Under the Dome

“That cotton-picker topped himself?” Big Jim exclaimed. The few patrons—most at the counter, watching CNN—looked around, then looked away. “Well, there! I’m not a bit surprised!” It occurred to him that now the Toyota dealership could be his for the taking… but why would he want it? A much bigger plum had fallen into his lap: the whole town. He had already started drafting a list of executive orders, which he would begin putting into effect as soon as he was granted full executive powers. That would happen tonight. And besides, he had hated that smarmy sonofabuck Freeman and his titsy rhymes-with-witch wife for years.

“Boys, he and Lois are eating breakfast in heaven.” He paused, then burst out laughing. Not very political, but he just couldn’t help it. “In the servants’ quarters, I have no doubt.”

“While the Bowies were out there, they got another call,” Carter said. “Dinsmore farm. Another suicide.”

“Who?” Chief Randolph asked. “Alden?”

“No. His wife. Shelley.”

That actually was sort of a shame. “Let’s us bow our heads for a minute,” Big Jim said, and extended his hands. Carter took one; Mel Searles took the other; Randolph and Denton linked up.

“Ohgod pleaseblessthesepoorsouls, Jesussakeamen,” Big Jim said, and raised his head. “Little business, Peter.”

Peter hauled out his notebook. Carter’s was already laid beside his plate; Big Jim liked the boy more and more.

“I’ve found the missing propane,” Big Jim announced. “It’s at WCIK.”

“Jesus!” Randolph said. “We have to send some trucks out there to get it!”

“Yes, but not today,” Big Jim said. “Tomorrow, while everyone’s visiting their relatives. I’ve already started working on that. The Bowies and Roger will go out again, but we’ll need a few officers, too. Fred, you and Mel. Plus I’m going to say four or five more. Not you, Carter, I want you with me.”

“Why do you need cops to get a bunch of propane tanks?” Randolph said.

“Well,” Jim said, mopping up egg yolk with a piece of fried toast, “that goes back to our friend Dale Barbara and his plans to destabilize this town. There are a couple of armed men out there, and it looks like they may be protecting some kind of drug lab. I think Barbara had that in place long before he actually showed up in person; this was well planned. One of the current caretakers is Philip Bushey.”

“That loser,” Randolph grunted.

“The other one, I’m sorry to say, is Andy Sanders.”

Randolph had been spearing fried potatoes. Now he dropped his fork with a clatter. “Andy!”

“Sad but true. It was Barbara who set him up in business—I have that on good authority, but don’t ask me for my source; he’s requested anonymity.” Big Jim sighed, then stuffed a yolk-smeared chunk of fried bread into his cakehole. Dear Lord but he felt good this morning! “I suppose Andy needed the money. I understand the bank was on the verge of foreclosing his drugstore. He never did have a head for business.”

“Or town government, either,” Freddy Denton added.

Big Jim ordinarily did not enjoy being interrupted by inferiors, but this morning he was enjoying everything. “Unfortunately true,” he said, then leaned over the table as far as his large belly would allow. “He and Bushey shot at one of the trucks I sent out there yesterday. Blew the front tires. Those cotton-pickers are dangerous.”

“Drug addicts with guns,” Randolph said. “A law-enforcement nightmare. The men who go out there will have to wear vests.”

“Good idea.”

“And I can’t vouch for Andy’s safety.”

“God love you, I know that. Do what you have to do. We need that propane. The town’s crying for it, and I intend to announce at the meeting tonight that we’ve discovered a fresh source.”

“Are you sure I can’t go, Mr. Rennie?” Carter asked.

“I know it’s a disappointment to you, but I want you with me tomorrow, not out where they’re having their visitors’ party. Randolph, too, I think. Someone has to coordinate this business, which is apt to be a clustermug. We’ll have to try to keep people from being trampled. Although some probably will be, because people don’t know how to behave. Better tell Twitchell to get his ambulance out there.”

Carter wrote this down.

While he did, Big Jim turned back to Randolph. His face was long with sorrow. “I hate to say this, Pete, but my informant has suggested Junior may also have been involved with the drug lab.”

“Junior?” Mel said. “Naw, not Junior. ”

Big Jim nodded, and wiped a dry eye with the heel of his palm. “It’s hard for me to believe, too. I don’t want to believe it, but you know he’s in the hospital?”

They nodded.

“Drug overdose,” Rennie whispered, leaning even further over the table. “That seems to be the most likely explanation for what’s wrong with him.” He straightened and focused on Randolph again. “Don’t try going in from the main road, they’ll be expecting that. About a mile east of the radio station, there’s an access road—”