Under the Dome

“I’m here,” he said, a little irritated. “Back to town?”

“Let’s check out the other cabins. It’s only a quarter of a mile, and if we go back to town, Randolph’ll find something else for us to do.”

“Wouldn’t mind a little chow, though.”

“Where? At Sweetbriar? Want some rat poison in your scrambled eggs, courtesy of Dale Barbara?”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“You positive?”

“Okay, okay.” Frankie started the car and backed down the little stub of driveway. The brightly colored leaves hung moveless on the trees, and the air felt sultry. More like July than October. “But the Massholes better be gone when we come back, or I just might have to introduce Titsy McGee to my helmeted avenger.”

“I’ll be happy to hold her down,” Junior said. “Yippee-ki-yi-yay, motherfucker.”

3

The first three cabins were clearly empty; they didn’t even bother getting out of the car. By now the camp road was down to a pair of wheelruts with a grassy hump between them. Trees overhung it on both sides, some of the lower branches almost close enough to scrape the roof.

“I think the last one’s just around this curve,” Frankie said. “The road ends at this shitpot little boat land—”

“Look out!” Junior shouted.

They came out of the blind curve and two kids, a boy and a girl, were standing in the road. They made no effort to get out of the way. Their faces were shocked and blank. If Frankie hadn’t been afraid of tearing the Toyota’s exhaust system out on the camp road’s center hump—if he’d been making any kind of speed at all—he would have hit them. Instead he stood on the brake, and the car stopped two feet short.

“Oh my God, that was close,” he said. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“If my father didn’t, you won’t,” Junior said.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” Junior got out. The kids were still standing there. The girl was taller and older. Maybe nine. The boy looked about five. Their faces were pale and dirty. She was holding his hand. She looked up at Junior, but the boy looked straight ahead, as if examining something of interest in the Toyota’s driver’s side headlamp.

Junior saw the terror on her face and dropped to one knee in front of her. “Honey, are you okay?”

It was the boy who answered. He spoke while still examining the headlamp. “I want my mother. And I want my breffus.”

Frankie joined him. “Are they real?” Speaking in a voice that said I’m joking, but not really. He reached out and touched the girl’s arm.

She jumped a little, and looked at him. “Mumma didn’t come back.” She spoke in a low voice.

“What’s your name, hon?” Junior asked.

“And who’s your mommy?”

“I’m Alice Rachel Appleton,” she said. “This is Aidan Patrick Appleton. Our mother is Vera Appleton. Our father is Edward Appleton, but he and Mommy got a divorce last year and now he lives in Plano, Texas. We live in Weston, Massachusetts, at Sixteen Oak Way. Our telephone number is—” She recited it with the toneless accuracy of a directory assistance recording.

Junior thought, Oh boy. More Massholes. But it made sense; who else would burn expensive gasoline just to watch the fucking leaves fall off the fucking trees?

Frankie was also kneeling now. “Alice,” he said, “listen to me, sweetheart. Where is your mother now?”

“Don’t know,” Tears—big clear globes—began to roll down her cheeks. “We came to see the leaves. Also, we were going to go in the kayak. We like the kayak, don’t we, Aide?”

“I’m hungry,” Aidan said mournfully, and then he too began to cry.

Seeing them like that made Junior feel like crying himself. He reminded himself he was a cop. Cops didn’t cry, at least not on duty. He asked the girl again where her mother was, but it was the little boy who answered.

“She went to get Woops.”

“He means Whoopie Pies,” Alice said. “But she went to get other stuff, too. Because Mr. Killian didn’t caretake the cabin like he was supposed to. Mommy said I could take care of Aidan because I’m a big girl now and she’d be right back, she was only going to Yoder’s. She just said don’t let Aide go near the pond.”

Junior was starting to get the picture. Apparently the woman had expected to find the cabin stocked with food—a few staples, at least—but if she’d known Roger Killian well, she would have known better than to depend on him. The man was a class-A dumbbell, and had passed his less-than-sterling intellect on to his entire brood. Yoder’s was a nasty little store just across the Tarker’s Mills town line specializing in beer, coffee brandy, and canned spaghetti. Ordinarily it would have been a twenty-minute run there and another twenty back. Only she hadn’t come back, and Junior knew why.

“Did she go Saturday morning?” he asked. “She did, didn’t she?”

“I want her!” Aidan cried. “And I want my breffus! My belly hurts!”

“Yes,” the girl said. “Saturday morning. We were watching cartoons, only now we can’t watch anything, because the electricity’s broke.”