by Stephen King
"Your job, ladies and gentlemen, is twofold: to help us get the word out, and to make sure that things go smoothly on Visitors Day once it does."
The CNN super became PRESS TO AID VISATORS ON FRIDAY.
"The last thing we want to do is start a stampede of relations from all over the country to western Maine. We've already got close to ten thousand relatives of those trapped under the Dome in this immediate area; the hotels, motels, and camping areas are full to bursting. The message to relatives in other parts of the country is, 'If you're not here, don't come.' Not only will you not be granted a visitors' pass, you'll be turned around at checkpoints here, here, here, and here." He highlighted Lewiston, Auburn, North Windham, and Conway, New Hampshire.
"Relatives currently in the area should procede to registration officers who are already standing by at the Fairgrounds and the Speedway. If you're planning to jump into your car right this minute, don't. This isn't the Filene's White Sale, and being first in line guarantees you nothing. Visitors will be chosen by lottery, and you must register to get in. Those applying to visit will need two photo IDs. We'll attempt to give priority to visitors with two or more relatives in The Mill, but no promises on that. And a warning, people: if you show up on Friday to board one of the buses and you have no pass or a counterfeit pass--if you clog up our operation, in other words--you'll find yourself in jail. Do not test us on this.
"Embarkation on Friday morning will commence at 0800 hours. If this goes smoothly, you'll have at least four hours with your loved ones, maybe longer. Gum up the works and everyone's time Domeside goes down. Buses will depart the Dome at seventeen hundred hours."
"What's the visitors' site?" a woman shouted.
"I was just getting to that, Andrea." Cox picked up his controller and zoomed in on Route 119. Jackie knew the area well; she had damned near broken her nose on the Dome out there. She could see the roofs of the Dinsmore farmhouse, outbuildings, and dairy barns.
"There's a flea market site on the Motton side of the Dome." Cox binged it with his pointer. "The buses will park there. Visitors will debark and walk to the Dome. There's plenty of field on both sides where people can gather. All the wreckage out there has been removed."
"Will the visitors be allowed to go all the way up to the Dome?" a reporter asked.
Cox once more faced the camera, addressing the potential visitors directly. Rose could just imagine the hope and fear those people--watching in bars and motel TVs, listening on their car radios--must be feeling right now. She felt plenty of both herself.
"Visitors will be allowed within two yards of the Dome," Cox said. "We consider that a safe distance, although we make no guarantees. This isn't an amusement park ride that's been safety-tested. People with electronic implants must stay away. You're on your own with that; we can't check each and every chest for a pacemaker scar. Visitors will also leave all electronic devices, including but not limited to iPods, cell phones, and Blackberries, on the buses. Reporters with mikes and cameras will be kept at a distance. The close-up space is for the visitors, and what goes on between them and their loved ones is no one's business but their own. People, this will work if you help us make it work. If I can put it in Star Trek terms, help us make it so." He put the pointer down. "Now I'll take a few questions. A very few. Mr. Blitzer."
Rose's face lit up. She raised a fresh cup of coffee and toasted the TV screen with it. "Lookin good, Wolfie! You can eat crackers in my bed anytime you want."
"Colonel Cox, are there any plans to add a press conference with the town officials? We understand that Second Selectman James Rennie is the actual man in charge. What's going on with that?"
"We are trying to make a press conference happen, with Mr. Rennie and any other town officials who might be in attendance. That would be at noon, if things run to the schedule we have in mind."
A round of spontaneous applause from the reporters greeted this. There was nothing they liked better than a press conference, unless it was a high-priced politician caught in bed with a high-priced whore.
Cox said, "Ideally, the presser will take place right there on the road, with the town spokespersons, whoever they might be, on their side and you ladies and gentlemen on this one."
Excited gabble. They liked the visual possibilities.
Cox pointed. "Mr. Holt."
Lester Holt from NBC shot to his feet. "How sure are you that Mr. Rennie will attend? I ask because there have been reports of financial mismanagement on his part, and some sort of criminal investigation into his affairs by the State of Maine Attorney General."
"I've heard those reports," Cox said. "I'm not prepared to comment on them, although Mr. Rennie may want to." He paused, not quite smiling. "I'd certainly want to."
"Rita Braver, Colonel Cox, CBS. Is it true that Dale Barbara, the man you tapped as emergency administrator in Chester's Mill, has been arrested for murder? That the Chester's Mill police in fact believe him to be a serial killer?"
Total silence from the press; nothing but attentive eyes. The same was true of the four people seated at the counter in Sweetbriar Rose.
"It's true," Cox said. A muted mutter went up from the assembled reporters. "But we have no way of verifying the charges or vetting whatever evidence there may be. What we have is the same telephone and Internet chatter you ladies and gentlemen are no doubt getting. Dale Barbara is a decorated officer. He's never been arrested. I have known him for many years and vouched for him to the President of the United States. I have no reason to say I made a mistake based on what I know at this time."
"Ray Suarez, Colonel, PBS. Do you believe the charges against Lieutenant Barbara--now Colonel Barbara--may have been politically motivated? That James Rennie may have had him jailed to keep him from taking control as the President ordered?"
And that's what the second half of this dog-and-pony show is all about, Julia realized. Cox has turned the news media into the Voice of America, and we're the people behind the Berlin Wall. She was all admiration.
"If you have a chance to question Selectman Rennie on Friday, Mr. Suarez, you be sure to ask him that." Cox spoke with a kind of stony calm. "Ladies and gentlemen, that's all I have."
He strode off as briskly as he'd entered, and before the assembled reporters could even begin shouting more questions, he was gone.
"Holy wow," Ernie murmured.
"Yeah," Jackie said.
Rose killed the TV. She looked glowing, energized. "What time is this meeting? I don't regret a thing that Colonel Cox said, but this could make Barbie's life more difficult."
2
Barbie found out about Cox's press conference when a red-faced Manuel Ortega came downstairs and told him. Ortega, formerly Alden Dinsmore's hired man, was now wearing a blue workshirt, a tin badge that looked homemade, and a.45 hung on a second belt that had been buckled low on his hips, gunslinger-style. Barbie knew him as a mild fellow with thinning hair and perpetually sunburned skin who liked to order breakfast for dinner--pancakes, bacon, eggs over easy--and talk about cows, his favorite being the Belted Galloways that he could never persuade Mr. Dinsmore to buy. He was Yankee to the core in spite of his name, and had a dry Yankee sense of humor. Barbie had always liked him. But this was a different Manuel, a stranger with all the good humor boiled dry. He brought news of the latest development, most of it shouted through the bars and accompanied by a considerable dose of flying spit. His face was nearly radioactive with rage.
"Not a word about how they found your dog tags in that poor girl's hand, not word-fucking-one about that! And then the tin-pants bastid went and took after Jim Rennie, who's held this town together by himself since this happened! By himself! With SPIT and BALING WIRE! "
"Take it easy, Manuel," Barbie said.
"That's Officer Ortega to you, motherfucker!"
"Fine. Officer Ortega." Barbie was sitting on the bunk and thinking about just how easy it would be for Ortega to unholster the elderly.45 Schofield on his belt and start shooting. "I'm in here,
Rennie's out there. As far as he's concerned, I'm sure it's all good."
"SHUT UP!" Manuel screamed. "We're ALL in here! All under the fucking Dome! Alden don't do nothing but drink, the boy that's left won't eat, and Miz Dinsmore never stops crying over Rory. Jack Evans blew his brains out, do you know that? And those military pukes out there can't think of anything better to do than sling mud. A lot of lies and trumped-up stories while you start supermarket riots and then burn down our newspaper! Probably so Miz Shumway couldn't publish WHAT YOU ARE! "
Barbie kept silent. He thought that one word spoken in his own defense would get him shot for sure.
"This is how they get any politician they don't like," Manuel said. "They want a serial killer and a rapist--one who rapes the dead--in charge instead of a Christian? That's a new low."
Manuel drew his gun, lifted it, pointed it through the bars. To Barbie the hole at the end looked as big as a tunnel entrance.
"If the Dome comes down before you been stood up against the nearest wall and ventilated," Manuel continued, "I'll take a minute to do the job myself. I'm head of the line, and right now in The Mill, the line waiting to do you is a long one."
Barbie kept silent and waited to die or keep on drawing breath. Rose Twitchell's BLTs were trying to crowd back up his throat and choke him.
"We're trying to survive and all they can do is dirty up the man who's keeping this town out of chaos." He abruptly shoved the oversized pistol back into its holster. "Fuck you. You're not worth it."
He turned and strode back toward the stairs, head down and shoulders hunched.
Barbie leaned back against the wall and let out a breath. There was sweat on his forehead. The hand he lifted to wipe it off was shaking.
3
When Romeo Burpee's van turned into the McClatchey driveway, Claire rushed out of the house. She was weeping.
"Mom!" Joe shouted, and was out even before Rommie could come to a complete stop. The others piled out after. "Mom, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," Claire sobbed, grabbing him and hugging him. "There's going to be a Visitors Day! On Friday! Joey, I think we might get to see your dad!"
Joe let out a cheer and danced her around. Benny hugged Norrie ... and took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss, Rusty observed. Cheeky little devil.
"Take me to the hospital, Rommie," Rusty said. He waved to Claire and the kids as they backed down the driveway. He was glad to get away from Mrs. McClatchey without having to talk to her; Mom Vision might work on PAs, as well. "And could you do me a favor and talk English instead of that comic-book on parle shit while you do it?"
"Some people have no cultural heritage to fall back on," Rommie said, "and are thus jealous of those who do."
"Yeah, and your mother wears galoshes," Rusty said.
"Dat's true, but only when it rains, her."
Rusty's cell phone chimed once: a text message. He flipped it open and read: MEETING AT 2130 CONGO PARSONAGE B THERE OR B SQUARE JW
"Rommie," he said, closing his phone. "Assuming I survive the Rennies, would you consider attending a meeting with me tonight?"
4
At the hospital, Ginny met him in the lobby. "It's Rennie Day at Cathy Russell," she announced, looking as if this did not exactly displease her. "Thurse Marshall has been in to see them both. Rusty, that man is a gift from God. He clearly doesn't like Junior--he and Frankie were the ones who roughed him up out at the Pond--but he was totally professional. The guy's wasted in some college English department--he should be doing this." She lowered her voice. "He's better than me. And way better than Twitch."
"Where is he now?"
"Went back to where he's living to see that young girlfriend of his and the two children they took on. He seems to genuinely care about the kids, too."
"Oh my goodness, Ginny's in love," Rusty said, grinning.
"Don't be juvenile." She glared at him.
"What rooms are the Rennies in?"
"Junior in Seven, Senior in Nineteen. Senior came in with that guy Thibodeau, but must have sent him off to run errands, because he was on his own when he went down to see his kid." She smiled cynically. "He didn't visit long. Mostly he's been on that cell phone of his. The kid just sits, although he's rational again. He wasn't when Henry Morrison brought him in."
"Big Jim's arrhythmia? Where are we with that?"
"Thurston got it quieted down."
For the time being, Rusty thought, and not without satisfaction. When the Valium wears off, he'll recommence the old cardiac jitterbug.
"Go see the kid first," Ginny said. They were alone in the lobby, but she kept her voice low-pitched. "I don't like him, I've never liked him, but I feel sorry for him now. I don't think he's got long."
"Did Thurston say anything about Junior's condition to Rennie?"
"Yes, that the problem was potentially serious. But apparently not as serious as all those calls he's making. Probably someone told him about Visitors Day on Friday. Rennie's pissed about it."
Rusty thought of the box on Black Ridge, just a thin rectangle with an area of less than fifty square inches, and still he hadn't been able to lift it. Or even budge it. He also thought of the laughing leatherheads he'd briefly glimpsed.
"Some people just don't approve of visitors," he said.
5
"How are you feeling, Junior?"
"Okay. Better." He sounded listless. He was wearing a hospital johnny and sitting by the window. The light was merciless on his haggard face. He looked like a rode-hard forty-year-old.
"Tell me what happened before you passed out."
"I was going to school, then I went to Angie's house instead. I wanted to tell her to make it up with Frank. He's been majorly bummin."
Rusty considered asking if Junior knew Frank and Angie were both dead, then didn't--what was the point? Instead he asked, "You were going to school? What about the Dome?"
"Oh, right." The same listless, affectless voice. "I forgot about that."
"How old are you, son?"
"Twenty ... one?"
"What was your mother's name?"
Junior considered this. "Jason Giambi," he said at last, then laughed shrilly. But the listless, haggard expression on his face never changed.
"When did the Dome drop down?"
"Saturday."
"And how long ago was that?"
Junior frowned. "A week?" he said at last. Then, "Two weeks? It's been awhile, for sure." He turned at last to Rusty. His eyes were shining with the Valium Thurse Marshall had injected. "Did Baaarbie put you up to all these questions? He killed them, you know." He nodded. "We found his gog-bags." A pause. "Dog tags."
"Barbie didn't put me up to anything," Rusty said. "He's in jail."
"Pretty soon he'll be in hell," Junior said with dry matter-offactness. "We're going to try him and execute him. My dad said so. There's no death penalty in Maine, but he says these are wartime conditions. Egg salad has too many calories."
"That's true," Rusty said. He had brought a stethoscope, a blood-pressure cuff, and ophthalmoscope. Now he wrapped the cuff around Junior's arm. "Can you name the last three presidents in order, Junior?"
"Sure. Bush, Push, and Tush." He laughed wildly, but still with no facial expression.
Junior's bp was 147 over 120. Rusty had been prepared for worse. "Do you remember who came in to see you before I did?"
"Yeah. The old guy me and Frankie found at the Pond just before we found the kids. I hope those kids are all right. They were totally cute."
"Do you remember their names?"
"Aidan and Alice Appleton. We went to the club and that girl with the red hair jerked me off under the table. Thought she was gonna fair it right off before she was fun." A pause. "Done."
"Uh-huh." Rusty employed the ophthalmoscope. Junior's right eye was fine. The optic disc of the left was bulging, a condition known as papilledema. It was a common symptom of advanced brain tumors and the attendant swelling.
"See anything green,
McQueen?"
"Nope." Rusty put the ophthalmoscope down, then held his index finger in front of Junior's face. "I want you to touch my finger with your finger. Then touch your nose."
Junior did so. Rusty began to move his finger slowly back and forth. "Keep going."
Junior succeeded in going from the moving finger to his nose once. Then he hit the finger but touched his cheek instead. The third time he missed the finger and touched his right eyebrow. "Booya. Want more? I can do it all day, you know."
Rusty pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'm going to send Ginny Tomlinson in with a prescription for you."
"After I get it, can I go roam? Home, I mean?"
"You're staying overnight with us, Junior. For observation."
"But I'm all right, aren't I? I had one of my headaches before--I mean a real blinder--but it's gone. I'm okay, right?"
"I can't tell you anything right now," Rusty said. "I want to talk with Thurston Marshall and look at some books."
"Man, that guy's no doctor. He's an English teacher."
"Maybe so, but he treated you okay. Better than you and Frank treated him, is my understanding."
Junior waved a dismissing hand. "We were just playin. Besides, we treated those rids kite, didn't we?"
"Can't argue with you there. For now, Junior, just relax. Watch some TV, why don't you?"
Junior considered this, then asked, "What's for supper?"
6
Under the circumstances, the only thing Rusty could think of to reduce the swelling in what passed for Junior Rennie's brain was IV mannitol. He pulled the chart out of the door and saw a note attached to it in an unfamiliar looping scrawl:
Dear Dr. Everett: What do you think about manitol for this patient? I cannot order, have no idea of the correct amount.
Thurse
Rusty jotted down the dose. Ginny was right; Thurston Marshall was good.
7
The door to Big Jim's room was open, but the room was empty. Rusty heard the man's voice coming from the late Dr. Haskell's favorite snoozery. Rusty walked down to the lounge. He did not think to take Big Jim's chart, an oversight he would come to regret.
