by Stephen King
"What is it, Joe?"
"People say I'm smart," Joe said, and Rusty was alarmed to see the kid was on the verge of tears. "I guess I am, but sometimes I wish I wasn't."
"Don't worry," Benny said, "you're stupid in lots of important ways."
"Shut up, Benny," Norrie said kindly.
Joe took no notice. "I could beat my dad at chess when I was six, and my mom by the time I was eight. Get A's in school. Always won the Science Fair. Been writing my own computer programs for two years. I'm not bragging. I know I'm a geek."
Norrie smiled and put her hand on his. He held it.
"But I just make connections, see? That's all it is. If A, then B. If not A, then B is out to lunch. And probably the whole alphabet."
"What exactly are we talking about, Joe?"
"I don't think the cook did those murders. That is, we don't."
He seemed relieved when Norrie and Benny both nodded. But that was nothing to the look of gladness (mixed with incredulity) that came over his face when Rusty said, "Neither do I."
"Told you he had major chops," Benny said. "Gives awesome stitches, too."
Claire came back with juice in a tiny glass. Rusty sipped. Warm but drinkable. With no gennie, by tomorrow it wouldn't be.
"Why don't you think he did it?" Norrie asked.
"You guys first." The generator on Black Ridge had momentarily slipped to the back of Rusty's mind.
"We saw Mrs. Perkins yesterday morning," Joe said. "We were on the Common, just starting to prospect with the Geiger counter. She was going up Town Common Hill."
Rusty put his glass on the table next to his chair and sat forward with his hands clasped between his knees. "What time was this?"
"My watch stopped out at the Dome on Sunday, so I can't say exactly, but the big fight at the supermarket was going on when we saw her. So it had to be, like, quarter past nine. No later than that."
"And no earlier. Because the riot was going on. You heard it."
"Yeah," Norrie said. "It was really loud."
"And you're positive it was Brenda Perkins? It couldn't have been some other woman?" Rusty's heart was thumping. If she had been seen alive during the riot, then Barbie was indeed in the clear.
"We all know her," Norrie said. "She was even my leader in Girl Scouts before I quit." The fact that she'd actually been kicked out for smoking did not seem relevant, so she omitted it.
"And I know from Mom what people are saying about the murders," Joe said. "She told me all she knew. You know, the dog tags."
"Mom did not want to tell all she knew," Claire said, "but my son can be very insistent and this seemed important."
"It is," Rusty said. "Where did Mrs. Perkins go?"
Benny answered this one. "First to Mrs. Grinnell's, but whatever she said must not have been cool, because Mrs. Grinnell slammed the door in her face."
Rusty frowned.
"It's true," Norrie said. "I think Mrs. Perkins was delivering her mail or something. She gave an envelope to Mrs. Grinnell. Mrs. Grinnell took it, then slammed the door. Like Bennie said."
"Huh," Rusty said. As if there'd been any delivery in Chester's Mill since last Friday. But what seemed important was that Brenda had been alive and running errands at a time when Barbie was alibied. "Then where did she go?"
"Crossed Main and walked up Mill Street," Joe said.
"This street."
"Right."
Rusty switched his attention to Claire. "Did she--"
"She didn't come here," Claire said. "Unless it was while I was down cellar, seeing what I have left for canned goods. I was down there for half an hour. Maybe forty minutes. I ... I wanted to get away from the noise at the market."
Benny said what he'd said the day before: "Mill Street's four blocks long. Lot of houses."
"To me that's not the important part," Joe said. "I called Anson Wheeler. He used to be a thrasher himself, and he sometimes still takes his board to The Pit over in Oxford. I asked him if Mr. Barbara was at work yesterday morning, and he said yes. He said Mr. Barbara went down to Food City when the riot started. He was with Anson and Miz Twitchell from then on. So Mr. Barbara's alibied for Miz Perkins, and remember what I said about if not A, then not B? Not the whole alphabet?"
Rusty thought the metaphor was a little too mathematical for human affairs, but he understood what Joe was saying. There were other victims for whom Barbie might not have an alibi, but the same body-dump argued strongly for the same killer. And if Big Jim had done at least one of the victims--as the stitch marks on Coggins's face suggested--then he had likely done them all.
Or it might have been Junior. Junior who was now wearing a gun and carrying a badge.
"We need to go to the police, don't we?" Norrie said.
"I'm scared about that," Claire said. "I'm really, really scared about that. What if Rennie killed Brenda Perkins? He lives on this street, too."
"That's what I said, yesterday," Norrie told her.
"And doesn't it seem likely that if she went to see one selectman and got the door slammed in her face, she'd then go on and try the next one in the neighborhood?"
Joe said (rather indulgently), "I doubt if there's any connection, Mom."
"Maybe not, but she still could have been going to see Jim Rennie. And Peter Randolph ..." She shook her head. "When Big Jim says jump, Peter asks how high."
"Good one, Mrs. McClatchey!" Benny cried. "You rule, o mother of my--"
"Thank you, Benny, but in this town, Jim Rennie rules."
"What do we do?" Joe was looking at Rusty with troubled eyes.
Rusty thought of the smudge again. The yellow sky. The smell of smoke in the air. He also spared a thought for Jackie Wettington's determination to break Barbie out. Dangerous as it might be, it was probably a better chance for the guy than the testimony of three kids, especially when the Police Chief receiving it was just about capable of wiping his ass without an instruction booklet.
"Right now, nothing. Dale Barbara's safe right where he is." Rusty hoped this was true. "We've got this other thing to deal with. If you really found the Dome generator, and we can turn it off--"
"The rest of the problems will just about solve themselves," Norrie Calvert said. She looked profoundly relieved.
"They actually might," Rusty said.
7
After Petra Searles went back to the drugstore (to do inventory, she said), Toby Manning asked Rommie if he could help with anything. Rommie shook his head. "Go on home. See what you can do for your dad and mom."
"It's just Dad," Toby said. "Mom went to the supermarket over in Castle Rock Saturday morning. She says the prices at Food City are too high. What are you going to do?"
"Nothin much," Rommie said vaguely. "Tell me somethin, Tobes--why you an Petra wearin those blue rags around your arms?"
Toby glanced at it as if he'd forgotten it was there. "Just showing solidarity," he said. "After what happened last night at the hospital ... after everything that's been happening ..."
Rommie nodded. "You ain't deputized, nor nothin?"
"Heck, no. It's more ... you remember after nine-eleven, when it seemed like everybody had a New York Fire Department or Police Department hat and shirt? It's like that." He considered. "I guess if they needed help, I'd be glad to pitch in, but it seems like they're doing fine. You sure you don't need help?"
"Yuh. Now scat. I'll call you if I decide to open this afternoon."
"Okay." Toby's eyes gleamed. "Maybe we could have a Dome Sale. You know what they say--when life hands you lemons, make lemonade."
"Maybe, maybe," Rommie said, but he doubted there would be any such sale. This morning he was much less interested than he had been in unloading shoddy goods at prices that looked like bargains. He felt that he had undergone big changes in the last three days--not so much of character as of perspective. Some of it had to do with fighting the fire and the camaraderie afterward. That had been the real town at work, he thought. The town's better nature. And a l
ot of it had to do with the murder of his once-upon-a-time lover, Brenda Perkins ... whom Rommie still thought of as Brenda Morse. One hot ticket she'd been, and if he discovered who had cooled her off--assuming that Rusty was right about it not being Dale Barbara--that person would pay. Rommie Burpee would see to that personally.
At the back of his cavernous store was the Home Repairs section, conveniently located next to the Do-It-Yourself section. Rommie grabbed a set of heavy-duty metal snips from the latter, then entered the former and proceeded to the farthest, darkest, and dustiest corner of his retail kingdom. Here he found two dozen fifty-pound rolls of Santa Rosa lead sheeting, ordinarily used for roofing, flashing, and chimney insulation. He loaded two of the rolls (and the metal snips) into a shopping cart and rolled the cart back through the store until he reached the sports department. Here he set to work picking and choosing. Several times he burst out laughing. It was going to work, but yes, Rusty Everett was going to look tres amusant.
When he was done, he straightened up to stretch the kinks out of his back and caught sight of a deer-in-the-crosshairs poster on the far side of the sports department. Printed above the deer was this reminder: HUNTING SEASON'S ALMOST HERE--TIME TO GUN UP!
Given the way things were going, Rommie thought that gunning up might be a good idea. Especially if Rennie or Randolph decided that confiscating any weapons but those belonging to the cops would be a good idea.
He rolled another shopping cart over to the locked rifle cases, working through the considerable ring of keys hanging from his belt by touch alone. Burpee's sold exclusively Winchester products, and given that deer season was only a week away, Rommie thought he could justify a few holes in his stock if he were asked. He selected a Wildcat.22, a speed-pump Black Shadow, and two Black Defenders, also with the speed-pump feature. To this he added a Model 70 Extreme Weather (with scope) and a 70 Featherweight (without). He took ammo for all the guns, then pushed the cart down to his office and stowed the guns in his old green Defender floor-safe.
This is paranoid, you know, he thought as he twirled the dial.
But it didn't feel paranoid. And as he went back out to wait for Rusty and the kids, he reminded himself to tie a blue rag around his arm. And to tell Rusty to do the same. Camouflage wasn't a bad idea.
Any deer hunter knew that.
8
At eight o'clock that morning, Big Jim was back in his home study. Carter Thibodeau--now his personal bodyguard for the duration, Big Jim had decided--was deep in an issue of Car and Driver, reading a comparison of the 2012 BMW H-car and the 2011 Ford Vesper R/T. They both looked like awesome cars, but anybody who didn't know that BMWs ruled was insane. The same was true, he thought, of anyone who didn't understand that Mr. Rennie was now the BMW H-car of Chester's Mill.
Big Jim was feeling quite well, partly because he'd gotten another hour of sleep after visiting Barbara. He was going to need lots of power naps in the days ahead. He had to stay sharp, on top. He would not quite admit to himself that he was also worried about more arrhythmias.
Having Thibodeau on hand eased his mind considerably, especially with Junior behaving so erratically (That's one way to put it, he thought). Thibodeau looked like a thug, but he seemed to have a feel for the aide-de-camp role. Big Jim wasn't completely sure yet, but he thought Thibodeau might actually turn out to be smarter than Randolph.
He decided to test that.
"How many men guarding the supermarket, son? Do you know?"
Carter put his magazine aside and drew a battered little notebook from his back pocket. Big Jim approved.
After thumbing through it a little, Carter said: "Five last night, three regular guys and two new ones. No problems. Today there's only gonna be three. All new ones. Aubrey Towle--his brother owns the bookshop, y'know--Todd Wendlestat, and Lauren Conree."
"And do you concur that that should be enough?"
"Huh?"
"Do you agree, Carter. Concur means agree."
"Yeah, that should do it. Daylight and all."
No pause to calculate what the boss might want to hear. Rennie liked that a bunch.
"Okay. Now listen. I want you to get with Stacey Moggin this morning. Tell her to call every officer we've got on our roster. I want them all at Food City tonight at seven. I'm going to talk to them."
Actually he was going to make another speech, this time with all the stops out. Wind them up like Granddad's pocketwatch.
"Okay." Carter made a note in his little aide-de-camp book.
"And tell each of them to try and bring one more."
Carter was running his gnawed-upon pencil down the list in his book. "We've already got ... lemme see ... twenty-six."
"That still might not be enough. Remember the market yesterday morning, and the Shumway woman's newspaper last night. It's us or anarchy, Carter. Do you know the meaning of that word?"
"Uh, yessir." Carter Thibodeau was pretty sure it meant an archery range, and he supposed his new boss was saying that The Mill could become a shooting gallery or something if they didn't take a good hard hold. "Maybe we ought to make a weapons sweep, or something."
Big Jim grinned. Yes, in many ways a delightful boy. "That's on the docket, probably starting next week."
"If the Dome's still up. You think it will be?"
"I think so." It had to be. There was still so much to do. He had to see that the propane cache was disseminated back into town. All traces of the meth lab behind the radio station had to be erased. Also--and this was crucial--he hadn't achieved his greatness yet. Although he was well on his way.
"In the meantime, have a couple of the officers--the regular officers--go on over to Burpee's and confiscate the guns there. If Romeo Burpee gives the officers any grief, they're to say we want to keep them out of the hands of Dale Barbara's friends. Have you got that?"
"Yep." Carter made another note. "Denton and Wettington? They okay?"
Big Jim frowned. Wettington, the gal with the big tiddies. He didn't trust her. He wasn't sure he would have liked any cop with tiddies, gals had no business in law enforcement, but it was more than that. It was the way she looked at him.
"Freddy Denton yes, Wettington no. Not Henry Morrison, either. Send Denton and George Frederick. Tell them to put the guns in the PD strong room."
"Got it."
Rennie's phone rang, and his frown deepened. He picked it up and said, "Selectman Rennie."
"Hello, Selectman. This is Colonel James O. Cox. I'm in charge of what's being called the Dome Project. I thought it was time we spoke."
Big Jim leaned back in his chair, smiling. "Well then you just go on then, Colonel, and God bless you."
"My information is that you've arrested the man the President of the United States tapped to take charge of matters in Chester's Mill."
"That would be correct, sir. Mr. Barbara is charged with murder. Four counts. I hardly think the President would want a serial killer in charge of things. Wouldn't do much for his standing in the polls."
"Which puts you in charge."
"Oh, no," Rennie said, smiling more widely. "I'm nothing but a humble Second Selectman. Andy Sanders is the man in charge, and Peter Randolph--our new Police Chief, as you may know--was the arresting officer."
"Your hands are clean, in other words. That's going to be your position once the Dome is gone and the investigation starts."
Big Jim enjoyed the frustration he heard in the cotton-picker's voice. Pentagon son-of-a-buck was used to riding; being rode was a new experience for him.
"Why would they be dirty, Colonel Cox? Barbara's dog tags were found with one of the victims. Can't get much more cut-and-dried than that."
"Convenient."
"Call it what you want."
"If you tune in the cable news networks," Cox said, "you'll see that serious questions are being raised about Barbara's arrest, especially in light of his service record, which is exemplary. Questions are also being raised about your own record, which is not so exemplary."
"Do you think any of that surprises me? You fellows are good at managing the news. You've been doing it since Vietnam."
"CNN's got a story about you being investigated for shady bait-and-switch practices back in the late nineties. NBC's reporting that you were investigated for unethical loan practices in 2008. I believe you were accused of charging illegal rates of interest? Somewhere in the forty percent area? Then repo'ing cars and trucks that had already been paid for twice and sometimes three times over? Your constituents are probably seeing this on the news for themselves."
All those charges had gone away. He had paid good money to make them go away. "The people in my town know those news shows will put on any ridiculous thing if it sells a few more tubes of hemorrhoid cream and a few more bottles of sleeping pills."
"There's more. According to the State of Maine Attorney General, the previous Police Chief--the one who died last Saturday--was investigating you for tax fraud, misappropriation of town funds and town property, and involvement in illegal drug activity. We have released none of this latest stuff to the press, and have no intention of doing so ... if you'll compromise. Step down as Town Selectman. Mr. Sanders should likewise step down. Name Andrea Grinnell, the Third Selectman, as the officer in charge, and Jacqueline Wettington as the President's representative in Chester's Mill."
Big Jim was startled out of what remained of his good temper. "Man, are you insane? Andi Grinnell is a drug addict--hooked on OxyContin--and the Wettington woman doesn't have a brain in her cotton-picking head!"
"I assure you that's not true, Rennie." No more Mister ; the Era of Good Feelings seemed to be over. "Wettington was given a citation for helping to break up an illegal drug ring operating out of the Sixty-seventh Combat Support Hospital in Wurzburg, Germany, and was personally recommended by a man named Jack Reacher, the toughest goddam Army cop that ever served, in my humble opinion."
"There's nothing humble about you, sir, and your sacrilegious language doesn't go down well with me. I am a Christian."
"A drug-selling Christian, according to my information."
"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me." Especially under the Dome, Big Jim thought, and smiled. "Do you have any actual proof?"
