Under the Dome

Horace looked at her reproachfully when she came in, but there were no damp patches on the carpet and no little brown package under the chair in the hall—a magic spot he seemed to believe invisible to human eyes. She snapped his leash on, took him out, and waited patiently while he pissed by his favorite sewer, tottering as lie did it; Horace was fifteen, old for a corgi. While he went, she stared at the white bubble of light on the southern horizon. It looked tc her like an image out of a Steven Spielberg science fiction movie. It was bigger than ever, and she could hear the whupapa-whuppa-whuppa of helicopters, faint but constant. She even saw one in silhouette, speeding across that tall arc of brilliance. How many Christing spotlights had they set up out there, anyway? It was as if North Motton had become an LZ in Iraq.

Horace was now walking in lazy circles, sniffing out the perfect place to finish tonight's ritual of elimination, doing that ever-popular doggie dance, the Poop Walk. Julia took the opportunity to try her cell phone again. As had been the case all too often tonight, she got the normal series of peeping tones… and then nothing but silence.

I'll have to Xerox the paper. Wliich means seven hundred and fifty copies, max.

The Democrat hadn't printed its own paper for twenty years. Until 2002, Julia had taken each week's dummy over to View Printing in Castle Rock, and now she didn't even have to do that. She e-mailed the pages on Tuesday nights, and the finished papers, neatly bound in plastic, were delivered by View Printing before seven o'clock the next morning.To Julia, who'd grown up dealing with penciled corrections and typewritten copy that was 'nailed' when it was finished, this seemed like magic. And, like all magic, slightly untrustworthy.

Tonight, the mistrust was justified. She might still be able to e-mail comps to View Printing, but no one—would be able to deliver the finished papers in the morning. She guessed that by the morning, nobody would be able to get within five miles of The Mill's borders. Any of its borders. Luckily for her, there was a nice big generator in the former print room, her photocopying machine was a monster, and she had over five hundred reams of paper stacked out back. If she could get Pete Freernan to help her… or Tony Guay, who covered sports…

Horace, meanwhile, had finally assumed the position. When he was done, she swung into action with a small green bag labeled Doggie Doo, wondering to herself what Horace Greeley would have thought of a world where picking up dogshit from the gutter was not just socially expected but a legal responsibility. She thought he might have shot himself.

Once the bag was filled and tied off, she tried her phone again.

Nothing.

She took Horace back inside and fed him.

4

Her cell rang while she was buttoning her coat to drive out to the barrier. She had her camera over her shoulder and almost dropped it, scrabbling in her pocket. She looked at the number and saw the words PRIVATE CALLER.

'Hello?' she said, and there must have been something in her voice, because Horace—waiting by the door, more than ready for a nighttime expedition now that he was cleaned out and fed—pricked up his ears and looked around at her.

'Mrs Shumway?' A man's voice. Clipped. Official-sounding. 'Ms Shumway. To whom am I speaking?' '(jolonel James Cox, Ms Shumway. United States Army' 'And to what do I owe the honor of this call?' She heard the sarcasm in her voice and didn't like it—it wasn't professional—but she was afraid, and sarcasm had ever been her response to fear.

'I need to get in touch with a man named Dale Barbara. Do you know this man?'

Of course she did. And had been surprised to see him at Sweet-briar earlier tonight. He was crazy to still be in town, and hadn't Rose herself said just yesterday that he had given notice? Dale Barbara's story was one of hundreds Julia knew but hadn't written. Wiien you published a smalltown newspaper, you left the lids on a great many cans of worms. You had to pick your fights. The way she was sure Junior Rennie and his friends picked theirs. And she doubted very much if the rumors about Barbara and Dodee's good friend Angie were true, anyway. For one thing, she thought Barbara had more taste.

'Ms Shumway?' Crisp. Official. An on-the-outside voice. She could resent the owner of the voice just for that. 'Still with me?'

'Still with you. Yes, I know Dale Barbara. He cook; at the restaurant on Main Street. Why?'

'He has no cell phone, it seems, the restaurant doesn't answer—'

'It's closed—'

'-and the landlines don't work, of course.'

'Nothing in this town seems to work very well tonight, Colonel Cox. Cell phones included. But I notice you didn't have any trouble getting through to me, which makes me wonder if you fellows might not be responsible for that.' Her fury—like her sarcasm, born of fear—surprised her. 'What did you do? What did you people do?'

'Nothing. So far as I know now, nothing.'