Under the Dome

“Just me?” Big Jim asked. He did so in a meditative voice. He was tossing the ball from hand to hand a little faster now. Smack. Smack. Smack. Back and forth against palms that were fleshy but still hard.

“No,” Lester said in a kind of groan. He paced faster now, no longer looking at the ball. He was waving the Bible with the hand not busy trying to tear his hair out by the roots. He did the same thing in the pulpit sometimes, when he really got going. That stuff was all right in church, but here it was just plain infuriating. “It was you and me and Roger Killian the Bowie brothers and…” He lowered his voice. “And that other one. The Chef. I think that man’s crazy. If he wasn’t when he started last spring, he sure is now.”

Look who’s talking, little buddy, Big Jim thought.

“We’re all involved, but it’s you and I who have to confess, Jim. That’s what the Lord told me. That’s what the boy’s blindness meant; it’s what he died for. We’ll confess, and we’ll burn that Barn of Satan behind the church. Then God will let us go.”

“You’ll go, all right, Lester. Straight to Shawshank State Prison.”

“I will take the punishment God metes out. And gladly.”

“And me? Andy Sanders? The Bowie brothers? And Roger Killian! He’s got I think nine kids to support! What if we’re not so glad, Lester?”

“I can’t help that.” Now Lester began to whack himself on the shoulders with his Bible. Back and forth; first one side and then the other. Big Jim found himself synchronizing his tosses of the golden baseball to the preacher’s blows. Whack… and smack. Whack… and smack. Whack… and smack. “It’s sad about the Killian children, of course, but… Exodus twenty, verse five: ‘For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.’ We have to bow to that. We have to clean out this chancre however much it may hurt; make right what we have made wrong. That means confession and purification. Purification by fire.”

Big Jim raised the hand not currently holding the gold baseball. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Think about what you’re saying. This town depends on me—and you, of course—in ordinary times, but in times of crisis, it needs us.” He stood up, pushing his chair back. This had been a long and terrible day, he was tired, and now this. It made a man angry.

“We have sinned.” Coggins spoke stubbornly, still whacking himself with his Bible. As if he thought treating God’s Holy Book like that was perfectly okay.

“What we did, Les, was keep thousands of kids from starving in Africa. We even paid to treat their hellish diseases. We also built you a new church and the most powerful Christian radio station in the northeast.”

“And lined our own pockets, don’t forget that!” Coggins shrilled. This time he smacked himself full in the face with the Good Book. A thread of blood seeped from one nostril. “Lined em with filthy dope-money!” He smacked himself again. “And Jesus’s radio station is being run by a lunatic who cooks the poison that children put into their veins!”

“Actually, I think most of them smoke it.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

Big Jim came around the desk. His temples were throbbing and a bricklike flush was rising in his cheeks. Yet he tried once more, speaking softly, as if to a child doing a tantrum. “Lester, the town needs my leadership. If you go opening your gob, I won’t be able to provide that leadership. Not that anyone will believe you—”

“They’ll all believe!” Coggins cried. “When they see the devil’s workshop I’ve let you run behind my church, they’ll all believe! And Jim—don’t you see—once the sin is out… once the sore’s been cleansed… God will remove His barrier! The crisis will end! They won’t need your leadership!”

That was when James P. Rennie snapped. “They’ll always need it!” he roared, and swung the baseball in his closed fist.

It split the skin of Lester’s left temple as Lester was turning to face him. Blood poured down the side of Lester’s face. His left eye glared out of the gore. He lurched forward with his hands out. The Bible flapped at Big Jim like a blabbery mouth. Blood pattered down onto the carpet. The left shoulder of Lester’s sweater was already soaked. “No, this is not the will of the Lor—”

“It’s my will, you troublesome fly.” Big Jim swung again, and this time connected with the Reverend’s forehead, dead center. Big Jim felt the shock travel all the way up to his shoulder. Yet Lester staggered forward, wagging his Bible. It seemed to be trying to talk.

Big Jim dropped the ball to his side. His shoulder was throbbing. Now blood was pouring onto the carpet, and still the son-of-a-buck wouldn’t go down; still he came forward, trying to talk and spitting scarlet in a fine spray.