MISSILE STRIKE IMMINENT 15 page

“Remember,” Barbie said to Rusty as the plastic cuffs went on … and were then tightened until they dug into the scant meat above the heels of his hands.

Rusty stood up. When Linda tried to hold him, he pushed her away and gave her a look she had never seen before. There was sternness in it, and reproach, but there was also pity. “Peter,” he said, and when Randolph began to turn away, he raised his voice to a shout. “I’m talking to you! You look at me while I do!”

Randolph turned. His face was a stone.

“He knew you were here for him.”

“Sure he did,” Junior said. “He may be crazy, but he’s not stupid.” Rusty took no notice of this. “He showed me his arms, his face, raised his shirt to show me his stomach and back. He’s unmarked, unless he raises a bruise where Thibodeau suckerpunched him.”

Carter said, “Three women? Three women and a preacher ? He deserved it.”

Rusty didn’t shift his gaze from Randolph. “This is a setup.”

“All due respect, Eric, not your department,” Randolph said. He had holstered his sidearm. Which was a relief.

“That’s right,” Rusty said. “I’m a patch-em-up guy, not a cop or a lawyer. What I’m telling you is if I have occasion to look him over again while he’s in your custody and he’s got a lot of cuts and bruises, God help you.”

“What are you gonna do, call the Civil Liberties Union?” Frank DeLesseps asked. He was white-lipped with fury. “Your friend there beat four people to death. Brenda Perkins’s neck was broken. One of the girls was my fiancée, and she was sexually molested. Probably after she was dead as well as before, is the way it looks.”

Most of the crowd that had scattered at the gunshot had crept back to watch, and now a soft and horrified groan arose from it.

“This is the guy you’re defending? You ought to be in jail yourself!”

“Frank, shut up!” Linda said.

Rusty looked at Frank DeLesseps, the boy he had treated for chicken pox, measles, head lice picked up at summer camp, a broken wrist suffered sliding into second base, and once, when he was twelve, a particularly malicious case of poison ivy. He saw very little resemblance between that boy and this man. “And if I was locked up? Then what, Frankie? What if your mother has another gallbladder attack, like last year? Do I wait for visiting hours at the jail to treat her?”

Frank stepped forward, raising a hand to either slap or punch. Junior grabbed him. “He’ll get his, don’t worry. Everyone on Barbara’s side will. All in good time.”

“Sides?” Rusty sounded honestly bewildered. “What are you talking about, sides ? This isn’t a goddam football game.”

Junior smiled as if he knew a secret.

Rusty turned to Linda. “Those are your colleagues talking. Do you like how they sound?”

For a moment she couldn’t look at him. Then, with an effort, she did. “They’re mad, that’s all, and I don’t blame them. I am, too. Four people, Eric—didn’t you hear? He killed them, and he almost certainly raped at least two of the women. I helped take them out of the hearse at Bowie’s. I saw the stains.”

Rusty shook his head. “I just spent the morning with him, watching him help people, not hurt them.”

“Let it go,” Barbie said. “Stand back, big guy. It’s not the ti—”

Junior poked him in the ribs. Hard. “You have the right to remain silent, assmunch.”

“He did it,” Linda said. She stretched out a hand to Rusty, saw he wasn’t going to take it, and dropped it to her side. “They found his dog tags in Angie McCain’s hand.”

Rusty was speechless. He could only watch as Barbie was hustled out to the Chief’s car and locked in the backseat with his hands still cuffed behind him. There was one moment when Barbie’s eyes found Rusty’s. Barbie shook his head. A single shake only, but hard and firm.

Then he was driven away.

There was silence in the lobby. Junior and Frank had gone with Randolph. Carter, Jackie, and Freddy Denton headed out to the other police car. Linda stood looking at her husband with pleading and anger. Then the anger disappeared. She stepped toward him, raising her arms, wanting to be held, if only for a few seconds.

“No,” he said.

She stopped. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you ? Did you miss what just happened here?”

“Rusty, she was holding his dog tags !”

He nodded slowly. “Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

Her face, which had been both hurt and hopeful, now froze. She seemed to notice that her arms were still held out to him, and she lowered them.

“Four people,” she said, “three beaten almost beyond recognition. There are sides, and you need to think about which one you’re on.”

“So do you, honey,” Rusty said.

From outside, Jackie called, “Linda, come on!”

Rusty was suddenly aware he had an audience, and that many among it had voted for Jim Rennie again and again. “Just think about this, Lin. And think about who Pete Randolph works for.”

“Linda!” Jackie called.

Linda Everett left with her head dropped. She didn’t look back. Rusty was okay until she got into the car. Then he began to tremble. He thought if he didn’t sit down soon, he might fall down.

A hand fell on his shoulder. It was Twitch. “You okay, boss?”

“Yes.” As if saying so would make it so. Barbie had been hauled off to jail and he’d had his first real argument with his wife in—what?—four years? More like six. No, he wasn’t okay.

“Got a question,” Twitch said. “If those people were murdered, why’d they take the bodies to the Bowie Funeral Home instead of bringing them here for postmortem examination? Whose idea was that?”

Before Rusty could reply, the lights went out. The hospital generator had finally run dry.

After watching them polish off the last of her chop suey (which had contained the last of her hamburger), Claire motioned the three children to stand in front of her in the kitchen. She looked at them solemnly and they looked back—so young and scarily determined. Then, with a sigh, she handed Joe his backpack. Benny peered inside and saw three PB&Js, three deviled eggs, three bottles of Snapple, and half a dozen oatmeal-raisin cookies. Although still full of lunch, he brightened. “Most excellent, Mrs. McC.! You are a true—”

She paid no heed; all her attention was fixed on Joe. “I understand that this could be important, so I’m going along. I’ll even drive you out there if you—”

“Don’t have to, Mom,” Joe said. “It’s an easy ride.”

“Safe, too,” Norrie added. “Hardly anyone on the roads.”

Claire’s eyes were locked on her son’s in the Mom Death-Stare. “But I need two promises. First, that you’ll be home before dark … and I don’t mean the last gasp of twilight, either, I mean while the sun is still up. Second, if you do find something, mark its location and then leave it utterly and completely alone. I accept that you three might be the best people to look for this whatever-it-might-be, but dealing with it is a job for adults. So do I have your word? Give it to me or I’ll have to come with you as your chaperone.”

Benny looked doubtful. “I’ve never been down Black Ridge Road, Mrs. McC., but I’ve been past it. I don’t think your Civic would exactly be, like, up to the task.”

“Then promise me or you stay right here, how’s that?”

Joe promised. So did the other two. Norrie even crossed herself.

Joe started to shoulder the backpack. Claire slipped in her cell phone. “Don’t lose that, mister.”

“I won’t, Mom.” Joe was shifting from foot to foot, anxious to be gone.

“Norrie? Can I trust you to put the brakes on if these two get crazy?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Norrie Calvert said, as if she hadn’t dared death or disfigurement on her skateboard a thousand times just in the last year. “You sure can.”

“I hope so,” she said. “I hope so.” Claire rubbed at her temples as if she were getting a headache.

“Awesome lunch, Mrs. McC.!” Benny said, and held up his hand. “Slap me five.”

“Dear God, what am I doing?” Claire asked. Then she slapped him five.

Behind the chest-high front desk in the Police Department lobby, where people came to complain about such troubles as theft, vandalism, and the neighbor’s ceaselessly barking dog, was the ready room. It contained desks, lockers, and a coffee station where a grouchy sign announced COFFEE AND DONUTS ARE NOT FREE. It was also the booking area. Here Barbie was photographed by Freddy Denton and fingerprinted by Henry Morrison while Peter Randolph and Denton stood close by with their guns drawn.

“Limp, keep em limp!” Henry shouted. This was not the man who had enjoyed talking with Barbie about the Red Sox–Yankees rivalry over lunch at Sweetbriar Rose (always a BLT with a dill pickle spear on the side). This was a fellow who looked like he’d enjoy punching Dale Barbara in the nose. Hard. “You don’t roll em, I do, so keep em limp!”

Barbie thought of telling Henry it was hard to relax your hands when you were standing this close to men with guns, especially if you knew the men wouldn’t mind using them. He kept his mouth shut instead, and concentrated on relaxing his hands so Henry could roll the prints. And he wasn’t bad at it, not at all. Under other circumstances Barbie might have asked Henry why they were bothering, but he held his tongue on this subject, as well.

“All right,” Henry said when he judged the prints clear. “Take him downstairs. I want to wash my hands. I feel dirty just touching him.”

Jackie and Linda had been standing to one side. Now, as Randolph and Denton holstered their guns and grabbed Barbie’s arms, the two women drew their own. They were pointed down but ready.

“I’d puke up everything you ever fed me, if I could,” Henry said. “You disgust me.”

“I didn’t do it,” Barbie said. “Think about it, Henry.”

Morrison only turned away. Thinking’s in short supply around here today, Barbie thought. Which, he was sure, was just the way Rennie liked it.

“Linda,” he said. “Mrs. Everett.”

“Don’t talk to me.” Her face was paper-pale except for dark purplish crescents beneath her eyes. They looked like bruises.

“Come on, sunshine,” Freddy said, and ground a knuckle into the small of Barbie’s back, just above the kidney. “Your suite awaits.”

Joe, Benny, and Norrie rode their bikes north along Route 119. The afternoon was summer-hot, the air hazy and humid. Not a breath of breeze stirred. Crickets sang dozily in the high weeds at the sides of the road. The sky at the horizon had a yellow look that Joe first took for clouds. Then he realized it was a mixture of pollen and pollution on the surface of the Dome. Out here, Prestile Stream ran close beside the highway, and they should have heard it chuckling as it sped southeast toward Castle Rock, eager to join the mighty Androscoggin, but they heard only the crickets and a few crows cawing lackadaisically in the trees.

They passed the Deep Cut Road, and came to the Black Ridge Road about a mile farther on. It was dirt, badly potholed, and marked with two leaning, frost-heaved signs. The one on the left read 4-WHEEL DRIVE RECOMMENDED. The one on the right added BRIDGE WEIGHT LIMIT 4 TONS LARGE TRUCKS POSTED. Both signs were riddled with bulletholes.

“I like a town where the folks take regular target practice,” Benny said. “Makes me feel safe from El Kliyder.”

“That’s Al Qaeda, nitboy,” Joe said.

Benny shook his head, smiling indulgently. “I’m talking about El Kliyder, the terrible Mexican bandit who has relocated to western Maine in order to avoid—”

“Let’s try the Geiger counter,” Norrie said, dismounting her bike.

It was back in the carrier of Benny’s High Plains Schwinn. They had nested it in a few old towels from Claire’s rag-basket. Benny took it out and handed it to Joe, its yellow case the brightest thing in that hazy landscape. Benny’s smile had disappeared. “You do it. I’m too nervous.”

Joe considered the Geiger counter, then handed it off to Norrie.

“Chickenshits,” she said, not unkindly, and turned it on. The needle swung immediately to +50. Joe stared at it and felt his heart suddenly bumping in his throat instead of his chest.

“Whoa!” Benny said. “We have liftoff!”

Norrie looked from the needle, which was steady (but still half a dial away from the red), to Joe. “Keep going?”

“Hell, yeah,” he said.

There was no power shortage at the Police Department—at least not yet. A green-tiled corridor ran the length of the basement beneath fluorescents that cast a depressingly changeless light. Dawn or midnight, it was always the blare of noon down here. Chief Randolph and Freddy Denton escorted (if such a word could be used, considering the fists clamped on his upper arms) Barbie down the steps. The two women officers, guns still drawn, followed behind.

To the left was the file room. To the right were five cells, two on each side and one at the very end. The last was the smallest, with a narrow bunk all but overhanging the seatless steel toilet, and this was the one toward which they frog-marched him.

On orders from Pete Randolph—who had gotten his from Big Jim—even the worst actors in the supermarket riot had been released on their own recognizance (where were they going to go?), and all the cells were supposed to be empty. So it was a surprise when Melvin Searles came bolting from number 4, where he had been lurking. The bandage wound around his head had slipped down and he was wearing sunglasses to mask two gaudily blackening eyes. In one hand he was carrying an athletic sock with something weighting the toe: a homemade blackjack. Barbie’s first, blurred impression was that he was about to be attacked by the Invisible Man.

“Bastard!” Mel shouted, and swung his cosh. Barbie ducked. It whizzed over his head, striking Freddy Denton on the shoulder. Freddy bellowed and let go of Barbie. Behind them, the women were shouting.

“Fuckin murderer ! Who’d you pay to bust my head? Huh?” Mel swung again, and this time connected with the bicep of Barbie’s left arm. That arm seemed to fall dead. Not sand in the sock, but a paperweight of some kind. Glass or metal, probably, but at least it was round. If it had had an angle, he would be bleeding.

“You fuckin fucked-up fuck!” Mel roared, and swung the loaded sock again. Chief Randolph ducked backward, also letting go of Barbie. Barbie grabbed the top of the sock, wincing as the weight inside wound the bottom around his wrist. He pulled back hard, and managed to yank Mel Searles’s homemade weapon free. At the same time Mel’s bandage fell down over his dark glasses like a blindfold.

“Hold it, hold it!” Jackie Wettington cried. “Stop what you’re doing, prisoner, this is your only warning!”

Barbie felt a small cold circle form between his shoulder blades. He couldn’t see it, but knew without looking that Jackie had drawn her sidearm. If she shoots me, that’s where the bullet will go. And she might, because in a small town where big trouble’s almost a complete stranger, even the professionals are amateurs.

He dropped the sock. Whatever was in it clunked on the lino. Then he raised his hands. “Ma’am I have dropped it!” he called. “Ma’am, I am unarmed, please lower your weapon!”

Mel brushed the slipping bandage aside. It unrolled down his back like the tail of a swami’s turban. He hit Barbie twice, once in the solar plexus and once in the pit of the stomach. This time Barbie wasn’t prepared, and the air exploded out of his lungs with a harsh PAH sound. He doubled over, then went to his knees. Mel hammered a fist down on the nape of his neck—or maybe it was Freddy; for all Barbie knew, it could have been the Fearless Leader himself—and he went sprawling, the world growing thin and indistinct. Except for a chip in the linoleum. That he could see very well. With breathtaking clarity, in fact, and why not? It was less than an inch from his eyes.

“Stop it, stop it, stop hitting him !” The voice was coming from a great distance, but Barbie was pretty sure it belonged to Rusty’s wife. “He’s down, don’t you see he’s down?”

Feet shuffled around him in a complicated dance. Someone stepped on his ass, stumbled, cried “Oh fuck !” and then he was kicked in the hip. It was all happening far away. It might hurt later, but right now it wasn’t too bad.

Hands grabbed him and hauled him upright. Barbie tried to raise his head, but it was easier, on the whole, just to let it hang. He was propelled down the hall toward the final cell, the green lino sliding between his feet. What had Denton said upstairs? Your suite awaits.

But I doubt if there’s pillow mints or turndown service, Barbie thought. Nor did he care. All he wanted was to be left alone to lick his wounds.

Outside the cell someone put a shoe in his ass to hurry him along even more. He flew forward, raising his right arm to stop himself from crashing face-first into the green cinderblock wall. He tried to raise his left arm as well, but it was still dead from the elbow down. He managed to protect his head, though, and that was good. He rebounded, staggered, then went to his knees again, this time beside the cot, as if about to say a prayer prior to turning in. Behind him, the cell door rumbled shut along its track.

Barbie braced his hands on the bunk and pushed himself up, the left arm working a little now. He turned around just in time to see Randolph walking away in a pugnacious strut—fists clenched, head lowered. Beyond him, Denton was unwinding what remained of Searles’s bandage while Searles glared (the power of the glare somewhat vitiated by the sunglasses, now sitting askew on his nose). Beyond the male officers, at the foot of the stairs, were the women. They wore identical expressions of dismay and confusion. Linda Everett’s face was paler than ever, and Barbie thought he saw the gleam of tears in her lashes.

Barbie summoned all his will and called out to her. “Officer Everett!”

She jumped a little, startled. Had anyone ever called her Officer Everett before? Perhaps schoolchildren, when she pulled crossing-guard duty, which had probably been her heaviest responsibility as a part-time cop. Up until this week.

“Officer Everett! Ma’am! Please, ma’am!”

“Shut up!” Freddy Denton said.

Barbie paid him no mind. He thought he was going to pass out, or at least gray out, but for the time being he held on grimly.

“Tell your husband to examine the bodies! Mrs. Perkins’s in particular! Ma’am, hemust examine the bodies! They won’t be at the hospital! Rennie won’t allow them to—”

Peter Randolph strode forward. Barbie saw what he had taken off Freddy Denton’s belt and tried to raise his arms across his face, but they were just too heavy.

“That’s enough out of you, son,” Randolph said. He shoved the Mace dispenser between the bars and squeezed the pistol grip.

Halfway over the rust-eaten Black Ridge Bridge, Norrie stopped her bike and stood looking at the far side of

the cut.

“We better keep going,” Joe said. “Use the daylight while we’ve got it.”

“I know, but look,” Norrie said, pointing.

On the other bank, below a steep drop and sprawled on the drying mud where the Prestile had run full before the Dome began to choke its flow, were the bodies of four deer: a buck, two does, and a yearling. All were of good size; it had been a fine summer in The Mill, and they had fed well. Joe could see clouds of flies swarming above the carcasses, could even hear their somnolent buzz. It was a sound that would have been covered by running water on an ordinary day.

“What happened to them?” Benny asked. “Do you think it has anything to do with what we’re looking for? ”

“If you’re talking about radiation,” Joe said, “I don’t think it works that fast.”

“Unless it’s really high radiation,” Norrie said uneasily.

Joe pointed at the Geiger counter’s needle. “Maybe, but this still isn’t very high. Even if it was all the way in the red, I don’t think it would kill animals as big as deer in only three days.”

Benny said, “That buck’s got a broken leg, you can see it from here.”

“I’m pretty sure one of the does has got two, ” Norrie said. She was shading her eyes. “The front ones. See how they’re bent?”

Joe thought the doe looked as if she had died while trying to do some strenuous gymnastic stunt.

“I think they jumped,” Norrie said. “Jumped off the bank like those little rat-guys are supposed to.”

“Lemons,” Benny said.

“Lem-mings, birdbrain,” Joe said.

“Trying to get away from something?” Norrie asked. “Is that what they were doing?”

Neither boy answered. Both looked younger than they had the week before, like children forced to listen to a campfire story that’s much too scary. The three of them stood by their bikes, looking at the dead deer and listening to the somnolent hum of the flies.

“Go on?” Joe asked.

“I think we have to,” Norrie said. She swung a leg over the fork of her bike and stood astride it.

“Right,” Joe said, and mounted his own bike.

“Ollie,” Benny said, “this is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” Benny said. “Ride, my soul brother, ride.”

On the far side of the bridge, they could see that all the deer had broken legs. One of the yearlings also had a crushed skull, probably suffered when it came down on a large boulder that would have been covered by water on an ordinary day.

“Try the Geiger counter again,” Joe said.

Norrie turned it on. This time the needle danced just below +75.

Pete Randolph exhumed an old cassette recorder from one of Duke Perkins’s desk drawers, tested it, and found the batteries still good. When Junior Rennie came in, Randolph pressed REC and set the little Sony on the corner of the desk where the young man could see it.

Junior’s latest migraine was down to a dull mutter on the left side of his head, and he felt calm enough; he and his father had been over this, and Junior knew what to say.

“It’ll be strictly softball,” Big Jim had said. “A formality.”

And so it was.

“How’d you find the bodies, son?” Randolph asked, rocking back in the swivel chair behind the desk. He had removed all of Perkins’s personal items and put them in a file cabinet on the other side of the room. Now that Brenda was dead, he supposed he could dump them in the trash. Personal effects were no good when there was no next of kin.

“Well,” Junior said, “I was coming back from patrol out on 117—I missed the whole supermarket thing—”

“Good luck for you,” Randolph said. “That was a total cock-and-balls, if you’ll pardon my fran-kays. Coffee?”

“No thanks, sir. I’m subject to migraines, and coffee seems to make them worse.”

“Bad habit, anyway. Not as bad as cigarettes, but bad. Did you know I smoked until I was Saved?”

“No, sir, I sure didn’t.” Junior hoped this idiot would stop blathering and let him tell his story so he could get out of here.

“Yep, by Lester Coggins.” Randolph splayed his hands on his chest. “Full-body immersion in the Prestile. Gave my heart to Jesus right then and there. I haven’t been as faithful a churchgoer as some, certainly not as faithful as your dad, but Reverend Coggins was a good man.” Randolph shook his head. “Dale Barbara’s got a lot on his conscience. Always assuming he has one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A lot to answer for, too. I gave him a shot of Mace, and that was just a small down payment on what he’s got coming. So. You were coming back from patrol and?”

“And I got to thinking that someone told me they’d seen Angie’s car in the garage. You know, the McCain garage.”

“Who told you that?”

“Frank?” Junior rubbed his temple. “I think maybe it was Frank.”

“Go on.”

“So anyway, I looked in one of the garage windows, and her car was there. I went to the front door and rang the bell, but nobody answered. Then I went around to the back because I was worried. There was … a smell.”

Randolph nodded sympathetically. “Basically, you just followed your nose. That was good police work, son.”

Junior looked at Randolph sharply, wondering if this was a joke or a sly dig, but the Chief’s eyes seemed to hold nothing but honest admiration. Junior realized that his father might have found an assistant (the first word actually to occur to him was accomplice ) who was even dumber than Andy Sanders. He wouldn’t have thought that possible.

“Go on, finish up. I know this is painful to you. It’s painful to all of us.”

“Yes, sir. Basically it’s just what you said. The back door was unlocked, and I followed my nose straight to the pantry. I could hardly believe what I found there.”

“Did you see the dog tags then?”

“Yes. No. Kind of. I saw Angie had something in her hand … on a chain … but I couldn’t tell what it was, and I didn’t want to touch anything.” Junior looked down modestly. “I know I’m just a rookie.”

“Good call,” Randolph said. “Smart call. You know, we’d have a whole forensic team from the State Attorney General’s office in there under ordinary circumstances—really nail Barbara to the wall—but these aren’t ordinary circumstances. Still, we’ve got enough, I’d say. He was a fool to overlook those dog tags.”

“I used my cell phone and called my father. Based on all the radio chatter, I figured you’d be busy down here—”

“Busy?” Randolph rolled his eyes. “Son, you don’t know the half of it. You did the right thing calling your dad. He’s practically a member of the department.”

“Dad grabbed two officers, Fred Denton and Jackie Wettington, and they came on over to the McCains’ house. Linda Everett joined us while Freddy was photographing the crime scene. Then Stewart Bowie and his brother showed up with the funeral hack. My dad thought that was best, things being so busy at the hospital with the riot and all.”

Randolph nodded. “Just right. Help the living, store the dead. Who found the dog tags?”

“Jackie. She pushed Angie’s hand open with a pencil and they fell right out on the floor. Freddy took pictures of everything.”

“Helpful at a trial,” Randolph said. “Which we’ll have to handle ourselves, if this Dome thing doesn’t clear up. But we can. You know what the Bible says: With faith, we can move mountains. What time did you find the bodies, son?”

“Around noon.” After I took some time to say goodbye to my girlfriends.

“And you called your father right away?”

“Not right away.” Junior gave Randolph a frank stare. “First I had to go outside and vomit. They were beaten up so bad. I never saw anything like that in my life.” He let out a long sigh, being careful to put a small tremble in it. The tape recorder probably wouldn’t pick up that tremble, but Randolph would remember it. “When I was done heaving, that was when I called Dad.”

“Okay, I think that’s all I need.” No more questions about the timeline or about his “morning patrol”; not even a request for Junior to write up a report (which was good, since writing inevitably gave him a headache these days). Randolph leaned forward to snap off the tape recorder. “Thank you, Junior. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Go home and rest. You look beat.”

“I’d like to be here when you question him, sir. Barbara.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about missing that today. We’re going to give him twenty-four hours to stew in his own juices. Your dad’s idea, and a good one. We’ll question him tomorrow afternoon or tomorrow night, and you’ll be there. I give you my word. We’re going to question him vigorously. ”

“Yes, sir. Good.”

“None of this Miranda stuff.”

“No, sir.”

“And thanks to the Dome, no turning him over to the County Sheriff, either.” Randolph looked at Junior keenly. “Son, this is going to be a true case of what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

Junior didn’t know whether to say yes, sir or no, sir to that, because he had no idea what the idiot behind the desk was talking about.

Randolph held him with that keen glance a moment or two longer, as if to assure himself that they understood one another, then clapped his hands together once and stood up. “Go home, Junior. You’ve got to be shaken up a bit.”

“Yes, sir, I am. And I think I will. Rest, that is.”

“I had a pack of cigarettes in my pocket when Reverend Coggins dipped me,” Randolph said in a tone of fond-hearted reminiscence. He put an arm around Junior’s shoulders as they walked to the door.Junior retained his respectful, listening expression, but felt like screaming at the weight of that heavy arm. It was like wearing a meat necktie. “They were ruined, of course. And I never bought another pack. Saved from the devil’s weed by the Son of God. How’s that for grace?”

“Awesome,” Junior managed.

“Brenda and Angie will get most of the attention, of course, and that’s normal—prominent town citizen and young girl with her life ahead of her—but Reverend Coggins had his fans, too. Not to mention a large and loving congregation.”

Junior could see Randolph’s blunt-fingered hand from the corner of his left eye. He wondered what Randolph would do if he suddenly cocked his head around and bit it. Bit one of those fingers right off, maybe, and spat it on the floor.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 616