things to say). She had gone upstairs, called the friend she had expected to meet, and told that friend--in a perfectly pleasant, perfectly even voice--that something had come up and she wouldn't be able to meet her after all. Next weekend? For sure, uh-huh, you bet, have a good time, no, I'm fine, b'bye. Then she had trashed her room. She finished by yanking her beloved Oasis poster off the wall and tearing it up. By then she had been crying hoarsely, not in sorrow but in one of tho
se rages that had blown through her teenage years like force-five hurricanes. Her father came up at some point during the festivities and stood in the doorway, regarding her. When she finally saw him there she stared back defiantly, panting, thinking how much she hated him. How much she hated them both. If they were dead, she could go live with her aunt Ruth in New York. Aunt Ruth knew how to have a good time. Not like some people. He had held his hands out to her, open, extended. It had been a somehow humble gesture, one that had crushed her anger and almost crushed her heart.
If you don't control your temper, your temper will control you, he had said, and then left her, walking down the hallway with his head bent. She hadn't slammed the door behind him. She had closed it, very quietly.
That was the year she had made her often vile temper her number one priority. Killing it completely would be killing part of herself, but she thought if she did not make some fundamental changes, an important part of her would remain fifteen for a long, long time. She had begun working to impose control, and mostly she had succeeded. When she felt that control slipping, she would remember what her father had said, and that open-handed gesture, and his slow walk along the upstairs hall of the house she had grown up in. She had spoken at his funeral service nine years later, saying My father told me the most important thing I've ever heard. She hadn't said what that thing was, but her mother had known; she had been sitting in the front pew of the church in which her daughter was now ordained.
For the last twenty years, when she felt the urge to flash out at someone--and often the urge was nearly uncontrollable, because people could be so stupid, so willfully dumb--she would summon her father's voice: If you don't control your temper, your temper will control you.
But now the red fissure was widening and she felt the old urge to throw things. To scratch skin until the blood came sweating out.
"Did you ask her who did it?"
"Yes, of course," Ginny said. "She won't say. She's scared." Piper remembered how she'd first thought the mother and baby lying beside the road was a bag of garbage. And that, of course, was what they'd been to whoever did this. She stood up. "I'm going to talk to her."
