Under the Dome

The new recruits—Randolph intended to call them Special Deputies in his formal report to the Selectmen—obediently raised their hands. There were actually five of them, and one was not a fella but a stocky young woman named Georgia Roux. She was an unemployed hairdresser and Carter Thibodeau’s girlfriend. Junior had suggested to his father that they probably ought to add a female just to keep everybody happy, and Big Jim had concurred at once. Randolph initially resisted the idea, but when Big Jim favored the new Chief with his fiercest smile, Randolph had given in.

And, he had to admit as he administered the oath (with some of his regular force looking on), they certainly looked tough enough. Junior had lost some pounds over the previous summer and was nowhere near his weight as a high school offensive linemen, but he still had to go one-ninety, and the others, even the girl, were authentic bruisers.

They stood repeating the words after him, phrase for phrase: Junior on the far left, next to his friend Frankie DeLesseps; then Thibodeau and the Roux girl; Melvin Searles on the end. Searles was wearing a vacant going-to-the-county-fair grin. Randolph would have wiped that shit off his face in a hurry if he’d had three weeks to train these kids (hell, even one), but he didn’t.

The only thing on which he hadn’t caved to Big Jim was the issue of sidearms. Rennie had argued for them, insisting that these were “levelheaded, Godfearing young people,” and saying he’d be glad to provide them himself, if necessary.

Randolph had shaken his head. “The situation’s too volatile. Let’s see how they do first.”

“If one of them gets hurt while you’re seeing how they do—”

“Nobody’s gonna get hurt, Big Jim,” Randolph said, hoping he was right. “This is Chester’s Mill. If it was New York City, things might be different.”

3

Now Randolph said, “‘And I will, to the best of my ability, protect and serve the people of this town.’”

They gave it back as sweetly as a Sunday School class on Parents’ Day. Even the vacantly grinning Searles got it right. And they looked good. No guns—yet—but at least they had walkie-talkies. Nightsticks, too. Stacey Moggin (who would be pulling a street shift herself) had found uniform shirts for everyone but Carter Thibodeau. They had nothing to fit him because he was too broad in the shoulders, but the plain blue workshirt he’d fetched from home looked okay. Not reg, but it was clean. And the silver badge pinned over the left pocket sent the message that needed sending.

Maybe this was going to work.

“So help me God,” Randolph said.

“So help me God,” they repeated.

From the corner of his eye, Randolph saw the door open. It was Big Jim. He joined Henry Morrison, wheezy George Frederick, Fred Denton, and a dubious-looking Jackie Wettington at the back of the room. Rennie was here to see his son sworn in, Randolph knew. And because he was still uneasy about refusing the new men sidearms (refusing Big Jim anything ran counter to Randolph’s politically attuned nature), the new Chief now extemporized, mostly for the Second Selectman’s benefit.

“And I will take no shit from anybody.”

“And I will take no shit from anybody!” they repeated. With enthusiasm. All smiling now. Eager. Ready to hit the streets.

Big Jim was nodding and giving him a thumbs-up in spite of the cussword. Randolph felt himself expand, unaware the words would come back to haunt him: I will take no shit from anybody.

4

When Julia Shumway came into Sweetbriar Rose that morning, most of the breakfast crowd had departed either for church or impromptu forums on the common. It was nine o’clock. Barbie was on his own; neither Dodee Sanders nor Angie McCain had shown up, which surprised no one. Rose had gone to Food City. Anson went with her. Hopefully they’d come back loaded with groceries, but Barbie wouldn’t let himself believe it until he actually saw the goodies.

“We’re closed until lunch,” he said, “but there’s coffee.”

“And a cinnamon roll?” Julia asked hopefully.

Barbie shook his head. “Rose didn’t make them. Trying to conserve the gennie as much as possible.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “Just coffee, then.”

He had carried the pot with him, and poured. “You look tired.”

“Barbie, everyone looks tired this morning. And scared to death.”

“How’s that paper coming?”

“I was hoping to have it out by ten, but it’s looking more like three this afternoon. The first Democrat extra since the Prestile flooded in oh-three.”

“Production problems?”

“Not as long as my generator stays online. I just want to go down to the grocery store and see if a mob shows up. Get that part of the story, if one does. Pete Freeman’s already there to take pictures.”

Barbie didn’t like that word mob. “Christ, I hope they behave.”

“They will; this is The Mill, after all, not New York City.”