Under the Dome

'Sure,' Sammy said.What she understood was that grief, no matter how genuine, did not seem to impede a politician's flow of bullshit. 'Well, I'll see you.'

"They're a good team,' Andy said vaguely. 'Pete Randolph will see they all pull together. Wear the same hat. Do… uh… the same dance. Protect and serve, you know.'

'Sure,' Samantha said. The protect-and-serve dance, with the occasional tit-kick thrown in. She pulled away with Little Walter once more snoring on the seat. The smell of babyshit was terrific. She unrolled the windows, then looked in the rearview mirror. Mr Sanders was still standing in the makeshift parking lot, which was now almost entirely deserted. He raised a hand to her.

Sammy raised her own in turn, wondering just where Dodee had stayed last night if she hadn't gone home. Then she dismissed it—it was really none of her concern—and flipped on the radio. The only thing she could get clearly was Jesus Radio, and she turned it off again.

When she looked up, Frankie DeLesseps was standing in the road in front of her with his hand up, just like a real cop. She had to stomp the brake to keep from hitting him, then put her hand on the baby to keep him from falling. Little Walter awoke and began to blat.

'Look what you did!' she yelled at Frankie (with whom she'd once had a two-day fling back in high school, when Angie was at band camp). 'The baby almost went on the floor!'

'Where's his seat?' Frankie leaned in her window, biceps bulging. Big muscles, little dick, that was Frankie DeLesseps. As far as Sammy was concerned, Angie could have him.

'None of your beeswax.'

A real cop might have written her up—for the lip as much as the child-restraint law—but Frankie only smirked. 'You seen Angie?'

'No.' This time it was the truth. 'She probably got caught out of town.' Although it seemed to Sammy that the ones in town were the ones who'd gotten caught.

'What about Dodee?'

Sammy once again said no. She practically had to, because Frankie might talk to Mr Sanders.

'Angie's car is at her house,' Frankie said. 'I looked in the garage.'

'Big whoop. They probably went off somewhere in Dodee's Kia.'

He seemed to consider this. They were almost alone now. The traffic jam was just a memory. Then he said, 'Did Georgia hurt your booby, baby?'And before she could answer, he reached in and grabbed it. Not gently, either. 'Want me to kiss it all better?'

She slapped his hand. On her right, Little Walter blatted and blatted. Sometimes she wondered why God had made men in the first place, she really did. Always blatting or grabbing, grabbing or blatting.

Frankie wasn't smiling now. 'You want to watch that shit,' he said. 'Things are different now.'

'What are you going to do? Arrest me?'

'I'd think of something better than that,' he said.'Go on, get out of here. And if you do see Angie, tell her I want to see her.'

She drove away, mad and—she didn't like to admit this to herself, but it was true—a little frightened. Half a mile down the road she pulled over and changed Little Walter's diaper. There was a used diaper bag in back, but she was too mad to bother. She threw the shitty Pamper onto the shoulder of the road instead, not far from the big sign reading:

JIM RENNIE'S USED CARS

FOREIGN & DOMESTIC

A$K U$ 4 CREDIT!

YOU'LL BE WHEELIN' BECAUSE BIG JIM IS DEALIN'!

She passed some kids on bikes and wondered again how long it would be before everyone was riding them. Except it: wouldn't come to that. Someone would figure things out before it did, just like in one of those disaster movies she enjoyed watching on TV while she was stoned: volcanoes erupting in LA, zombies in New York. And when things went back to normal, Frankie and Carter Thibodeau would revert to what they'd been before: smalltown losers with little or no jingle in their pockets. In the meantime, though, she might do well to keep a low profile.

All in all, she was glad she'd kept her mouth shut about Dodee.

8

Rusty listened to the blood-pressure monitor begin its urgent beeping and knew they were losing the boy. Actually they'd been losing him ever since the ambulance—hell, from the moment the ricochet struck him—but the sound of the monitor turned the truth into a headline. Rory should have been Life-Flighted to CMG immediately, right from where he'd been so grievously wounded. Instead he was in an under-equipped operating room that was too warm (the airconditioning had been turned off to conserve the generator), being operated on by a doctor who should have retired years ago, a physician's assistant who had never assisted in a neurosurgery case, and a single exhausted nurse who spoke up now.

'V-fib, Dr Haskell.'

The heart monitor had joined in. Now it was a chorus.

'I know, Ginny. I'm not death.' He paused. 'Deaf, I mean. Christ.'