Under the Dome

“Ron Haskell told you in no uncertain terms to get your weight under control, to get the arrhythmia under control with medication, and if medication wasn’t effective, to explore surgical options to correct the underlying problem.”

Big Jim had begun to look like an unhappy child imprisoned in a highchair. “God told me not to! God said no pacemaker! And God was right! Duke Perkins had a pacemaker, and look what happened to him!”

“Not to mention his widow,” Rusty said softly. “Bad luck for her, too. She must have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Big Jim regarded him, little pig eyes calculating. Then he looked up at the ceiling. “Lights are on again, aren’t they? I got you your propane, like you asked. Some people don’t have much gratitude. Of course a man in my position gets used to that.”

“We’ll be out again by tomorrow night.”

Big Jim shook his head. “By tomorrow night you’ll have enough LP to keep this place running until Christmas if it’s necessary. It’s my promise to you for having such a wonderful bedside manner and being such an all-around good fellow.”

“I do have trouble being grateful when people return what was mine to begin with. I’m funny that way.”

“Oh, so now you’re equating yourself with the hospital?” Big Jim snorted.

“Why not? You just equated yourself with Christ. Let’s return to your medical situation, shall we?”

Big Jim flapped his large, blunt-fingered hands disgustedly.

“Valium isn’t a cure. If you walk out of here, you could be firing misbeats again by five PM. Or just vaporlock completely. The bright side is that you could be meeting your savior before it gets dark here in town.”

“And what would you recommend?” Rennie spoke calmly. He had regained his composure.

“I could give you something that would probably take care of the problem, at least short-term. It’s a drug.”

“What drug?”

“But there’s a price.”

“I knew it,” Big Jim said softly. “I knew you were on Barbara’s side the day you came to my office with your give me this and give me that.”

The only thing Rusty had asked for was propane, but he ignored that. “How did you know Barbara had a side then? The murders hadn’t been discovered, so how did you know he had a side?”

Big Jim’s eyes gleamed with amusement or paranoia or both. “I have my little ways, pal. So what’s the price? What would you like me to trade you for the drug that will keep me from having a heart attack?” And before Rusty could respond: “Let me guess. You want Barbara’s freedom, don’t you?”

“No. This town would lynch him the minute he stepped outside.”

Big Jim laughed. “Every now and then you show a lick of sense.”

“I want you to step down. Sanders, too. Let Andrea Grinnell take over, with Julia Shumway to help her out until Andi kicks her drug habit.”

Big Jim laughed louder this time, and slapped his thigh for good measure. “I thought Cox was bad—he wanted the one with the big tiddies to help Andrea—but you’re ever so much worse. Shumway! That rhymes-with-witch couldn’t administrate herself out of a paper bag!”

“I know you killed Coggins.”

He hadn’t meant to say that, but it was out before he could pull it back. And what harm? It was just the two of them, unless you counted CNN’s John Roberts, looking down from the TV on the wall. And besides, the results were worth it. For the first time since he had accepted the reality of the Dome, Big Jim was rocked. He tried to keep his face neutral and failed.

“You’re crazy.”

“You know I’m not. Last night I went to the Bowie Funeral Home and examined the bodies of the four murder victims.”

“You had no right to do that! You’re no pathologist! You’re not even a cotton-picking doctor!”

“Relax, Rennie. Count to ten. Remember your heart.” Rusty paused. “On second thought, fuck your heart. After the mess you left behind, and the one you’re making now, fuck your heart. There were marks all over Coggins’s face and head. Very atypical marks, but easily identifiable. Stitch marks. I have no doubt they’ll match the souvenir baseball I saw on your desk.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” But Rennie glanced toward the open bathroom door.

“It means plenty. Especially when you consider the other bodies were dumped in the same place. To me that suggests the killer of Coggins was the killer of the others. I think it was you. Or maybe you and Junior. Were you a father-and-son tag-team? Was that it?”

“I refuse to listen to this!” He started to get up. Rusty pushed him back down. It was surprisingly easy.

“Stay where you are!” Rennie shouted. “Gosh-dammit, just stay where you are!”

Rusty said, “Why did you kill him? Did he threaten to blow the whistle on your drug operation? Was he part of it?”

“Stay where you are!” Rennie repeated, although Rusty had already sat back down. It did not occur to him—then—that Rennie might not have been speaking to him.