THE GOOD OF THE TOWN, THE GOOD OF THE PEOPLE

Andy Sanders was indeed at the Bowie Funeral Home. He had walked there, toting a heavy load: bewilderment, grief, a broken heart.

He was sitting in Remembrance Parlor I, his only company in the coffin at the front of the room. Gertrude Evans, eighty-seven (or maybe eighty-eight), had died of congestive heart failure two days before. Andy had sent a condolence note, although God knew who’d eventually receive it; Gert’s husband had died a decade ago. It didn’t matter. He always sent condolences when one of his constituents died, handwritten on a sheet of cream stationery reading FROM THE DESK OF THE FIRST SELECTMAN. He felt it was part of his duty.

Big Jim couldn’t be bothered with such things. Big Jim was too busy running what he called “our business,” by which he meant Chester’s Mill. Ran it like his own private railroad, in point of fact, but Andy had never resented this; he understood that Big Jim was smart. Andy understood something else, as well: without Andrew DeLois Sanders, Big Jim probably couldn’t have been elected dog-catcher. Big Jim could sell used cars by promising eye-watering deals, low-low financing, and premiums like cheap Korean vacuum cleaners, but when he’d tried to get the Toyota dealership that time, the company had settled on Will Freeman instead. Given his sales figures and location out on 119, Big Jim hadn’t been able to understand how Toyota could be so stupid.

Andy could. He maybe wasn’t the brightest bear in the woods, but he knew Big Jim had no warmth. He was a hard man (some—those who’d come a cropper on all that low-low financing, for instance—would have said hardhearted), and he was persuasive, but he was also chilly. Andy, on the other hand, had warmth to spare. When he went around town at election time, Andy told folks that he and Big Jim were like the Doublemint Twins, or Click and Clack, or peanut butter and jelly, and Chester’s Mill wouldn’t be the same without both of them in harness (along with whichever third happened to be currently along for the ride—right now Rose Twitchell’s sister, Andrea Grinnell). Andy had always enjoyed his partnership with Big Jim. Financially, yes, especially during the last two or three years, but also in his heart. Big Jim knew how to get things done, and why they should be done. We’re in this for the long haul, he’d say. We’re doing it for the town. For the people. For their own good. And that was good. Doing good was good.

But now … tonight …

“I hated those flying lessons from the first,” he said, and began to cry again. Soon he was sobbing noisily, but that was all right, because Brenda Perkins had left in silent tears after viewing the remains of her husband and the Bowie brothers were downstairs. They had a lot of work to do (Andy understood, in a vague way, that something very bad had happened). Fern Bowie had gone out for a bite at Sweetbriar Rose, and when he came back, Andy was sure Fern would kick him out, but Fern passed down the hall without even looking in at where Andy sat with his hands between his knees and his tie loosened and his hair in disarray.

Fern had descended to what he and his brother Stewart called “the workroom.” (Horrible; horrible!) Duke Perkins was down there. Also that damned old Chuck Thompson, who maybe hadn’t talked his wife into those flying lessons but sure hadn’t talked her out of them, either. Maybe others were down there, too.

Claudette for sure.

Andy voiced a watery groan and clasped his hands together more tightly. He couldn’t live without her; no way could he live without her. And not just because he’d loved her more than his own life. It was Claudette (along with regular, unreported, and ever larger cash infusions from Jim Rennie) who kept the drugstore going; on his own, Andy would have run it into bankruptcy before the turn of the century. His specialty was people, not accounts and ledgers. His wife was the numbers specialist. Or had been.

As the past perfect clanged in his mind, Andy groaned again.

Claudette and Big Jim had even collaborated on fixing up the town’s books that time when the state audited them. It was supposed to be a surprise audit, but Big Jim had gotten advance word. Not much; just enough for them to go to work with the computer program Claudette called MR. CLEAN. They called it that because it always produced clean numbers. They’d come out of that audit shiny side up instead of going to jail (which wouldn’t have been fair, since most of what they were doing—almost all, in fact—was for the town’s own good).

The truth about Claudette Sanders was this: she’d been a prettier Jim Rennie, a kinder Jim Rennie, one he could sleep with and tell his secrets to, and life without her was unthinkable.

Andy started to tear up again, and that was when Big Jim himself put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Andy hadn’t heard him come in, but he didn’t jump. He had almost expected the hand, because its owner always seemed to turn up when Andy needed him the most.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Big Jim said. “Andy—pal—I’m just so, so sorry.”

Andy lurched to his feet, groped his arms around Big Jim’s bulk, and began to sob against Big Jim’s jacket. “I told her those lessons were dangerous! I told her Chuck Thompson was a jackass, just like his father!”

Big Jim rubbed his back with a soothing palm. “I know. But she’s in a better place now, Andy—she had dinner with Jesus Christ tonight—roast beef, fresh peas, mashed with gravy! How’s that for an awesome thought? You hang onto that. Think we should pray?”

“Yes!” Andy sobbed. “Yes, Big Jim! Pray with me!”

They got on their knees and Big Jim prayed long and hard for thesoul of Claudette Sanders. (Below them, in the workroom, Stewart Bowie heard, looked up at the ceiling, and observed: “That man shits from both ends.”)

After four or five minutes of we see through a glass darkly and when I was a child I spake as a child (Andy didn’t quite see the relevance of that one, but didn’t care; it was comforting just to be kneebound with Big Jim), Rennie finished up—“ForJesussakeamen”—and helped Andy to his feet.

Face-to-face and bosom to bosom, Big Jim grasped Andy by the upper arms and looked into his eyes. “So, partner,” he said. He always called Andy partner when the situation was serious. “Are you ready to go to work?”

Andy stared at him dumbly.

Big Jim nodded as if Andy had made a reasonable (under the circumstances) protest. “I know it’s hard. Not fair. Inappropriate time to ask you. And you’d be within your rights—God knows you would—if you were to bust me one right in the cotton-picking chops. But sometimes we have to put the welfare of others first— isn’t that true?”

“The good of the town,” Andy said. For the first time since getting the news about Claudie, he saw a sliver of light.

Big Jim nodded. His face was solemn, but his eyes were shining. Andy had a strange thought: He looks ten years younger. “Right you are. We’re custodians, partner. Custodians of the common good. Not always easy, but never unnecessary. I sent the Wettington woman to hunt up Andrea. Told her to bring Andrea to the conference room. In handcuffs, if that’s what it takes.” Big Jim laughed. “She’ll be there. And Pete Randolph’s making a list of all the available town cops. Aren’t enough. We’ve got to address that, partner. If this situation goes on, authority’s going to be key. So what do you say? Can you suit up for me?”

Andy nodded. He thought it might take his mind off this. Even if it didn’t, he needed to make like a bee and buzz. Looking at Gert Evans’s coffin was beginning to give him the willies. The silent tears of the Chief’s widow had given him the willies, too. And it wouldn’t be hard. All he really needed to do was sit there at the conference table and raise his hand when Big Jim raised his. Andrea Grinnell, who never seemed entirely awake, would do the same. If emergency measures of some sort needed to be implemented, Big Jim would see that they were. Big Jim would take care of everything.

“Let’s go,” Andy replied.

Big Jim clapped him on the back, slung an arm over Andy’s thin shoulders, and led him out of the Remembrance Parlor. It was a heavy arm. Meaty. But it felt good.

He never even thought of his daughter. In his grief, Andy Sanders had forgotten her entirely.

Julia Shumway walked slowly down Commonwealth Street, home of the town’s wealthiest residents, toward Main Street. Happily divorced for ten years, she lived over the offices of the Democrat with Horace, her elderly Welsh Corgi. She had named him after the great Mr. Greeley, who was remembered for a single bon mot—“Go West, young man, go West”—but whose real claim to fame, in Julia’s mind, was his work as a newspaper editor. If Julia could do work half as good as Greeley’s on the New York Trib, she would consider herself a success.

Of course, her Horace always considered her a success, which made him the nicest dog on earth, in Julia’s book. She would walk him as soon as she got home, then enhance herself further in his eyes by scattering a few pieces of last night’s steak on top of his kibble. That would make them both feel good, and she wanted to feel good—about something, anything—because she was troubled.

This was not a new state for her. She had lived in The Mill for all of her forty-three years, and in the last ten she liked what she saw in her hometown less and less. She worried about the inexplicable decay of the town’s sewer system and waste treatment plant in spite of all the money that had been poured into them, she worried about the impending closure of Cloud Top, the town’s ski resort, she worried that James Rennie was stealing even more from the town till than she suspected (and she suspected he had been stealing a great deal for decades). And of course she was worried about this new thing, which seemed to her almost too big to comprehend. Every time she tried to get a handle on it, her mind would fix on some part that was small but concrete: her increasing inability to place calls on her cell phone, for instance. And she hadn’t received a single one, which was very troubling. Never mind concerned friends and relatives outside of town trying to get in touch; she should have been jammed up with calls from other papers: the Lewiston Sun, the Portland Press Herald, perhaps even the New York Times.

Was everyone else in The Mill having the same problems?

She should go out to the Motton town line and see for herself. If she couldn’t use her phone to buzz Pete Freeman, her best photographer, she could take some pix herself with what she called her Emergency Nikon. She had heard there was now some sort of quarantine zone in place on the Motton and Tarker’s Mills sides of the barrier—probably the other towns, as well—but surely she could get close on this side. They could warn her off, but if the barrier was as impermeable as she was hearing, warning would be the extent of it.

“Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me,” she said. Absolutely true. If words could hurt her, Jim Rennie would have had her in ICU after the story she’d written about that joke audit the state had pulled three years ago. Certainly he’d blabbed aplenty-o about suing the paper, but blabbing was all it had been; she had even briefly considered an editorial on the subject, mostly because she had a terrific headline: SUPPOSED SUIT SLIPS FROM SIGHT.

So, yes, she had worries. They came with the job. What she wasn’t used to worrying about was her own behavior, and now, standing on the corner of Main and Comm, she was. Instead of turning left on Main, she looked back the way she had come. And spoke in the low murmur she usually reserved for Horace. “I shouldn’t have left that girl alone.”

Julia would not have done, if she’d come in her car. But she’d come on foot, and besides—Dodee had been so insistent. There had been a smell about her, too. Pot? Maybe. Not that Julia had any strong objections to that. She had smoked her own share over the years. And maybe it would calm the girl. Take the edge off her grief while it was sharpest and most likely to cut.

“Don’t worry about me,” Dodee had said, “I’ll find my dad. But first I have to dress.” And indicated the robe she was wearing.

“I’ll wait,” Julia had replied … although she didn’t want to wait. She had a long night ahead of her, beginning with her duty to her dog. Horace must be close to bursting by now, having missed his five o’clock walk, and he’d be hungry. When those things were taken care of, she really had to go out to what people were calling the barrier. See it for herself. Photograph whatever there was to be photographed.

Even that wouldn’t be the end. She’d have to see about putting out some sort of extra edition of the Democrat. It was important to her and she thought it might be important to the town. Of course, all this might be over tomorrow, but Julia had a feeling—partly in her head, partly in her heart—that it wouldn’t be.

And yet. Dodee Sanders should not have been left alone. She’d seemed to be holding herself together, but that might only have been shock and denial masquerading as calm. And the dope, of course. But she had been coherent.

“You don’t need to wait. I don’t want you to wait.”

“I don’t know if being alone right now is wise, dear.”

“I’ll go to Angie’s,” Dodee said, and seemed to brighten a little at the thought even as the tears continued to roll down her cheeks. “She’ll go with me to find Daddy.” She nodded. “Angie’s the one I want.”

In Julia’s opinion, the McCain girl had only marginally more sense than this one, who had inherited her mother’s looks but—unfortunately—her father’s brains. Angie was a friend, though, and if ever there was a friend in need who needed a friend indeed, it was Dodee Sanders tonight.

“I could go with you….” Not wanting to. Knowing that, even in her current state of fresh bereavement, the girl could probably see that.

“No. It’s only a few blocks.”

“Well …”

“Ms. Shumway … are you sure ? Are you sure my mother—?”

Very reluctantly, Julia had nodded. She’d gotten confirmation of the airplane’s tail number from Ernie Calvert. She’d gotten something else from him as well, a thing that should more properly have gone to the police. Julia might have insisted that Ernie take it to them, but for the dismaying news that Duke Perkins was dead and that incompetent weasel Randolph was in charge.

What Ernie gave her was Claudette’s bloodstained driver’s license. It had been in Julia’s pocket as she stood on the Sanders stoop, and in her pocket it had stayed. She’d give it either to Andy or to this pale, mussy-haired girl when the right time came … but this was not the time.

“Thank you,” Dodee had said in a sadly formal tone of voice. “Now please go away. I don’t mean to be crappy about it, but—” She never finished the thought, only closed the door on it.

And what had Julia Shumway done? Obeyed the command of a grief-stricken twenty-year-old girl who might be too stoned to be fully responsible for herself. But there were other responsibilities tonight, hard as that was. Horace, for one. And the newspaper. People might make fun of Pete Freeman’s grainy black-and­white photos and the Democrat ’s exhaustive coverage of such local fetes as Mill Middle School’s Enchanted Night dance; they might claim its only practical use was as a cat-box liner—but they needed it, especially when something bad happened. Julia meant to see that they had it tomorrow, even if she had to stay up all night. Which, with both of her regular reporters out of town for the weekend, she probably would.

Julia found herself actually looking forward to this challenge, and Dodee Sanders’s woeful face began to slip from her mind.

Horace looked at her reproachfully when she came in, but there were no damp patches on the carpet and no little brown package under the chair in the hall—a magic spot he seemed to believe invisible to human eyes. She snapped his leash on, took him out, and waited patiently while he pissed by his favorite sewer, tottering as he did it; Horace was fifteen, old for a Corgi. While he went, she stared at the white bubble of light on the southern horizon. It looked to her like an image out of a Steven Spielberg science fiction movie. It was bigger than ever, and she could hear the whupapa-whuppa-whuppa of helicopters, faint but constant. She even saw one in silhouette, speeding across that tall arc of brilliance. How many Christing spotlights had they set up out there, anyway? It was as if North Motton had become an LZ in Iraq.

Horace was now walking in lazy circles, sniffing out the perfect place to finish tonight’s ritual of elimination, doing that ever-popular doggie dance, the Poop Walk. Julia took the opportunity to try her cell phone again. As had been the case all too often tonight, she got the normal series of peeping tones … and then nothing but silence.

I’ll have to Xerox the paper. Which means seven hundred and fifty copies, max.

The Democrat hadn’t printed its own paper for twenty years. Until 2002, Julia had taken each week’s dummy over to View Printing in Castle Rock, and now she didn’t even have to do that. She e-mailed the pages on Tuesday nights, and the finished papers, neatly bound in plastic, were delivered by View Printing before seven o’clock the next morning. To Julia, who’d grown up dealing with penciled corrections and typewritten copy that was “nailed” when it was finished, this seemed like magic. And, like all magic, slightly untrustworthy.

Tonight, the mistrust was justified. She might still be able to e-mail comps to View Printing, but no one would be able to deliver the finished papers in the morning. She guessed that by the morning, nobody would be able to get within five miles of The Mill’s borders. Any of its borders. Luckily for her, there was a nice big generator in the former print room, her photocopying machine was a monster, and she had over five hundred reams of paper stacked out back. If she could get Pete Freeman to help her … or Tony Guay, who covered sports …

Horace, meanwhile, had finally assumed the position. When he was done, she swung into action with a small green bag labeled Doggie Doo, wondering to herself what Horace Greeley would have thought of a world where picking up dogshit from the gutter was not just socially expected but a legal responsibility. She thought he might have shot himself.

Once the bag was filled and tied off, she tried her phone again.

Nothing.

She took Horace back inside and fed him.

Her cell rang while she was buttoning her coat to drive out to the barrier. She had her camera over her shoulder and almost dropped it, scrabbling in her pocket. She looked at the number and saw the words PRIVATE CALLER.

“Hello?” she said, and there must have been something in her voice, because Horace—waiting by the door, more than ready for a nighttime expedition now that he was cleaned out and fed—pricked up his ears and looked around at her.

“Mrs. Shumway?” A man’s voice. Clipped. Official-sounding.

“Ms. Shumway. To whom am I speaking?”

“Colonel James Cox, Ms. Shumway. United States Army.”

“And to what do I owe the honor of this call?” She heard the sarcasm in her voice and didn’t like it—it wasn’t professional—but she was afraid, and sarcasm had ever been her response to fear.

“I need to get in touch with a man named Dale Barbara. Do you know this man?”

Of course she did. And had been surprised to see him at Sweet-briar earlier tonight. He was crazy to still be in town, and hadn’t Rose herself said just yesterday that he had given notice? Dale Barbara’s story was one of hundreds Julia knew but hadn’t written. When you published a smalltown newspaper, you left the lids on a great many cans of worms. You had to pick your fights. The way she was sure Junior Rennie and his friends picked theirs. And she doubted very much if the rumors about Barbara and Dodee’s good friend Angie were true, anyway. For one thing, she thought Barbara had more taste.

“Ms. Shumway?” Crisp. Official. An on-the-outside voice. She could resent the owner of the voice just for that. “Still with me?”

“Still with you. Yes, I know Dale Barbara. He cooks at the restaurant on Main Street. Why?”

“He has no cell phone, it seems, the restaurant doesn’t answer—”

“It’s closed—”

“—and the landlines don’t work, of course.”

“Nothing in this town seems to work very well tonight, Colonel Cox. Cell phones included. But I notice you didn’t have any trouble getting through to me, which makes me wonder if you fellows might not be responsible for that.” Her fury—like her sarcasm, born of fear—surprised her. “What did you do ? What did you people do ?”

“Nothing. So far as I know now, nothing.”

She was so surprised she could think of no follow-up. Which was very unlike the Julia Shumway longtime Mill residents knew.

“The cell phones, yes,” he said. “Calls in and out of Chester’s Mill are pretty well shut down now. In the interests of national security. And with all due respect, ma’am, you would have done the same, in our position.”

“I doubt that.”

“Do you?” he sounded interested, not angry. “In a situation that’s unprecedented in the history of the world, and suggestive of technology far beyond what we or anyone else can even understand?”

Once more she found herself stuck for a reply.

“It’s quite important that I speak to Captain Barbara,” he said, returning to his original scripture. In a way, Julia was surprised he’d wandered as far off-message as he had.

“Captain Barbara?”

“Retired. Can you find him? Take your cell phone. I’ll give you a number to call. It’ll go through.”

“Why me, Colonel Cox? Why didn’t you call the police station? Or one of the town selectmen? I believe all three of them are here.”

“I didn’t even try. I grew up in a small town, Ms. Shumway—”

“Bully for you.”

“—and in my experience, town politicians know a little, the town cops know a lot, and the local newspaper editor knows everything.”

That made her laugh in spite of herself.

“Why bother with a call when you two can meet face-to-face? With me as your chaperone, of course. I’m going out to my side of the barrier—was leaving when you called, in fact. I’ll hunt Barbie up—”

“Still calling himself that, is he?” Cox sounded bemused.

“I’ll hunt him up and bring him with me. We can have a mini press conference.”

“I’m not in Maine. I’m in D.C. With the Joint Chiefs.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?” Although it did, a little.

“Ms. Shumway, I’m busy, and probably you are, too. So, in the interests of resolving this thing—”

“Is that possible, do you think?”

“Quit it,” he said. “You were undoubtedly a reporter before you were an editor, and I’m sure asking questions comes naturally to you, but time is a factor here. Can you do as I ask?”

“I can. But if you want him, you get me, too. We’ll come out 119 and call you from there.”

“No,” he said.

“That’s fine,” she said pleasantly. “It’s been very nice talking to you, Colonel C—”

“Let me finish. Your side of 119 is totally FUBAR. That means—”

“I know the expression, Colonel, I used to be a Tom Clancy reader. What exactly do you mean by it in regard to Route 119?”

“I mean it looks like, pardon the vulgarity, opening night at a free whorehouse out there. Half your town has parked their cars and pickups on both sides of the road and in some dairy farmer’s field.”

She put her camera on the floor, took a notepad from her coat pocket, and scrawled Col. James Cox and Like open night at free w’house. Then she added Dinsmore farm? Yes, he was probably talking about Alden Dinsmore’s place.

“All right,” she said, “what do you suggest?”

“Well, I can’t stop you from coming, you’re absolutely right about that.” He sighed, the sound seeming to suggest it was an unfair world. “And I can’t stop what you print in your paper, although I don’t think it matters, since no one outside of Chester’s Mill is going to see it.”

She stopped smiling. “Would you mind explaining that?”

“I would, actually, and you’ll work it out for yourself. My suggestion is that, if you want to see the barrier —although you can’t actually see it, as I’m sure you’ve been told—you bring Captain Barbara out to where it cuts Town Road Number Three. Do you know Town Road Number Three?”

For a moment she didn’t. Then she realized what he was talking about, and laughed.

“Something amusing, Ms. Shumway?”

“In The Mill, folks call that one Little Bitch Road. Because in mud season, it’s one little bitch.”

“Very colorful.”

“No crowds out on Little Bitch, I take it?”

“No one at all right now.”

“All right.” She put the pad in her pocket and picked up the camera. Horace continued waiting patiently by the door.

“Good. When may I expect your call? Or rather, Barbie’s call on your cell?”

She looked at her watch and saw it had just gone ten. How in God’s name had it gotten that late so early? “We’ll be out there by ten thirty, assuming I can find him. And I think I can.”

“That’s fine. Tell him Ken says hello. That’s a—”

“A joke, yes, I get it. Will someone meet us?”

There was a pause. When he spoke again, she sensed reluctance. “There will be lights, and sentries, and soldiers manning a roadblock, but they have been instructed not to speak to the residents.”

“Not to—why ? In God’s name, why ?”

“If this situation doesn’t resolve, Ms. Shumway, all these things will become clear to you. Most you really will figure out on your own—you sound like a very bright lady.”

“Well fuck you very much, Colonel!” she cried, stung. At the door, Horace pricked up his ears.

Cox laughed, a big unoffended laugh. “Yes, ma’am, receiving you five-by-five. Ten thirty?”

She was tempted to tell him no, but of course there was no way she could do that.

“Ten thirty. Assuming I can hunt him up. And I call you?”

“Either you or him, but it’s him I need to speak with. I’ll be waiting with one hand on the phone.”

“Then give me the magic number.” She crooked the phone against her ear and fumbled the pad out again. Of course you always wanted your pad again after you’d put it away; that was a fact of life when you were a reporter, which she now was. Again. The number he gave her to call somehow scared her more than anything else he’d said. The area code was 000.

“One more thing, Ms. Shumway: do you have a pacemaker implant? Hearing-aid implants? Anything of that nature?”

“No. Why?”

She thought he might again decline to answer, but he didn’t. “Once you’re close to the Dome, there’s some kind of interference. It’s not harmful to most people, they feel it as nothing more than a low-level electric shock which goes away a second or two after it comes, but it plays hell with electronic devices. Shuts some down—most cell phones, for instance, if they come closer than five feet or so—and explodes others. If you bring a tape recorder out, it’ll shut down. Bring an iPod or something sophisticated like a

BlackBerry, it’s apt to explode.”

“Did Chief Perkins’s pacemaker explode? Is that what killed him?”

“Ten thirty. Bring Barbie, and be sure to tell him Ken says hello.”

He broke the connection, leaving Julia standing in silence beside her dog. She tried calling her sister in Lewiston. The numbers peeped … then nothing. Blank silence, as before.

The Dome, she thought. He didn’t call it the barrier there at the end; he called it the Dome.

Barbie had taken off his shirt and was sitting on his bed to untie his sneakers when the knock came at the door, which one reached by climbing an outside flight of stairs on the side of Sanders Hometown Drug. The knock wasn’t welcome. He had walked most of the day, then put on an apron and cooked for most of the evening. He was beat.

And suppose it was Junior and a few of his friends, ready to throw him a welcome-back party? You could say it was unlikely, even paranoid, but the day had been a festival of unlikely. Besides, Junior and Frank DeLesseps and the rest of their little band were among the few people he hadn’t seen at Sweetbriar tonight. He supposed they might be out on 119 or 117, rubbernecking, but maybe somebody had told them he was back in town and they’d been making plans for later tonight. Later like now.

The knock came again. Barbie stood up and put a hand on the portable TV. Not much of a weapon, but it would do some damage if thrown at the first one who tried to cram through the door. There was a wooden closet rod, but all three rooms were small and it was too long to swing effectively. There was also his Swiss Army Knife, but he wasn’t going to do any cutting. Not unless he had t—

“Mr. Barbara?” It was a woman’s voice. “Barbie? Are you in there?”

He took his hand off the TV and crossed the kitchenette. “Who is it?” But even as he asked, he recognized the voice.

“Julia Shumway. I have a message from someone who wants to speak to you. He told me to tell you that Ken says hello.”

Barbie opened the door and let her in.

In the pine-paneled basement conference room of the Chester’s Mill Town Hall, the roar of the generator out back (an elderly Kelvinator) was no more than a dim drone. The table in the center of the room was handsome red maple, polished to a high gleam, twelve feet long. Most of the chairs surrounding it were empty that night. The four attendees of what Big Jim was calling the Emergency Assessment Meeting were clustered at one end. Big Jim himself, although only the Second Selectman, sat at the head of the table. Behind him was a map showing the athletic-sock shape of the town.

Those present were the selectmen and Peter Randolph, the acting Chief of Police. The only one who seemed entirely with it was Rennie. Randolph looked shocked and scared. Andy Sanders was, of course, dazed with grief. And Andrea Grinnell—an overweight, graying version of her younger sister, Rose—just seemed dazed. This was not new.

Four or five years previous, Andrea had slipped in her icy driveway while going to the mailbox one January morning. She had fallen hard enough to crack two discs in her back (being eighty or ninety pounds overweight probably hadn’t helped). Dr. Haskell had prescribed that new wonder-drug, OxyContin, to ease what had been no doubt excruciating pain. And had been giving it to her ever since. Thanks to his good friend Andy, who ran the local drugstore, Big Jim knew that Andrea had begun at forty milligrams a day and had worked her way up to a giddy four hundred. This was useful information.

Big Jim said, “Due to Andy’s great loss, I’m going to chair this meeting, if no one objects. We’re all very sorry, Andy.”

“You bet, sir,” Randolph said.

“Thank you,” Andy said, and when Andrea briefly covered his hand with her own, he began to ooze at the eyes again.

“Now, we all have an idea of what’s happened here,” Big Jim said, “although no one in town understands it yet—”

“I bet no one out of town does, either,” Andrea said.

Big Jim ignored her. “—and the military presence hasn’t seen fit to communicate with the town’s elected officials.”

“Problems with the phones, sir,” Randolph said. He was on a first-name basis with all of these people—in fact considered Big Jim a friend—but in this room he felt it wise to stick to sir or ma’am. Perkins had done the same, and on that, at least, the old man had probably been right.

Big Jim waved a hand as if swatting at a troublesome fly. “Someone could have come to the Motton or Tarker’s side and sent for me—us—and no one has seen fit to do so.”

“Sir, the situation is still very … uh, fluid.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. And it’s very possible that’s why no one has put us in the picture just yet. Could be, oh yes, and I pray that’s the answer. I hope you’ve all been praying.”

They nodded dutifully.

“But right now …” Big Jim looked around gravely. He felt grave. But he also felt excited. And ready. He thought it not impossible that his picture would be on the cover of Time magazine before the year was out. Disaster—especially the sort triggered by terrorists—was not always a completely bad thing. Look what it had done for Rudy Giuliani. “Right now, lady and gentlemen, I think we have to face the very real possibility that we are on our own.”

Andrea put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes shone either with fear or too much dope. Possibly both. “Surely not, Jim!”

“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, that’s what Claudette always says.” Andy spoke in tones of deep meditation. “Said, I mean. She made me a nice breakfast this morning. Scrambled eggs and leftover taco cheese. Gosh!”

The tears, which had slowed, began to ooze again. Andrea once more covered his hand. This time Andy gripped it. Andy and Andrea, Big Jim thought, and a thin smile creased the lower half of his fleshy face. The Dumbsey Twins.

“Hope for the best, plan for the worst,” he said. “What good advice that is. The worst in this case could entail days cut off from the outside world. Or a week. Possibly even a month.” He didn’t actually believe that, but they’d be quicker to do what he wanted if they were frightened.

Andrea repeated: “Surely not!”

“We just don’t know,” Big Jim said. This, at least, was the unvarnished truth. “How can we?”

“Maybe we ought to close Food City,” Randolph said. “At least for the time being. If we don’t, it’s apt to fill up like before a blizzard.”

Rennie was annoyed. He had an agenda, and this was on it, but it wasn’t first on it.

“Or maybe that’s not a good idea,” Randolph said, reading the Second Selectman’s face.

“Actually, Pete, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Big Jim said. “Same principle as never declaring a bank holiday when currency is tight. You only provoke a run.”

“Are we talking about closing the banks, too?” Andy asked. “What’ll we do about the ATMs? There’s one at Brownie’s Store … Mill Gas and Grocery … my drugstore, of course …” He looked vague, then brightened. “I think I even saw one at the Health Center, although I’m not entirely sure about that one …”

Rennie wondered briefly if Andrea had been loaning the man some of her pills. “I was only making a metaphor, Andy.” Keeping his voice low and kind. This was exactly the kind of thing you could expect when people wandered off the agenda. “In a situation like this, food is money, in a manner of speaking. What I’m saying is it should be business as usual. It’ll keep people calm.”

“Ah,” Randolph said. This he understood. “Gotcha.”

“But you’ll need to talk to the supermarket manager—what’s his name, Cade?”

“Cale,” Randolph said. “Jack Cale.”

“Also Johnny Carver at the Gas and Grocery, and … who in the heck runs Brownie’s since Dil Brown died? ”

“Velma Winter,” Andrea said. “She’s from Away, but she’s very nice.”

Rennie was pleased to see Randolph writing the names down in his pocket notebook. “Tell those three people that beer and liquor sales are off until further notice.” His face cramped in a rather frightening expression of pleasure. “And Dipper’s is closed. ”

“A lot of people aren’t going to like a booze shutdown,” Randolph said. “People like Sam Verdreaux.” Verdreaux was the town’s most notorious tosspot, a perfect example—in Big Jim’s opinion—of why the Volstead Act should never have been repealed.

“Sam and the others like him will just have to suffer once their current supplies of beer and coffee brandy are gone. We can’t have half the town getting drunk like it was New Year’s Eve.”

“Why not?” Andrea asked. “They’ll use up the supplies and that’ll be the end of it.”

“And if they riot in the meantime?”

Andrea was silent. She couldn’t see what people would have to riot about—not if they had food—but arguing with Jim Rennie, she had found, was usually unproductive and always wearying.

“I’ll send a couple of the guys out to talk to them,” Randolph said.

“Talk to Tommy and Willow Anderson personally. ” The Andersons ran Dipper’s. “They can be troublesome.” He lowered his voice. “Wingnuts.”

Randolph nodded. “Left -wingnuts. Got a picture of Uncle Barack over the bar.”

“That’s it exactly.” And, he didn’t need to say, Duke Perkins let those two hippy cotton-pickers get a foothold with their dancing and loud rock and roll and drinking until one in the morning. Protected them. And look at the trouble it led to for my son and his friends. He turned to Andy Sanders. “Also, you’ve got to put all the prescription drugs under lock and key. Oh, not Nasonex or Lyrica, that sort of thing. You know the stuff I mean.”

“Anything people might use to get high,” Andy said, “is already under lock and key.” He seemed uneasy at this turn of the conversation. Rennie knew why, but he wasn’t concerned about their various sales endeavors just now; they had more pressing business.

“Better take extra precautions, just the same.”

Andrea was looking alarmed. Andy patted her hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we always have enough to take care of those in real need.”

Andrea smiled at him.

“Bottom line is, this town is going to stay sober until the crisis ends,” Big Jim said. “Are we in agreement? Show of hands.”

The hands went up.

“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.”

“Not enough,” Rennie said. “We need to beef up the force. Just temporarily, you know; until this situation works itself out.”

“Who were you thinking about, sir?” Randolph asked.

“My boy, to begin with.”

“Junior?” Andrea raised her eyebrows. “He’s not even old enough to vote … is he?”

Big Jim briefly visualized Andrea’s brain: fifteen percent favorite online shopping sites, eighty percent dope receptors, two percent memory, and three percent actual thought process. Still, it was what he had to work with. And, he reminded himself, the stupidity of one’s colleagues makes life simpler.

“He’s twenty-one, actually. Twenty-two in November. And either by luck or the grace of God, he’s home from school this weekend.”

Peter Randolph knew that Junior Rennie was home from school permanently—he’d seen it written on the phone pad in the late Chief’s office earlier in the week, although he had no idea how Duke had gotten the information or why he’d thought it important enough to write down. Something else had been written there, too: Behavioral issues?

This was probably not the time to share such information with Big Jim, however.

Rennie was continuing, now in the enthusiastic tones of a game-show host announcing a particularly juicy prize in the Bonus Round. “And, Junior has three friends who would also be suitable: Frank DeLesseps, Melvin Searles, and Carter Thibodeau.”

Andrea was once more looking uneasy. “Um … weren’t those the boys … the young men … involved in that altercation at Dipper’s … ?”

Big Jim turned a smile of such genial ferocity on her that Andrea shrank back in her seat.

“That business was overblown. And sparked by alcohol, as most such trouble is. Plus, the instigator was that fellow Barbara. Which is why no charges were filed. It was a wash. Or am I wrong, Peter?”

“Absolutely not,” Randolph said, although he too looked uneasy.

“These fellows are all at least twenty-one, and I believe Carter Thibodeau might be twenty-three.”

Thibodeau was indeed twenty-three, and had lately been working as a part-time mechanic at Mill Gas & Grocery. He’d been fired from two previous jobs—temper issues, Randolph had heard—but he seemed to have settled down at the Gas & Grocery. Johnny said he’d never had anyone so good with exhaust and

electrical systems.

“They’ve all hunted together, they’re good shots—”

“Please God we don’t have to put that to the test,” Andrea said.

“No one’s going to get shot, Andrea, and no one’s suggesting we make these young fellows full-time police. What I’m saying is that we need to fill out an extremely depleted roster, and fast. So how about it, Chief? They can serve until the crisis is over, and we’ll pay them out of the contingency fund.”

Randolph didn’t like the idea of Junior toting a gun on the streets of Chester’s Mill—Junior with his possible behavioral issues—but he also didn’t like the idea of bucking Big Jim. And it really might be a good idea to have a few extra widebodies on hand. Even if they were young. He didn’t anticipate problems in town, but they could be put on crowd control out where the main roads hit the barrier. If the barrier was still there. And if it wasn’t? Problems solved.

He put on a team-player smile. “You know, I think that’s a great idea, sir. You send em around to the station tomorrow around ten—”

“Nine might be better, Pete.”

“Nine’s fine,” Andy said in his dreamy voice.

“Further discussion?” Rennie asked.

There was none. Andrea looked as if she might have had something to say but couldn’t remember what it was.

“Then I call the question,” Rennie said. “Will the board ask acting Chief Randolph to take on Junior, Frank DeLesseps, Melvin Searles, and Carter Thibodeau as deputies at base salary? Their period of service to last until this darn crazy business is sorted out? Those in favor signify in the usual manner.”

They all raised their hands.

“The measure is approv—”

He was interrupted by two reports that sounded like gunfire. They all jumped. Then a third came, and Rennie, who had worked with motors for most of his life, realized what it was.

“Relax, folks. Just a backfire. Generator clearing its throa—”

The elderly gennie backfired a fourth time, then died. The lights went out, leaving them for a moment in stygian blackness. Andrea shrieked.

On his left, Andy Sanders said: “Oh my gosh, Jim, the propane—”

Rennie reached out with his free hand and grabbed Andy’s arm. Andy shut up. As Rennie was relaxing his grip, light crept back into the long pine-paneled room. Not the bright overheads but the emergency box-lights mounted in the four corners. In their weak glow, the faces clustered at the conference table’s north end looked yellow and years older. They looked frightened. Even Big Jim Rennie looked frightened.

“No problem,” Randolph said with a cheeriness that sounded manufactured rather than organic. “Tank just ran dry, that’s all. Plenty more in the town supply barn.”

Andy shot Big Jim a look. It was no more than a shifting of the eyes, but Rennie had an idea Andrea saw it. What she might eventually make of it was another question.

She’ll forget it after her next dose of Oxy, he told himself. By morning for sure.

And in the meantime, the town’s supplies of propane—or lack thereof—didn’t concern him much. He would take care of that situation when it became necessary.

“Okay, folks, I know you’re as anxious to get out of here as I am, so let’s move on to our next order of business. I think we should officially confirm Pete here as our Chief of Police pro tem.”

“Yes, why not?” Andy asked. He sounded tired.

“If there’s no discussion,” Big Jim said, “I’ll call the question.”

They voted as he wanted them to vote.

They always did.

Junior was sitting on the front step of the big Rennie home on Mill Street when the lights of his father’s Hummer splashed up the driveway. Junior was at peace. The headache had not returned. Angie and Dodee were stored in the McCain pantry, where they would be fine—at least for a while. The money he’d taken was back in his father’s safe. There was a gun in his pocket—the pearl-grip.38 his father had given him for his eighteenth birthday. Now he and his father would speak. Junior would listen very closely to what the King of No Money Down had to say. If he sensed his father knew what he, Junior, had done—he didn’t see how that was possible, but his father knew so much—then Junior would kill him. After that he would turn the gun on himself. Because there would be no running away, not tonight. Probably not tomorrow, either. On his way back, he had stopped on the town common and listened to the conversations going on there. What they were saying was insane, but the large bubble of light to the south—and the smaller one to the southwest, where 117 ran toward Castle Rock—suggested that tonight, insanity just happened to be the truth.

The door of the Hummer opened, chunked closed. His father walked toward him, his briefcase banging one thigh. He didn’t look suspicious, wary, or angry. He sat down beside Junior on the step without a word. Then, in a gesture that took Junior completely by surprise, he put a hand on the younger man’s neck and squeezed gently.

“You heard?” he asked.

“Some,” Junior said. “I don’t understand it, though.”

“None of us do. I think there are going to be some hard days ahead while this gets sorted out. So I have to ask you something.”

“What’s that?” Junior’s hand closed around the butt of the pistol.

“Will you play your part? You and your friends? Frankie? Carter and the Searles boy?”

Junior was silent, waiting. What was this shit?

“Peter Randolph’s acting chief now. He’s going to need some men to fill out the police roster. Good men. Are you willing to serve as a deputy until this damn clustermug is over?”

Junior felt a wild urge to scream with laughter. Or triumph. Or both. Big Jim’s hand was still on the nape of his neck. Not squeezing. Not pinching. Almost … caressing.

Junior took his hand off the gun in his pocket. It occurred to him that he was still on a roll—the roll of all rolls.

Today he had killed two girls he’d known since childhood.

Tomorrow he was going to be a town cop.

“Sure, Dad,” he said. “If you need us, we are there. ” And for the first time in maybe four years (it could have been longer), he kissed his father’s cheek.

PRAYERS

Barbie and Julia Shumway didn’t talk much; there wasn’t much to say. Theirs was, as far as Barbie could see, the only car on the road, but lights streamed from most of the farmhouse windows once they cleared town. Out here, where there were always chores to be done and no one fully trusted Western Maine Power, almost everyone had a gennie. When they passed the WCIK radio tower, the two red lights at the top were flashing as they always did. The electric cross in front of the little studio building was also lit, a gleaming white beacon in the dark. Above it, the stars spilled across the sky in their usual extravagant profusion, a never-ending cataract of energy that needed no generator to power it.

“Used to come fishing out this way,” Barbie said. “It’s peaceful.”

“Any luck?”

“Plenty, but sometimes the air smells like the dirty underwear of the gods. Fertilizer, or something. I never dared to eat what I caught.”

“Not fertilizer—bullshit. Also known as the smell of self-righteousness.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She pointed at a dark steeple-shape blocking out the stars. “Christ the Holy Redeemer Church,” she said. “They own WCIK just back the road. Sometimes known as Jesus Radio?”

He shrugged. “I guess maybe I have seen the steeple. And I know the station. Can’t very well miss it if you live around here and own a radio. Fundamentalist?”

“They make the hardshell Baptists look soft. I go to the Congo, myself. Can’t stand Lester Coggins, hate all the ha-ha-you’re-going-to-hell-and-we’re-not stuff. Different strokes for different folks, I guess. Although I have often wondered how they afford a fifty thousand-watt radio station.”

“Love offerings?”

She snorted. “Maybe I ought to ask Jim Rennie. He’s a deacon.”

Julia drove a trim Prius Hybrid, a car Barbie would not have expected of a staunch Republican newspaper owner (although he supposed it did fit a worshipper at the First Congregational). But it was quiet, and the radio worked. The only problem was that out here on the western side of town, CIK’s signal was so powerful it wiped out everything on the FM band. And tonight it was broadcasting some holy accordion shit that hurt Barbie’s head. It sounded like polka music played by an orchestra dying of bubonic plague.

“Try the AM band, why don’t you?” she said.

He did, and got only nighttime gabble until he hit a sports station near the bottom of the dial. Here he heard that before the Red Sox–Mariners playoff game at Fenway Park, there had been a moment of silence for the victims of what the announcer called “the western Maine event.”

“Event,” Julia said. “A sports-radio term if ever I heard one. Might as well turn it off.”

A mile or so past the church, they began to see a glow through the trees. They came around a curve and into the glare of lights almost the size of Hollywood premiere kliegs. Two pointed in their direction; two more were tilted straight up. Every pothole in the road stood out in stark relief. The trunks of the birches looked like narrow ghosts. Barbie felt as if they were driving into a noir movie from the late nineteen forties.

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said. “This is as close as you want to go. Looks like there’s nothing there, but take my word for it, there is. It would likely blow the electronics in your little car, if nothing else.”

She stopped and they got out. For a moment they just stood in front of the car, squinting into the bright light. Julia raised one hand to shield her eyes.

Parked beyond the lights, nose to nose, were two brown canvas-back military trucks. Sawhorses had been placed on the road for good measure, their feet braced with sandbags. Motors roared steadily in the darkness—not one generator but several. Barbie saw thick electrical cables snaking away from the spotlights and into the woods, where other lights glared through the trees.

“They’re going to light the perimeter,” he said, and twirled one finger in the air, like an ump signaling a home run. “Lights around the whole town, shining in and shining up.”

“Why up?”

“The up ones to warn away air traffic. If any gets through, that is. I’d guess it’s mostly tonight they’re worried about. By tomorrow they’ll have the airspace over The Mill sewn up like one of Uncle Scrooge’s moneybags.”

On the dark side of the spotlights, but visible in their back-splash, were half a dozen armed soldiers, standing at parade rest with their backs turned. They must have heard the approach of the car, quiet as it was, but not one of them so much as looked around.

Julia called, “Hello, fellas!”

No one turned. Barbie didn’t expect it—on their way out, Julia had told Barbie what Cox had told her— but he had to try. And because he could read their insignia, he knew what to try. The Army might be running this show—Cox’s involvement suggested that—but these fellows weren’t Army.

“Yo, Marines!” he called.

Nothing. Barbie stepped closer. He saw a dark horizontal line hanging on the air above the road, but ignored it for the time being. He was more interested in the men guarding the barrier. Or the Dome. Shumway had said Cox called it the Dome.

“I’m surprised to see you Force Recon boys stateside,” he said, walking a little closer. “That little Afghanistan problem over, is it?”

Nothing. He walked closer. The grit of the hardpan under his shoes seemed very loud.

“A remarkably high number of pussies in Force Recon, or so I’ve heard. I’m relieved, actually. If this situation was really bad, they would have sent in the Rangers.”

“Pogeybait,” one of them muttered.

It wasn’t much, but Barbie was encouraged. “Stand easy, fellas; stand easy and let’s talk this over.”

More nothing. And he was as close to the barrier (or the Dome) as he wanted to go. His skin didn’t rash out in goosebumps and the hair on his neck didn’t try to stand up, but he knew the thing was there. He sensed it.

And could see it: that stripe hanging on the air. He didn’t know what color it would be in daylight, but he was guessing red, the color of danger. It was spray paint, and he would have bet the entire contents of his bank account (currently just over five thousand dollars) that it went all the way around the barrier.

Like a stripe on a shirtsleeve, he thought.

He balled a fist and rapped on his side of the stripe, once more producing that knuckles-on-glass sound. One of the Marines jumped.

Julia began: “I’m not sure that’s a good—”

Barbie ignored her. He was starting to be angry. Part of him had been waiting to be angry all day, and here was his chance. He knew it would do no good to go off on these guys—they were only spear-carriers —but it was hard to bite back. “Yo, Marines! Help a brother out.”

“Quit it, pal.” Although the speaker didn’t turn around, Barbie knew it was the CO of this happy little band. He recognized the tone, had used it himself. Many times. “We’ve got our orders, so you help a brother out. Another time, another place, I’d be happy to buy you a beer or kick your ass. But not here, not tonight. So what do you say?”

“I say okay,” Barbie said. “But seeing as how we’re all on the same side, I don’t have to like it.” He turned to Julia. “Got your phone?”

She held it up. “You should get one. They’re the coming thing.”

“I have one,” Barbie said. “A disposable Best Buy special. Hardly ever use it. Left it in a drawer when I tried to blow town. Saw no reason not to leave it there tonight.”

She handed him hers. “You’ll have to punch the number, I’m afraid. I’ve got work to do.” She raised her voice so the soldiers standing beyond the glaring lights could hear her. “I’m the editor of the local newspaper, after all, and I want to get some pix.” She raised her voice a little more. “Especially a few of soldiers standing with their backs turned on a town that’s in trouble.”

“Ma’am, I kind of wish you wouldn’t do that,” the CO said. He was a blocky fellow with a broad back.

“Stop me,” she invited.

“I think you know we can’t do that,” he said. “As far as our backs being turned, those are our orders.”

“Marine,” she said, “you take your orders, roll em tight, bend over, and stick em where the air quality is questionable.” In the brilliant light, Barbie saw a remarkable thing: her mouth set in a harsh, unforgiving line and her eyes streaming tears.

While Barbie dialed the number with the weird area code, she got her camera and began snapping. The flash wasn’t very bright compared to the big generator-driven spotlights, but Barbie saw the soldiers flinch every time it went off. Probably hoping their fucking insignia doesn’t show, he thought.

United States Army Colonel James O. Cox had said he’d be sitting with a hand on the phone at ten thirty.

Barbie and Julia Shumway had run a little late and Barbie didn’t place the call until twenty of eleven, but Cox’s hand must have stayed right there, because the phone only managed half a ring before Barbie’s old boss said, “Hello, this is Ken.”

Barbie was still mad, but laughed just the same. “Yes sir. And I continue to be the bitch who gets all the good shit.”

Cox also laughed, no doubt thinking they were off to a good start. “How are you, Captain Barbara?”

“Sir, I’m fine, sir. But with respect, it’s just Dale Barbara now. The only things I captain these days are the grills and Fry-O-Lators in the local restaurant, and I’m in no mood for small talk. I am perplexed, sir, and since I’m looking at the backs of a bunch of pogey-bait Marines who won’t turn around and look me in the eye, I’m also pretty goddam pissed off.”

“Understood. And you need to understand something from my end. If there was anything at all those men could do to aid or end this situation, you would be looking at their faces instead of their asses. Do you believe that?”

“I’m hearing you, sir.” Which wasn’t exactly an answer.

Julia was still snapping. Barbie shifted to the edge of the road. From his new position he could see a bivouac tent beyond the trucks. Also what might have been a small mess tent, plus a parking area filled with more trucks. The Marines were building a camp here, and probably bigger ones where Routes 119 and 117 left town. That suggested permanence. His heart sank.

“Is the newspaper woman there?” Cox asked.

“She’s here. Taking pictures. And sir, full disclosure, whatever you tell me, I tell her. I’m on this side now.”

Julia stopped what she was doing long enough to flash Barbie a smile.

“Understood, Captain.”

“Sir, calling me that earns you no points.”

“All right, just Barbie. Is that better?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As to how much the lady decides to publish … for the sake of the people in that little town of yours, I hope she’s got sense enough to pick and choose.”

“My guess is she does.”

“And if she e-mails pictures to anyone on the outside—one of the newsmagazines or the New York Times, for instance—you may find your Internet goes the way of your landlines.”

“Sir, that’s some dirty sh—”

“The decision would be made above my pay grade. I’m just saying.” Barbie sighed. “I’ll tell her.”

“Tell me what?” Julia asked.

“That if you try to transmit those pictures, they may take it out on the town by shutting down Internet access.”

Julia made a hand gesture Barbie did not ordinarily associate with pretty Republican ladies. He returned his attention to the phone.

“How much can you tell me?”

“Everything I know,” Cox said.

“Thank you, sir.” Although Barbie doubted Cox would actually spill everything. The Army never told everything it knew. Or thought it knew.

“We’re calling it the Dome,” Cox said, “but it’s not a Dome. At least, we don’t think it is. We think it’s a capsule whose edges conform exactly to the borders of the town. And I do mean exactly.”

“Do you know how high it goes?”

“It appears to top out at forty-seven thousand and change. We don’t know if the top is flat or rounded. At least not yet.”

Barbie said nothing. He was flabbergasted.

“As to how deep … who knows. All we can say now is more than a hundred feet. That’s the current depth of an excavation we’re making on the border between Chester’s Mill and the unincorporated township to the north.”

“TR-90.” To Barbie’s ears, his voice sounded dull and listless.

“Whatever. We started in a gravel pit that was already dug down to forty feet or so. I’ve seen spectrographic im

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 724