PLAY THAT DEAD BAND SONG 5 page

“First angel blew and hailed down blood on the earth. Second angel blew and a mountain of fire was cast into the sea. That’s your volcanoes and shit.”

“Yes!” Andy shouted, and inadvertently squeezed the trigger of the AK-47 lying across his lap.

“You want to watch that,” Chef said. “If the safety hadn’t been on, you would have blown my tickle-stick into yonder pine tree. Hit on this shit.” He handed Andy the bong. Andy couldn’t even remember giving it back to him, but he must have done. And what time was it? It looked like midafternoon, but how could that be? He hadn’t gotten hungry for lunch and he always got hungry for lunch, it was his best meal.

“Now listen, Sanders, because this is the important part.”

Chef was able to quote from memory because he had made quite a study of the book of Revelations since moving out here to the radio station; he read and reread it obsessively, sometimes until dawn streaked the horizon. “ ‘And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven! Burning as if it were a lamp!’ ”

“We just saw that!”

Chef nodded. His eyes were fixed on the black smutch where Air Ireland 179 had met her end. “ ‘And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and many men died because they were made bitter.’ Are you bitter, Sanders?”

“No!” Andy assured him.

“No. We’re mellow. But now that Star Wormwood has blazed in the sky, bitter men will come. God has told me this, Sanders, and it’s no bullshit. Check me out and you find I’m all about zero bullshit. They’re gonna try to take all this away from us. Rennie and his bull-shit cronies.”

“No way!” Andy cried. A sudden and horribly intense paranoia swept over him. They could be here already! Bullshit cronies creeping through those trees! Bullshit cronies driving down Little Bitch Road in a line of trucks! Now that Chef had brought it up, he even saw why Rennie would want to do it. He’d call it “getting rid of the evidence.”

“Chef!” He gripped his new friend’s shoulder.

“Let up a little, Sanders. That hurts.”

He let up a little. “Big Jim’s already talked about coming up and getting the propane tanks—that’s the first step !”

Chef nodded. “They’ve already been here once. Took two tanks. I let em.” He paused, then patted the grenades. “I won’t let em again. Are you down with that?”

Andy thought of the pounds of dope inside the building they were leaning against, and gave the answer Chef had expected. “My brother,” he said, and embraced Chef.

Chef was hot and stinky, but Andy hugged with enthusiasm. Tears were rolling down his face, which he had neglected to shave on a weekday for the first time in over twenty years. This was great. This was … was …

Bonding!

“My brother,” he sobbed into Chef’s ear. Chef thrust him back and looked at him solemnly. “We are agents of the Lord,” he said. And Andy Sanders—now all alone in the world except for the scrawny prophet beside him—said amen.

Jackie found Ernie Calvert behind his house, weeding his garden. She was a little worried about approaching him in spite of what she’d told Piper, but she needn’t have been. He gripped her shoulders with hands that were surprisingly strong for such a portly little man. His eyes shone.

“Thank God someone sees what that windbag’s up to!” He dropped his hands. “Sorry. I smudged your blouse.”

“That’s all right.”

“He’s dangerous, Officer Wettington. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And clever. He set up that damned food riot the way a terrorist would plant a bomb.”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“But he’s also stupid. Clever and stupid is a terrible combination. You can persuade people to go with you, you see. All the way to hell. Look at that fellow Jim Jones, remember him?”

“The one who got all his followers to drink poison. So you’ll come to the meeting?”

“You bet. And mum’s the word. Unless you want me to talk to Lissa Jamieson, that is. Glad to do it.”

Before Jackie could answer, her cell phone rang. It was her personal; she had turned in the one issued to her by the PD along with her badge and gun.

“Hello, this is Jackie.”

“Mihi portatoe vulneratos, Sergeant Wettington,” an unfamiliar voice said.

The motto of her old unit in Würzburg—bring us your wounded—and Jackie responded without even thinking: “On stretchers, crutches, or in bags, we put em together with spit and rags. Who the hell is this?”

“Colonel James Cox, Sergeant.”

Jackie moved the phone away from her mouth. “Give me a minute, Ernie?”

He nodded and went back to his garden. Jackie strolled toward the shakepole fence at the foot of the yard. “What can I do for you, Colonel? And is this line secure?”

“Sergeant, if your man Rennie can tap cell phone calls made from beyond the Dome, we’re in a world of hurt.”

“He’s not my man.”

“Good to know.”

“And I’m no longer in the Army. The Sixty-seventh isn’t even in my rearview mirror these days, sir.”

“Well, that’s not exactly true, Sarge. By order of the President of the United States, you’ve been stop­lossed. Welcome back.”

“Sir, I don’t know whether to say thank you or fuck you very much.”

Cox laughed without much humor. “Jack Reacher says hello.”

“Is that where you got this number?”

“That and a recommendation. A recommendation from Reacher goes a long way. You asked what you can do for me. The answer is twofold, both parts simple. One, get Dale Barbara out of the mess he’s in. Unless you think he’s guilty of the charges?”

“No, sir. I’m sure he’s not. That is to say, we are. There are several of us.”

“Good. Very good.” There was no mistaking the relief in the man’s voice. “Number two, you can knock that bastard Rennie off his perch.”

“That would be Barbie’s job. If … you’re positive this line’s secure?”

“Positive.”

“If we can get him out.”

“That’s in work, is it?”

“Yes, sir, I believe so.”

“Excellent. How many brownshirts does Rennie have?”

“Currently about thirty, but he’s still hiring. And here in The Mill they’re blueshirts, but I take your meaning. Don’t sell him short, Colonel. He’s got most of this town in his pocket. We’re going to try to get Barbie out, and you better hope we succeed, because I can’t do much about Big Jim on my own. Toppling dictators with no help from the outside world is about six miles above my pay grade. And just FYI, my own days on the Chester’s Mill PD are over. Rennie shitcanned me.”

“Keep me informed when and as you can. Spring Barbara and turn your resistance operation over to him. We’ll see who ends up getting shitcanned.”

“Sir, you sort of wish you were in here, don’t you?”

“With all my heart.” No hesitation. “I’d dewheel that sonofabitch’s little red wagon in about twelve hours.”

Jackie doubted that, actually; things were different under the Dome. Outsiders couldn’t understand. Even time was different. Five days ago, everything had been normal. Now look.

“One other thing,” Colonel Cox said. “Take some time out of your busy schedule to look at the TV. We’re going to do our level best to make Rennie’s life uncomfortable.”

Jackie said goodbye and broke the connection. Then she walked back to where Ernie was gardening. “Got a generator?” she asked.

“Died last night,” he said with sour good cheer.

“Well, let’s go someplace where there’s a working TV. My friend says we should check out the news.”

They headed for Sweetbriar Rose. On their way they met Julia Shumway and brought her along.

BUSTED

Sweetbriar was closed until 5 PM, at which time Rose planned to offer a light supper, mostly leftovers. She was making potato salad and keeping an eye on the TV over the counter when the knocking on the door started. It was Jackie Wettington, Ernie Calvert, and Julia Shumway. Rose crossed the empty restaurant, wiping her hands on her apron, and unlocked the door. Horace the Corgi trotted at Julia’s heel, ears up, grinning companionably. Rose made sure the CLOSED sign was still in place, then relocked the door behind them.

“Thanks,” Jackie said.

“Not at all,” Rose replied. “I wanted to see you anyway.”

“We came for that,” Jackie said, and pointed to the TV. “I was at Ernie’s, and we met Julia on our way here. She was sitting across the street from her place, mooning at the wreckage.”

“I was not mooning,” Julia said. “Horace and I were trying to figure how we’re going to get a paper out after the town meeting. It’ll have to be small—probably just two pages—but there will be a paper. My heart is set on it.”

Rose glanced back at the TV. On it, a pretty young woman was doing a stand-up. Beneath her was a banner reading EARLIER TODAY COURTESY ABC. All at once there was a bang and a fire-ball bloomed in the sky. The reporter flinched, cried out, wheeled around. By that point her cameraman was already zooming her out of the picture, homing in on the earthbound fragments of the Air Ireland jet.

“There’s nothing but reruns of the plane-crash footage,” Rose said. “If you haven’t seen it before, be my guest. Jackie, I saw Barbie late this morning—I took him some sandwiches and they let me go downstairs to where the cells are. I had Melvin Searles as my chaperone.”

“Lucky you,” Jackie said.

“How is he?” Julia asked. “Is he okay?”

“He looks like the wrath of God, but I think so, yes. He said … maybe I should tell you privately, Jackie.”

“Whatever it is, I think you can say it in front of Ernie and Julia.” Rose considered this, but only for a moment. If Ernie Calvert and Julia Shumway weren’t all right, nobody was. “He said I was supposed to talk to you. Make up with you, as if we’d had a fight. He said to tell you that I’m all right.”

Jackie turned to Ernie and Julia. It seemed to Rose that a question was asked and answered. “If Barbie says you are, then you are,” Jackie said, and Ernie nodded emphatically. “Hon, we’re putting together a little meeting tonight. At the Congo parsonage. It’s kind of a secret—”

“Not kind of, it is, ” Julia said. “And given the way things are in town right now, the secret better not get out.”

“If it’s about what I think it’s about, I’m in.” Then Rose lowered her voice. “But not Anson. He’s wearing one of those goddam arm-bands.”

Just then the CNN BREAKING NEWS logo came on the TV screen, accompanied by the annoying minor-key disaster music the network was now playing with each new Dome story. Rose expected either Anderson Cooper or her beloved Wolfie—both were now based in Castle Rock—but it was Barbara Starr, the network’s Pentagon correspondent. She was standing outside the tent-and-trailer village serving as the Army’s forward base in Harlow.

“Don, Kyra—Colonel James O. Cox, the Pentagon’s point man since the mammoth mystery known as the Dome came into being last Saturday, is about to speak to the press for only the second time since this crisis began. The subject was announced to reporters just moments ago, and it’s sure to galvanize the tens of thousands of Americans with loved ones in the beleaguered town of Chester’s Mill. We were told—” She listened to something in her earpiece. “Here’s Colonel Cox.”

The four in the restaurant sat on stools at the counter, watching as the picture switched to the inside of a large tent. There were perhaps forty reporters seated in folding chairs, and more standing in the back. They were murmuring among themselves. A makeshift stage had been set up at one end of the tent. On it was a podium festooned with microphones and flanked by American flags. There was a white screen behind it.

“Pretty professional, for an on-the-fly operation,” Ernie said.

“Oh, I think this has been in the works,” Jackie said. She was recalling her conversation with Cox. We’re going to do our level best to make Rennie’s life uncomfortable, he’d said.

A flap opened to the left side of the tent, and a short, fit-looking man with graying hair strode briskly to the makeshift stage. No one had thought to put down a couple of stairs or even a box to stand on, but this presented no problem to the featured speaker; he hopped up easily, not even breaking stride. He was dressed in plain khaki BDUs. If he had medals, they weren’t in evidence. There was nothing on his shirt but a strip reading COL. J. COX. He held no notes. The reporters quieted immediately, and Cox gave them a little smile.

“This guy should have been holding press conferences all along,” Julia said. “He looks good. ”

“Hush, Julia,” Rose said.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Cox said. “I’ll be brief, and then I’ll take a few questions. The situation as regards Chester’s Mill and what we’re all now calling the Dome is as it was: the town continues to be cut off, we still have no idea about what is causing this situation or what brought it about, and we have as yet had no success in breaching the barrier. You would know, of course, if we had. The best scientists in America—the best in the entire world—are on the case, however, and we’re considering a number of options. Do not ask me about these, because you’ll get no answers at this time.”

The reporters murmured discontentedly. Cox let them. Below him, the CNN super switched to NO ANSWERS AT THIS TIME. When the murmuring died, Cox went on.

“As you’re aware, we have established a no-go zone around the Dome, initially of a mile, expanded to two on Sunday and four on Tuesday. There were a number of reasons for this, the most important being that the Dome is dangerous to people with certain implants, such as pacemakers. A second reason is that we were concerned the field generating the Dome might have other harmful effects which would be less clearly recognized.”

“Are you talking about radiation, Colonel?” someone called.

Cox froze him with a glance, and when he seemed to consider the reporter properly chastised (not Wolfie, Rose was pleased to see, but that half-bald no-spin yapper from FOX News), he went on.

“We now believe that there are no harmful effects, at least in the short term, and so we have designated Friday, October twenty-seventh—the day after tomorrow—as Visitors Day at the Dome.”

A perfect fury of thrown questions went up at this. Cox waited it out, and when the audience had quieted down, he took a remote from the shelf under the podium and pressed a button. A high-resolution photograph (much too good to have been downloaded from Google Earth, in Julia’s estimation) popped up on the white screen. It showed The Mill and both towns to the south, Motton and Castle Rock. Cox put down the controller and produced a laser-pointer.

The super at the bottom of the screen now read FRIDAY DESIGNATED VISATORS DAY AT THE DOME. Julia smiled. Colonel Cox had caught CNN with its spell-checker down.

“We believe we can process and accommodate twelve hundred visitors,” Cox said crisply. “These will be limited to close relatives, at least this time … and all of us hope and pray there will never have to be a next time. Rally points will be here, at the Castle Rock Fair-grounds, and here, at Oxford Plains Speedway.” He highlighted both locations. “We will lay on two dozen buses, twelve at each location. These will be provided by six surrounding school districts, which are canceling classes that day to help in this effort, and we offer them our greatest thanks. A twenty-fifth bus will be available for press at Shiner’s Bait and Tackle in Motton.” Dryly: “Since Shiner’s is also an agency liquor store, I’m sure most of you know it. There will also be one, I repeat, one, video truck allowed on this trip. You’ll arrange pool coverage, ladies and gentlemen, the coverage provider to be chosen by lottery.”

A groan went up at this, but it was perfunctory.

“There are forty-eight seats on the press bus, and obviously there are hundreds of press representatives here, from all over the world—”

“Thousands!” a gray-haired man shouted, and there was general laughter.

“Boy, I’m glad someone’s havin fun,” Ernie Calvert said bitterly.

Cox allowed himself a smile. “I stand corrected, Mr. Gregory. Seats will be allocated according to your news organization—TV networks, Reuters, Tass, AP, and so on—and it’s up to those organizations to pick their representatives.”

“Better be Wolfie from CNN, that’s all I can say,” Rose announced.

The reporters were babbling excitedly.

“May I go on?” Cox asked. “And those of you sending text messages, kindly stop.”

“Ooo,” Jackie said. “I love a forceful man.”

“Surely you folks recall that you’re not the story here? Would you behave this way if it was a mine cave-in, or people trapped under collapsed buildings after an earthquake?”

Silence greeted this, the kind that falls over a fourth-grade class after the teacher finally loses his temper. He really was forceful, Julia thought, and for a moment wished with all her heart that Cox were here under the Dome, and in charge. But of course, if pigs had wings, bacon would be airborne.

“Your job, ladies and gentlemen, is twofold: to help us get the word out, and to make sure that things go smoothly on Visitors Day once it does.”

The CNN super became PRESS TO AID VISATORS ON FRIDAY.

“The last thing we want to do is start a stampede of relations from all over the country to western Maine. We’ve already got close to ten thousand relatives of those trapped under the Dome in this immediate area; the hotels, motels, and camping areas are full to bursting. The message to relatives in other parts of the country is, ‘If you’re not here, don’t come.’ Not only will you not be granted a visitors’ pass, you’ll be turned around at checkpoints here, here, here, and here.” He highlighted Lewiston, Auburn, North Windham, and Conway, New Hampshire.

“Relatives currently in the area should procede to registration officers who are already standing by at the Fairgrounds and the Speed-way. If you’re planning to jump into your car right this minute, don’t. This isn’t the Filene’s White Sale, and being first in line guarantees you nothing. Visitors will be chosen by lottery, and you must register to get in. Those applying to visit will need two photo IDs. We’ll attempt to give priority to visitors with two or more relatives in The Mill, but no promises on that. And a warning, people: if you show up on Friday to board one of the buses and you have no pass or a counterfeit pass—if you clog up our operation, in other words—you’ll find yourself in jail. Do not test us on this.

“Embarkation on Friday morning will commence at 0800 hours. If this goes smoothly, you’ll have at least four hours with your loved ones, maybe longer. Gum up the works and everyone’s time Domeside goes down. Buses will depart the Dome at seventeen hundred hours.”

“What’s the visitors’ site?” a woman shouted.

“I was just getting to that, Andrea.” Cox picked up his controller and zoomed in on Route 119. Jackie knew the area well; she had damned near broken her nose on the Dome out there. She could see the roofs of the Dinsmore farmhouse, outbuildings, and dairy barns.

“There’s a flea market site on the Motton side of the Dome.” Cox binged it with his pointer. “The buses will park there. Visitors will debark and walk to the Dome. There’s plenty of field on both sides where people can gather. All the wreckage out there has been removed.”

“Will the visitors be allowed to go all the way up to the Dome?” a reporter asked.

Cox once more faced the camera, addressing the potential visitors directly. Rose could just imagine the hope and fear those people—watching in bars and motel TVs, listening on their car radios—must be feeling right now. She felt plenty of both herself.

“Visitors will be allowed within two yards of the Dome,” Cox said. “We consider that a safe distance, although we make no guarantees. This isn’t an amusement park ride that’s been safety-tested. People with electronic implants must stay away. You’re on your own with that; we can’t check each and every chest for a pacemaker scar. Visitors will also leave all electronic devices, including but not limited to iPods, cell phones, and Blackberries, on the buses. Reporters with mikes and cameras will be kept at a distance. The close-up space is for the visitors, and what goes on between them and their loved ones is no one’s business but their own. People, this will work if you help us make it work. If I can put it in Star Trek terms, help us make it so.” He put the pointer down. “Now I’ll take a few questions. A very few. Mr. Blitzer.”

Rose’s face lit up. She raised a fresh cup of coffee and toasted the TV screen with it. “Lookin good, Wolfie! You can eat crackers in my bed anytime you want.”

“Colonel Cox, are there any plans to add a press conference with the town officials? We understand that Second Selectman James Rennie is the actual man in charge. What’s going on with that?”

“We are trying to make a press conference happen, with Mr. Rennie and any other town officials who might be in attendance. That would be at noon, if things run to the schedule we have in mind.”

A round of spontaneous applause from the reporters greeted this. There was nothing they liked better than a press conference, unless it was a high-priced politician caught in bed with a high-priced whore.

Cox said, “Ideally, the presser will take place right there on the road, with the town spokespersons, whoever they might be, on their side and you ladies and gentlemen on this one.”

Excited gabble. They liked the visual possibilities.

Cox pointed. “Mr. Holt.”

Lester Holt from NBC shot to his feet. “How sure are you that Mr. Rennie will attend? I ask because there have been reports of financial mismanagement on his part, and some sort of criminal investigation into his affairs by the State of Maine Attorney General.”

“I’ve heard those reports,” Cox said. “I’m not prepared to comment on them, although Mr. Rennie may want to.” He paused, not quite smiling. “I’d certainly want to.”

“Rita Braver, Colonel Cox, CBS. Is it true that Dale Barbara, the man you tapped as emergency administrator in Chester’s Mill, has been arrested for murder? That the Chester’s Mill police in fact believe him to be a serial killer?”

Total silence from the press; nothing but attentive eyes. The same was true of the four people seated at the counter in Sweetbriar Rose.

“It’s true,” Cox said. A muted mutter went up from the assembled reporters. “But we have no way of verifying the charges or vetting whatever evidence there may be. What we have is the same telephone and Internet chatter you ladies and gentlemen are no doubt getting. Dale Barbara is a decorated officer. He’s never been arrested. I have known him for many years and vouched for him to the President of the United States. I have no reason to say I made a mistake based on what I know at this time.”

“Ray Suarez, Colonel, PBS. Do you believe the charges against Lieutenant Barbara—now Colonel Barbara —may have been politically motivated? That James Rennie may have had him jailed to keep him from taking control as the President ordered?”

And that’s what the second half of this dog-and-pony show is all about, Julia realized. Cox has turned the news media into the Voice of America, and we’re the people behind the Berlin Wall. She was all admiration.

“If you have a chance to question Selectman Rennie on Friday, Mr. Suarez, you be sure to ask him that.” Cox spoke with a kind of stony calm. “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s all I have.”

He strode off as briskly as he’d entered, and before the assembled reporters could even begin shouting more questions, he was gone.

“Holy wow,” Ernie murmured.

“Yeah,” Jackie said.

Rose killed the TV. She looked glowing, energized. “What time is this meeting? I don’t regret a thing that Colonel Cox said, but this could make Barbie’s life more difficult.”

Barbie found out about Cox’s press conference when a red-faced Manuel Ortega came downstairs and told him. Ortega, formerly Alden Dinsmore’s hired man, was now wearing a blue workshirt, a tin badge that looked homemade, and a.45 hung on a second belt that had been buckled low on his hips, gunslinger-style. Barbie knew him as a mild fellow with thinning hair and perpetually sunburned skin who liked to order breakfast for dinner—pancakes, bacon, eggs over easy—and talk about cows, his favorite being the Belted Galloways that he could never persuade Mr. Dinsmore to buy. He was Yankee to the core in spite of his name, and had a dry Yankee sense of humor. Barbie had always liked him. But this was a different Manuel, a stranger with all the good humor boiled dry. He brought news of the latest development, most of it shouted through the bars and accompanied by a considerable dose of flying spit. His face was nearly radioactive with rage.

“Not a word about how they found your dog tags in that poor girl’s hand, not word-fucking-one about that! And then the tin-pants bastid went and took after Jim Rennie, who’s held this town together by himself since this happened! By himself! With SPIT and BALING WIRE! ”

“Take it easy, Manuel,” Barbie said.

“That’s Officer Ortega to you, motherfucker!”

“Fine. Officer Ortega.” Barbie was sitting on the bunk and thinking about just how easy it would be for Ortega to unholster the elderly.45 Schofield on his belt and start shooting. “I’m in here, Rennie’s out there. As far as he’s concerned, I’m sure it’s all good.”

“SHUT UP!” Manuel screamed. “We’re ALL in here! All under the fucking Dome! Alden don’t do nothing but drink, the boy that’s left won’t eat, and Miz Dinsmore never stops crying over Rory. Jack Evans blew his brains out, do you know that? And those military pukes out there can’t think of anything better to do than sling mud. A lot of lies and trumped-up stories while you start supermarket riots and then burn down our newspaper! Probably so Miz Shumway couldn’t publish WHAT YOU ARE! ”

Barbie kept silent. He thought that one word spoken in his own defense would get him shot for sure.

“This is how they get any politician they don’t like,” Manuel said. “They want a serial killer and a rapist— one who rapes the dead—in charge instead of a Christian? That’s a new low.”

Manuel drew his gun, lifted it, pointed it through the bars. To Barbie the hole at the end looked as big as a tunnel entrance.

“If the Dome comes down before you been stood up against the nearest wall and ventilated,” Manuel continued, “I’ll take a minute to do the job myself. I’m head of the line, and right now in The Mill, the line waiting to do you is a long one.”

Barbie kept silent and waited to die or keep on drawing breath. Rose Twitchell’s BLTs were trying to crowd back up his throat and choke him.

“We’re trying to survive and all they can do is dirty up the man who’s keeping this town out of chaos.” He abruptly shoved the oversized pistol back into its holster. “Fuck you. You’re not worth it.”

He turned and strode back toward the stairs, head down and shoulders hunched.

Barbie leaned back against the wall and let out a breath. There was sweat on his forehead. The hand he lifted to wipe it off was shaking.

When Romeo Burpee’s van turned into the McClatchey driveway, Claire rushed out of the house. She was weeping.

“Mom!” Joe shouted, and was out even before Rommie could come to a complete stop. The others piled out after. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Claire sobbed, grabbing him and hugging him. “There’s going to be a Visitors Day! On Friday! Joey, I think we might get to see your dad!”

Joe let out a cheer and danced her around. Benny hugged Norrie … and took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss, Rusty observed. Cheeky little devil.

“Take me to the hospital, Rommie,” Rusty said. He waved to Claire and the kids as they backed down the driveway. He was glad to get away from Mrs. McClatchey without having to talk to her; Mom Vision might work on PAs, as well. “And could you do me a favor and talk English instead of that comic-book on parle shit while you do it?”

“Some people have no cultural heritage to fall back on,” Rommie said, “and are thus jealous of those who do.”

“Yeah, and your mother wears galoshes,” Rusty said.

“Dat’s true, but only when it rains, her.”

Rusty’s cell phone chimed once: a text message. He flipped it open and read: MEETING AT 2130 CONGO PARSONAGE B THERE OR B SQUARE JW

“Rommie,” he said, closing his phone. “Assuming I survive the Rennies, would you consider attending a meeting with me tonight?”

At the hospital, Ginny met him in the lobby. “It’s Rennie Day at Cathy Russell,” she announced, looking as if this did not exactly displease her. “Thurse Marshall has been in to see them both. Rusty, that man is a gift from God. He clearly doesn’t like Junior—he and Frankie were the ones who roughed him up out at the Pond—but he was totally professional. The guy’s wasted in some college English department—he should be doing this.” She lowered her voice. “He’s better than me. And way better than Twitch.”

“Where is he now?”

“Went back to where he’s living to see that young girlfriend of his and the two children they took on. He seems to genuinely care about the kids, too.”

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 546