MISSILE STRIKE IMMINENT 8 page

The red fissure inside her head opened wider.

“You can’t—” Frankie began, starting to get up himself. She pushed him. In a galaxy far far away, Clover —ordinarily the sweetest of dogs—was growling.

Frankie went on his back, eyes wide and startled, for a moment looking like the Sunday school boy he once might have been.

“Rape is the problem!” Piper shouted. “Rape!”

“Shut up,” Carter said. He was still sitting, and although Georgia was cowering against him, Carter remained calm. The muscles of his arms rippled below his short-sleeved blue shirt. “Shut up and get out of here right now, if you don’t want to spend the night in a cell downstai—”

“You’re the one who’ll be going into a cell,” Piper said. “All of you.”

“Make her shut up,” Georgia said. She wasn’t whimpering, but she was close. “Make her shut up, Cart.”

“Ma’am—” Freddy Denton. His uniform shirt untucked and bourbon on his breath. Duke would have taken one look and fired his ass. Fired all their asses. He started to get up and this time he was the one who went sprawling, a look of surprise on his face that would have been comical under other circumstances. It was nice that they had been sitting while she was standing. Made it easier. But oh, how her temples were thudding. She returned her attention to Thibodeau, the most dangerous one. He was still looking at her with maddening calm. As though she were a freak he’d paid a quarter to see in a sideshow tent. But he was looking up at her, and that was her advantage.

“But it won’t be a cell downstairs,” she said, speaking directly to Thibodeau. “It’ll be in Shawshank, where they do to little play-yard bullies like you what you did to that girl.”

“You stupid bitch,” Carter said. He spoke as if remarking on the weather. “We weren’t anywhere near her house.”

“That’s right,” Georgia said, sitting up again. There was Coke splattered on one of her cheeks, where a virulent case of teenage acne was fading (but still holding onto a few final outposts). “And besides, everyone knows Sammy Bushey is nothing but a lying lesbo cunt.”

Piper’s lips stretched in a smile. She turned it on Georgia, who recoiled from the crazy lady who had appeared so suddenly on the steps while they’d been having a nice sunsetter or two. “How did you know the lying lesbo cunt’s name? I didn’t say it.”

Georgia’s mouth dropped into an Oof dismay. And for the first time something flickered beneath Carter Thibodeau’s calm. Whether fear or just annoyance, Piper didn’t know.

Frank DeLesseps got cautiously to his feet. “You better not go around spreading accusations you can’t back up, Reverend Libby.”

“Nor assaulting police officers,” Freddy Denton said. “I’m willing to let it go this time—everyone’s under stress—but you have to cease and desist these accusations right now.” He paused, then added lamely: “And the pushing, of course.”

Piper’s gaze remained fixed on Georgia, her right hand curled so tightly around the black plastic grip of Clover’s leash it was throbbing. The dog stood with his forepaws spread and his head lowered, still growling. He sounded like a powerful outboard motor set to idle. The fur on his neck had bushed out enough to hide his collar.

“How’d you know her name, Georgia?”

“I … I … I just assumed …”

Carter gripped her shoulder and squeezed it. “Shut up, babe.” And then, to Piper, still not standing (Because he doesn’t want to be pushed back down, the coward ), he said: “I don’t know what kind of bee you’ve got in your Jesus bonnet, but we were all together last night, at Alden Dinsmore’s farm. Trying to see if we could get anything out of the soldier-boys stationed on 119, which we couldn’t. That’s on the other side of town from Busheys’.” He looked around at his friends.

“Right,” Frankie said.

“Right,” Mel chimed in, looking at Piper distrustfully.

“Yeah!” Georgia said. Carter’s arm was around her again and her moment of doubt was gone. She looked at Piper defiantly.

“Georgie-girl assumed it was Sammy you were yelling about,” Carter said with that same infuriating calm. “Because Sammy’s the biggest lying scumbucket in this town.”

Mel Searles yodeled laughter.

“But you didn’t use protection,” Piper said. Sammy had told her this, and when she saw Thibodeau’s face tighten, she knew it was true. “You didn’t use protection and they rape-kitted her.” She had no idea if this was true, and didn’t care. She could see from their widening eyes that they believed it, and their belief was enough. “When they compare your DNA to what they found—”

“That’s enough,” Carter said. “Shut it.”

She turned her furious smile on him. “No, Mr. Thibodeau. We are only getting started, my son.”

Freddy Denton reached for her. She pushed him down, then felt her left arm caught and twisted. She turned and looked into Thibodeau’s eyes. No calm there now; they were shining with rage.

Hello, my brother, she thought incoherently.

“Fuck you, you fucking bitch,” he remarked, and this time she was the one who was pushed.

Piper fell backward down the stairs, trying instinctively to tuck and roll, not wanting to hit her head on one of those stone risers, knowing they could smash her skull in. Kill her or—worse—leave her a vegetable. She struck on her left shoulder instead, and there was a sudden howl of pain there. Familiar pain. She had dislocated that one playing high school soccer twenty years ago, and damned if she hadn’t just done it again.

Her legs flew over her head and she turned a back somersault, wrenching her neck, coming down on her knees and splitting the skin on both. She finally came to rest on her stomach and breasts. She had tumbled almost all the way to the bottom of the steps. Her cheek was bleeding, her nose was bleeding, her lips were bleeding, her neck hurt, but ah God, her shoulder was the worst, humped up all crooked in a way she remembered well. The last time she’d seen a hump like that, it had been in a red nylon Wildcats jersey. Nevertheless, she struggled to her feet, thanking God she still had the power to command her legs; she could also have been paralyzed.

She’d lost hold of the leash halfway down and Clover jumped at Thibodeau, his teeth snapping at the chest and belly under his shirt, tearing the shirt open, knocking Thibodeau backward, going for the young man’s vitals.

“Get him off me!” Carter screamed. Nothing calm about him now. “He’s gonna kill me!”

And yes, Clover was trying. His front paws were planted on Carter’s thighs, going up and down as Carter thrashed. He looked like a German shepherd on a bicycle. He shifted his angle of attack and bit deep into Carter’s shoulder, eliciting another scream. Then Clover went for the throat. Carter got his hands on the dog’s chest just in time to save his windpipe.

“Make him stop!”

Frank reached for the trailing leash. Clover turned and snapped at his fingers. Frank skittered backward, and Clover returned his attention to the man who had pushed his mistress down the steps. His muzzle opened, revealing a double line of shining white teeth, and he drove at Thibodeau’s neck. Carter got his hand up, then shrieked in agony as Clover seized on it and began to shake it like one of his beloved rag toys. Only his rag toys didn’t bleed, and Carter’s hand did.

Piper came staggering up the steps, holding her left arm across her midriff. Her face was a mask of blood. A tooth clung to the corner of her mouth like a crumb of food.

“GET HIM OFF ME, CHRIST, GET YOUR FUCKIN DOG OFF ME!”

Piper was opening her mouth to tell Clover to stand down when she saw Fred Denton drawing his gun.

“No!” she screamed. “No, I can make him stop!”

Fred turned to Mel Searles, and pointed at the dog with his free hand. Mel stepped forward and kicked Clover in the haunch. He did it high and hard, as he had once (not so long ago) punted footballs. Clover was whipped sideways, losing his hold on Thibodeau’s bleeding, shredded hand, where two fingers now pointed in unusual directions, like crooked signposts.

“NO!” Piper screamed again, so loud and so hard the world went gray before her eyes. “DON’T HURT MY DOG!”

Fred paid no attention. When Peter Randolph burst out through the double doors, his shirttail out, his pants unzipped, the copy of Outdoors he had been reading on the crapper still held in one hand, Fred paid no attention to that, either. He pointed his service automatic at the dog, and fired.

The sound was deafening in the enclosed square. The top of Clover’s head lifted off in a spray of blood and bone. He took one step toward his screaming, bleeding mistress—another—then collapsed.

Fred, gun still in hand, strode forward and grabbed Piper by her bad arm. The hump in her shoulder roared a protest. And still she kept her eyes on the corpse of her dog, whom she had raised from a pup.

“You’re under arrest, you crazy bitch,” Fred said. He pushed his face—pale, sweaty, the eyes seeming ready to pop right out of their sockets—close enough to hers for her to feel the spray of his spittle. “Anything you say can and will be used against your crazy ass.”

On the other side of the street, diners were pouring out of Sweet-briar Rose, Barbie among them, still wearing his apron and baseball cap. Julia Shumway arrived first.

She took in the scene, not seeing details so much as a gestalt summation: dead dog; clustered cops; bleeding, screaming woman with one shoulder higher than the other; bald cop—Freddy goddam Denton— shaking her by the arm connected to that shoulder; more blood on the steps, suggesting that Piper had fallen down them. Or had been pushed.

Julia did something she had never done before in her life: reached into her handbag, flipped her wallet open, and climbed the steps, holding it out, yelling “Press! Press! Press!”

It stopped the shaking, at least.

Ten minutes later, in the office that had been Duke Perkins’s not so long ago, Carter Thibodeau sat on the sofa under Duke’s framed pictures and certificates, with a fresh bandage on his shoulder and paper towels around his hand. Georgia was sitting beside him. Large beads of painsweat stood out on Thibodeau’s forehead, but after saying “I don’t think nothin’s broken,” he was silent.

Fred Denton sat in a chair in the corner. His gun was on the Chief’s desk. He had surrendered it willingly enough, only saying, “I had to do it—just look at Cart’s hand.”

Piper sat in the office chair that was now Peter Randolph’s. Julia had mopped most of the blood off Piper’s face with more paper towels. The woman was shivering with shock and in great pain, but she was as silent about it as Thibodeau. Her eyes were clear.

“Clover only attacked him”—she raised her chin to Carter—“after he pushed me down the stairs. The push caused me to lose hold of the leash. What my dog did was justified. He was protecting me from a criminal assault.”

“She attacked us !” Georgia cried. “Crazy bitch attacked us ! Came up the steps spouting all this shit—”

“Shut up,” Barbie said. “All of you, shut the hell up.” He looked at Piper. “This isn’t the first time you’ve dislocated your shoulder, is it?”

“I want you out of here, Mr. Barbara,” Randolph said … but he spoke with no great conviction.

“I can deal with this,” Barbie said. “Can you?”

Randolph made no reply. Mel Searles and Frank DeLesseps stood outside the door. They looked worried.

Barbie turned back to Piper. “This is a subluxation—a partial separation. Not bad. I can pop it back in before you go to the hospital—”

“Hospital?” Fred Denton squawked. “She’s under arr—”

“Shut up, Freddy,” Randolph said. “Nobody’s under arrest. At least not yet.”

Barbie held Piper’s eyes with his own. “But I have to do it now, before the swelling gets bad. If you wait for Everett to do it at the hospital, they’ll have to give you anesthesia.” He leaned close to her ear and murmured, “While you’re out, they’ll be telling their side and you won’t be telling yours.”

“What are you saying?” Randolph asked sharply.

“That it’s going to hurt,” Barbie said. “Right, Rev?”

She nodded. “Go on. Coach Gromley did it right on the sidelines, and she was a total dope. Just hurry. And please don’t screw it up.”

Barbie said: “Julia, grab a sling from the first aid kit, then help me lie her down on her back.”

Julia, very pale and feeling ill, did as she was told.

Barbie sat down on the floor to Piper’s left, slipped off one shoe, and then grasped her forearm just above her wrist with both hands. “I don’t know Coach Gromley’s method,” he said, “but this is how a medic I knew in Iraq did it. You’re going to count to three and then yell wishbone.”

“Wishbone,” Piper said, bemused in spite of the pain. “Well okay, you’re the doctor.”

No, Julia thought—Rusty Everett was now the closest thing the town had to a doctor. She’d contacted Linda and gotten his cell phone number, but her call had been immediately shunted to voicemail.

The room was silent. Even Carter Thibodeau was watching. Barbie nodded to Piper. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead, but she had her game-face on, and Barbie respected the shit out of that. He slipped his sock-foot into her left armpit, snugging it tight. Then, while pulling slowly but steadily on her arm, he applied counter pressure with his foot.

“Okay, here we go. Let’s hear you.”

“One … two … three … WISHBONE! ”

When Piper shouted, Barbie pulled. Everyone in the room heard the loud thunk as the joint went back into place. The hump in Piper’s blouse magically disappeared. She screamed but didn’t pass out. He slipped

the sling over her neck and around the arm, immobilizing it as well as he could.

“Better?” he asked.

“Better,” she said. “Much, thank God. Still hurts, but not as bad.”

“I’ve got some aspirin in my purse,” Julia said.

“Give her the aspirin and then get out,” Randolph said. “All of you except for Carter, Freddy, the Reverend, and me.”

Julia looked at him unbelievingly. “Are you kidding? The Reverend is going to the hospital. Can you walk, Piper?”

Piper stood up shakily. “I think so. A little way.”

“Sit down, Reverend Libby,” Randolph said, but Barbie knew she was already gone. He could hear it in Randolph’s voice.

“Why don’t you make me?” She gingerly lifted her left arm and the sling holding it. The arm trembled, but it was working. “I’m sure you can dislocate it again, very easily. Go on. Show these … these boys … that you’re just like them.”

“And I’ll put it all in the paper!” Julia said brightly. “Circulation will double!”

Barbie said, “Suggest you defer this business until tomorrow, Chief. Allow the lady to get some painkillers stronger than aspirin, and have those knee lacerations checked by Everett. Given the Dome, she’s hardly a flight risk.”

“Her dog tried to kill me,” Carter said. In spite of the pain, he sounded calm again.

“Chief Randolph, DeLesseps, Searles, and Thibodeau are guilty of rape.” Piper was swaying now—Julia put an arm around her—but her voice was firm and clear. “Roux is an accessory to rape.”

“The hell I am!” Georgia squawked.

“They need to be suspended immediately.”

“She’s lying,” Thibodeau said.

Chief Randolph looked like a man watching a tennis match. He finally settled his gaze on Barbie. “Are you telling me what to do, kiddo?”

“No, sir, just making a suggestion based on my enforcement experience in Iraq. You’ll make your own decisions.”

Randolph relaxed. “Okay, then. Okay.” He looked down, frowning in thought. They all watched him notice his fly was still unzipped and take care of that little problem. Then he looked up again and said, “Julia, take Reverend Piper to the hospital. As for you, Mr. Barbara, I don’t care where you go but I want you out of here. I’ll take statements from my officers tonight, and from Reverend Libby tomorrow.”

“Wait,” Thibodeau said. He extended his crooked fingers to Barbie. “Can you do anything about these?”

“I don’t know,” Barbie said—pleasantly enough, he hoped. The initial ugliness was over, and now came the political aftermath, which he remembered well from dealing with Iraqi cops who were not all that different from the man on the couch and the others crowding the doorway. What it came down to was making nice with people you wished you could spit on. “Can you say wishbone ?”

Rusty had turned his cell phone off before knocking on Big Jim’s door. Now Big Jim sat behind his desk, Rusty in the seat before it—the chair of supplicants and applicants.

The study (Rennie probably called it a home office on his tax returns) had a pleasant, piney smell, as if it had recently been given a good scrubbing, but Rusty still didn’t like it. It wasn’t just the picture of an aggressively Caucasian Jesus delivering the Sermon on the Mount, or the self-congratulatory plaques, or the hardwood floor that really should have had a rug to protect it; it was all those things and something else as well. Rusty Everett had very little use for or belief in the supernatural, but nevertheless, this room felt almost haunted.

It’s because he scares you a little, he thought. That’s all it is.

Hoping that how he felt didn’t show in his voice or face, Rusty told Rennie about the hospital’s missing propane tanks. About how he had found one of them in the supply shed behind the Town Hall, currently running the Town Hall’s generator. And how it was the only one.

“So I have two questions,” Rusty said. “How did a tank from the hospital supply wander downtown? And where did the rest go?”

Big Jim rocked back in his chair, put his hands behind his neck, and looked up at the ceiling meditatively. Rusty found himself staring at the trophy baseball sitting on Rennie’s desk. Propped in front of it was a note from Bill Lee, once of the Boston Red Sox. He could read the note because it was turned outward. Of course it was. It was for guests to see, and marvel over. Like the pictures on the wall, the baseball proclaimed that Big Jim Rennie had rubbed elbows with Famous People: Look on my autographs, ye mighty, and despair. To Rusty, the baseball and the note turned outward seemed to sum up his bad feelings about the room he was in. It was window-dressing, a tinny testimonial to smalltown prestige and smalltown power.

“I wasn’t aware you had anyone’s permission to go poking around in our supply shed,” Big Jim remarked to the ceiling. His hammy fingers were still laced together behind his head. “Perhaps you’re a town official, and I wasn’t aware of it? If so, my mistake—my bad, as Junior says. I thought you were basically a nurse with a prescription pad.”

Rusty thought this was mostly technique—Rennie trying to piss him off. To divert him.

“I’m not a town official,” he said, “but I am a hospital employee. And a taxpayer.”

“So?”

Rusty could feel blood rushing to his face.

“So those things make it partly my supply shed.” He waited to see if Big Jim would respond to this, but the man behind the desk remained impassive. “Besides, it was unlocked. Which is all beside the point, isn’t it? I saw what I saw, and I’d like an explanation. As a hospital employee.”

“And a taxpayer. Don’t forget that.”

Rusty sat looking at him, not even nodding.

“I can’t give you one,” Rennie said.

Rusty raised his eyebrows. “Really? I thought you had your fingers on the pulse of this town. Isn’t that what you said the last time you ran for Selectman? And now you’re telling me you can’t explain where the town’s propane went? I don’t believe it.”

For the first time, Rennie looked nettled. “I don’t care if you believe it or not. This is news to me.” But his eyes darted fractionally to one side as he said it, as if to check that his autographed photo of Tiger Woods was still there; the classic liar’s tell.

Rusty said, “The hospital’s almost out of LP. Without it, the few of us who are still on the job might as well be working in a Civil War battlefield surgery tent. Our current patients—including a postcoronary and a serious case of diabetes that may warrant amputation—will be in serious trouble if the power goes out. The possible amp is Jimmy Sirois. His car is in the parking lot. It’s got a sticker on the bumper that says ELECT BIG JIM.”

“I’ll investigate,” Big Jim said. He spoke with the air of a man conferring a favor. “The town’s propane is probably stored in some other town facility. As for yours, I’m sure I can’t say.”

“What other town facilities? There’s the FD, and the sand-and-salt pile out on God Creek Road—not even a shed there—but those are the only ones I’m aware of.”

“Mr. Everett, I’m a busy man. You’ll have to excuse me now.”

Rusty stood. His hands wanted to ball into fists, but he wouldn’t let them. “I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. “Straight out and straight up. Do you know where those missing tanks are?”

“No.” This time it was Dale Earnhardt Rennie’s eyes flickered to. “And I’m not going to read any implication into that question, son, because if I did I’d have to resent it. Now why don’t you run along and check on Jimmy Sirois? Tell him Big Jim sends his best, and he’ll stop by as soon as the nitpickery slows down a little.”

Rusty was still battling to hold onto his temper, but this was a fight he was losing. “Run along? I think you forgot that you’re a public servant, not a private dictator. For the time being I’m this town’s chief medical officer, and I want some an—”

Big Jim’s cell rang. He snared it. Listened. The lines around his drawn-down mouth grew grimmer. “Goshdarn it! Every time I turn my darn back …” He listened some more, then said: “If you’ve got people with you in the office, Pete, shut your trap before you open it too wide and fall right the heck in. Call Andy. I’ll be right there, and the three of us’ll clean this up.”

He killed the phone and got to his feet.

“I have to go to the police station. It’s either an emergency or more nitpickery, I won’t be able to tell which until I get there. And you’ll be wanted at either the hospital or the Health Center, I believe. There seems to be a problem with the Reverend Libby.”

“Why? What happened to her?”

Big Jim’s cold eyes surveyed him from hard little sockets. “I’m sure you’ll hear her story. I don’t know how true it’ll be, but I’m sure you’ll hear it. So go do your job, young fella, and let me do mine.”

Rusty walked down the front hall and out of the house, his temples throbbing. In the west, the sunset was a lurid bloodshow. The air was almost completely still, but bore a smoky stench just the same. At the foot of the steps, Rusty raised a finger and pointed it at the public servant waiting for him to leave his property before he, Rennie, left himself. Rennie scowled at the finger, but Rusty did not drop it.

“Nobody needs to tell me to do my job. And I’m going to make looking for that propane part of it. If I find it in the wrong place, someone else is going to be doing your job, Selectman Rennie. That’s a promise.”

Big Jim flapped a contemptuous hand at him. “Get out of here, son. Go to work.”

During the first fifty-five hours of the Dome’s existence, over two dozen children suffered seizures. Some, like those of the Everett girls, were noted. Many more were not, and in the days ahead, the seizure activity would rapidly taper down to nothing. Rusty would compare this to the minor shocks people experienced when they came too close to the Dome. The first time, you got that almost electric frisson that stiffened the hair on the back of your neck; after that, most people felt nothing. It was as if they had been inoculated.

“Are you saying the Dome is like chickenpox?” Linda asked him later. “Catch it once and you’re set for life?”

Janelle had two seizures, and so did a little kid named Norman Sawyer, but in both cases the second seizure was milder than the first, and not accompanied by any babble. Most of the kids Rusty saw had only the one, and there seemed to be no after-effects.

Only two adults had seizures during those first fifty-five hours. Both came around sunset on Monday evening, and both had easily traceable causes.

With Phil Bushey, aka The Chef, the cause was too much of his own product. Around the time Rusty and Big Jim parted company, Chef Bushey was sitting outside the storage barn behind WCIK, looking dreamily at the sunset (this close to the missile strikes, the scarlet in the sky was further darkened by soot on the Dome), his hitty-pipe clasped loosely in one hand. He was tweeked at least to the ionosphere; maybe a hundred miles beyond. In the few low-lying clouds which floated on that bloody light, he saw the faces of his mother, his father, his grandfather; he saw Sammy and Little Walter as well.

All the cloud-faces were bleeding.

When his right foot began to twitch and then his left foot picked up the beat, he ignored it. Twitchin was part of tweekin, everyone knew that. But then his hands began to tremble and his pipe fell into the long grass (yellow and sere as a result of the factory work that went on out here). A moment later his head began to jerk from side to side.

This is it, he thought with a calm that was partly relief. I finally overdid it. I’m checking out. Probably for the best.

But he didn’t check out, didn’t even pass out. He slid slowly sideways, twitching and watching as a black marble rose in the red sky. It expanded to a bowling ball, then an overinflated beachball. It went on growing until it had eaten up the red sky.

The end of the world, he thought. Probably for the best.

For a moment he thought he was wrong, because the stars came out. Only they were the wrong color. They were pink. And then, oh God, they began to fall down, leaving long pink trails behind them.

Next came fire. A roaring furnace, as if someone had opened a hidden trapdoor and loosed Hell itself on Chester’s Mill.

“It’s our treat,” he muttered. His pipe pressed against his arm, making a burn he would see and feel later. He lay twitching in the yellow grass with his eyes turned up to glabrous whites that reflected the lurid sunset. “Our Halloween treat. First the trick … then the treat.”

The fire was becoming a face, an orange version of the bloody ones he’d been looking at in the clouds just before the fit fell on him. It was the face of Jesus. Jesus was scowling at him.

And talking. Talking to him. Telling him that bringing the fire was his responsibility. His. The fire and the … the …

“The purity,” he muttered as he lay in the grass. “No … the purification. ”

Jesus didn’t look so mad now. And He was fading. Why? Because The Chef had understood. First came the pink stars; then came the purifying fire; then the trial would end.

The Chef stilled as the seizure passed into the first real sleep he’d had in weeks, perhaps months. When he woke up, it was full dark—every trace of red gone from the sky. He was chilled to the bone, but not damp.

Under the Dome, dew no longer fell.

While The Chef was observing the face of Christ in that evening’s infected sunset, Third Selectman Andrea Grinnell was sitting on her couch and trying to read. Her generator had quit—or had it ever run at all? She couldn’t remember. But she had a gadget called a Mighty Brite light that her sister Rose had tucked into her Christmas stocking last year. She’d never had occasion to use it until now, but it worked just fine. You clamped it to your book and turned it on. Easy-peasy. So light wasn’t a problem. The words, unfortunately, were. The words kept squirming around on the page, sometimes even changing places with each other, and Nora Roberts’s prose, ordinarily crystal clear, made absolutely no sense. Yet Andrea kept trying, because she could think of nothing else to do.

The house stank, even with the windows open. She was suffering diarrhea and the toilet would no longer flush. She was hungry but couldn’t eat. She had tried a sandwich around five PM—just an inoffensive cheese sandwich—and had thrown it up in the kitchen wastebasket minutes after it was down. A shame, because eating that sandwich had been hard work. She was sweating heavily—had already changed her clothes once, probably should change them again, if she could manage to do it—and her feet kept jittering and jerking.

They don’t call it kicking the habit for nothing, she thought. And I’ll never make the emergency meeting tonight, if Jim still means to have one.

Considering how her last conversation with Big Jim and Andy Sanders had gone, maybe that was good; if she showed up, they’d just bully her some more. Make her do things she didn’t want to do. Best she stay away until she was clear of this … this …

“This shit, ” she said, and brushed her damp hair out of her eyes. “This fucking shit in my system.”

Once she was herself again, she would stand up to Jim Rennie. It was long overdue. She would do it in spite of her poor aching back, which was such a misery without her OxyContin (but not the white-hot agony she had expected—that was a welcome surprise). Rusty wanted her to take methadone. Methadone, for God’s sake! Heroin under an alias!

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 505