Under the Dome

'What should I buy?'

'Everything, but especially meat. Meat, meat, meat. If the store opens. I'm not sure it will.Jim Rennie may persuade whoever manages it now—'

'Jack Cale. He took over when Ernie Calvert retired last year.'

'Well, Rennie may persuade him to close until further notice. Or get Chief Perkins to order the place closed.'

'You don't know?' Rose asked, and at his blank look: 'You don't. Duke Perkins is dead, Barbie. He died out there.' She gestured south.

Barbie stared at her, stunned. Anson had neglected to turn off the television, and behind them, Rose's Wolfie was again telling the world that an unexplained force had cut off a small town in western Maine, the area had been isolated by the armed forces, the Joint Chiefs were meeting in Washington, the President would address the nation at midnight, but in the meantime he was asking the American people to unite their prayers for the people of Chester's Mill with his own.

3

'Dad? Dad!'

Junior Rennie stood at the top of the stairs, head cocked, listening. There was no response, and the TV was silent. His dad was always home from work and in front of the TV by now. On Saturday nights he forwent CNN and FOX News for either Animal Planet or The History Channel. Not tonight, though. Junior listened to his watch to make sure it was still ticking. It was, and what it said sort of made sense, because it was dark outside.

A terrible thought occurred to him: Big Jim might be with Chief Perkins. The two of them could at this minute be discussing how to arrest Junior with the least possible fuss. And why had they waited so long? So they could spirit him out of town under cover of darkness. Take him to the county jail over in Castle Rock. Then a trial. And then?

Then Shawshank. After a few years there, he'd probably just call it The Shank, like the rest of the murderers, robbers, and sodomites.

'That's stupid,' he whispered, but was it? He'd awakened thinking that killing Angie had just been a dream, must have been, because he would never kill anyone. Beat them up, maybe, but kill? Ridiculous. He was… was… well… a regular person).

Then he'd looked at the clothes under the bed, seen the blood on them, and it all came back. The towel falling off her hair. Her pussypatch, somehow goading him.The complicated crunching sound from behind her face when he'd gotten her with his knee. The rain of fridge magnets and the way she had thrashed.

But that wasn't me. That was…

'It was the headache.' Yes. True. But who'd believe that? He'd have better luck if he said the butler did it.

'Dad?'

Nothing. Not here. And not at the police station, conspiring against him, either. Not his dad. He wouldn't. His dad always said family came first.

But did family come first? Of course he said that—he was a Christian, after all, and half-owner of WCIK—but Junior hi d an idea that for his dad, Jim Rennie's Used Cars might come before family, and that being the town's First Selectman might come before the Holy Tabernacle of No Money Down.

Junior could be—it was possible—third in line.

He realized (for the first time in his life; it was a genuine flash of insight) that he was only guessing. That he might not really know his father at all.

He went back to his room and turned on the overhead. It cast an odd unsteady light, waxing bright and then dim. For a moment Junior thought something was wrong with his eyes. Then he realized he could hear their generator running out back. And not j ast theirs, either. The town's power was out. He felt a surge of relief. A big power outage explained everything. It meant his father was likely in the Town Hall conference room, discussing matters with those other two idiots, Sanders and Grinnell. Maybe sticking pins in the big map of the town, making like George Patton. Yelling at Western Maine Power and calling them a bunch of lazy cotton-pickers.

Junior got his bloody clothes, raked the shit out of his jeans—wallet, change, keys, comb, an extra headache pill—and redistributed it in the pockets of his clean pants. He hurried downstairs, stuck the incriminating garments in the washer, set it for hot, then reconsidered, remembering something his mother had told him when he was no more than ten: cold water for bloodstains. As he moved the dial to COLD WASH/COLD RINSE, Junior wondered idly f his dad had started his hobby of secretary-fucking way back then, or if he was still keeping his cotton-picking penis at home.

He started the washer going and thought about what tc do next. With the headache gone, he found that he could think.

He decided he should go back to Angle's house after all. He didn't want to—God almighty, it was the last thing he wanted to do—but he probably should scope out the scene. Walk past ana see how many police cars were there. Also whether or not the Castle County forensics van was there. Forensics was key. He knew that from watching CSI. He'd seen the big blue-and-white van before, while vidting the county courthouse with his dad. And if it was at the McCains'…