Under the Dome

“Now,” Rennie said, “may I go back to where I wanted to start?” He looked at Randolph, who spread his hands in a gesture that simultaneously conveyed go ahead and sorry.

“We need to recognize that people are apt to be scared. And when people are scared, they can get up to dickens, booze or no booze.”

Andrea looked at the console to Big Jim’s right: switches that controlled the TV, the AM/FM radio, and the built-in taping system, an innovation Big Jim hated. “Shouldn’t that be on?”

“I see no need.”

The darned taping system (shades of Richard Nixon) had been the idea of a meddling medico named Eric Everett, a thirtysomething pain in the buttinsky who was known around town as Rusty. Everett had sprung the taping system idiocy at town meeting two years before, presenting it as a great leap forward. The proposal came as an unwelcome surprise to Rennie, who was seldom surprised, especially by political outsiders.

Big Jim had objected that the cost would be prohibitive. This tactic usually worked with thrifty Yankees, but not that time; Everett had presented figures, possibly supplied by Duke Perkins, showing that the federal government would pay eighty percent. Some Disaster Assistance Whatever; a leftover from the free-spending Clinton years. Rennie had found himself outflanked.

It wasn’t a thing that happened often, and he didn’t like it, but he had been in politics for many more years than Eric “Rusty” Everett had been tickling prostates, and he knew there was a big difference between losing a battle and losing the war.

“Or at least someone should take notes?” Andrea asked timidly.

“I think it might be best to keep this informal, for the time being,” Big Jim said. “Just among the four of us.”

“Well… if you think so…”

“Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead,” Andy said dreamily.

“That’s right, pal,” Rennie said, just as if that made sense. Then he turned back to Randolph. “I’d say our prime concern—our prime responsibility to the town—is maintaining order for the duration of this crisis. Which means police.”

“Damn straight!” Randolph said smartly.

“Now, I’m sure Chief Perkins is looking down on us from Above—”

“With my wife,” Andy said. “With Claudie.” He produced a snot-clogged honk that Big Jim could have done without. Nonetheless, he patted Andy’s free hand.

“That’s right, Andy, the two of them together, bathed in Jesus’s glory. But for us here on earth… Pete, what kind of force can you muster?”

Big Jim knew the answer. He knew the answers to most of his own questions. Life was easier that way. There were eighteen officers on the Chester’s Mill police payroll, twelve full-timers and six part-timers (the latter all past sixty, which made their services entrancingly cheap). Of those eighteen, he was quite sure five of the full-timers were out of town; they had either gone to that day’s high school football game with their wives and families or to the controlled tburn in Castle Rock. A sixth, Chief Perkins, was dead. And while Rennie would never speak ill of the dead, he was sure the town was better off with Perkins in heaven rather than down here, trying to manage a clustermug that was far beyond his limited abilities.

“I’ll tell you what, folks,” Randolph said, “it’s not that good. There’s Henry Morrison and Jackie Wettington, both of whom responded with me to the initial Code Three. There’s also Rupe Libby, Fred Denton, and George Frederick—although his asthma’s so bad I don’t know how much use he’ll be. He was planning to take early retirement at the end of this year.”

“Poor old George,” Andy said. “He just about lives on Advair.”

“And as you know, Marty Arsenault and Toby Whelan aren’t up to much these days. The only part-timer I’d call really able-bodied is Linda Everett. Between that damned firefighting exercise and the football game, this couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”

“Linda Everett?” Andrea asked, a little interested. “Rusty’s wife?”

“Pshaw!” Big Jim often said pshaw when he was irritated. “She’s just a jumped-up crossing guard.”

“Yes, sir,” Randolph said, “but she qualified on the county range over in The Rock last year and she has a sidearm. No reason she can’t carry it and go on duty. Maybe not full-time, the Everetts have got a couple of kids, but she can pull her weight. After all, it is a crisis.”

“No doubt, no doubt.” But Rennie was damned if he was going to have Everetts popping up like darned old jack-in-the-boxes every time he turned around. Bottom line: he didn’t want that cotton-picker’s wife on his first team. For one thing, she was still quite young, no more than thirty, and pretty as the devil. He was sure she’d be a bad influence on the other men. Pretty women always were. Wettington and her gunshell tiddies were bad enough.

“So,” Randolph said, “that’s only eight out of eighteen.”

“You forgot to count yourself,” Andrea said.

Randolph hit his forehead with the heel of his hand, as if trying to knock his brains back into gear. “Oh. Yeah. Right. Nine.”