Joe asked his mother if Benny and Norrie could spend the night. Claire said it was okay with her if it was okay with their parents. It would, in fact, be something of a relief. After their adventure on Black Ridge, she liked the idea of having them under her eye. They could make popcorn on the woodstove and continue the raucous game of Monopoly they'd begun an hour ago. It was too raucous, actually; their chatter and catcalls had a nervy, whistling-past- the-graveyard quality she didn't care for.
Benny's mother agreed, and - somewhat to her surprise - so did Nome's. 'Good deal,' Joanie Calvert said. 'I've been wanting to get schnockered ever since this happened. Looks like tonight's my chance. And Claire? Tell that girl to hunt up her grandfather tomorrow and give him a kiss.'
'Who's her grandfather?'
'Ernie.You know Ernie, don't you? Everybody knows Ernie. He worries about her. So do I, sometimes. That skateboard.'There was a shudder in joanie's voice.
'I'll tell her.'
Claire had no more than hung up when there was a knock at the door. At first she didn't know who the middle-aged woman with the pale, strained face was. Then she realized it was Linda Everett, who Ordinarily worked the school-crossing beat and ticketed cars that overstayed their welcome in the two-hour parking zones on Main Street. And she wasn't middle-aged at all. She just looked that way now.
'Linda!' Claire said. 'What's wrong? Is it Rusty? Has something happened to Rusty?' She was thinking of radiation... at least in the front of her mind. In the back, even worse ideas slithered around.
'He's been arrested.'
The Monopoly game in the dining room had ceased. The participants now stood together in the living room doorway, gazing at Linda solemnly.
'It's a whole laundry list of charges, including criminal complicity in the murders of Lester Coggins and Brenda Perkins.'
'No!' Benny cried.
Claire thought of telling them to leave the room and decided it would be hopeless. She thought she knew why Linda was here, and understood it, but still hated her a little for coming. And Rusty, too, for getting the kids involved. Except they were all involved, weren't they? Under the Dome, involvement was no longer a matter of choice.
'He got in Rennie's way,' Linda said. 'That's what it's really about. That's what it's all about now, as far as Big Jim's concerned: who's in his way and who isn't. He's forgotten entirely what a terrible situation we're in here. No, it's worse than that. He's using the situation.'
Joe looked at Linda solemnly. 'Does Mr Rennie know where we went this morning, Miz Everett? Does he know about the box? I don't think he should know about the box.'
'What box?'
'The one we found on Black Ridge,' Norrie said. 'We only saw the light it puts out; Rusty went right up and looked at it.'
'It's the generator,' Benny said. 'Only he couldn't shut it off. He couldn't even lift it, although he said it was real small.'
'I don't know anything about this,' Linda said.
'Then neither does Rennie,'Joe said. He looked as if the weight of the world had just slipped off his shoulders.
'How do you know?'
'Because he would have sent the cops to question us,'Joe said. 'And if we didn't answer the questions, they'd take us to jail.'
At a distance, there came a pair of faint reports. Claire cocked her head and frowned. 'Were those firecrackers or gunshots?'
Linda didn't know, and because they hadn't come from town - they were too faint for that - she didn't care. 'Kids, tell me what happened on Black Ridge. Tell me everything. What you saw and what Rusty saw. And later tonight there's some other people you may have to tell. It's time we put together everything we know. In fact, it's past time.'
Claire opened her mouth to say she didn't want to get involved, then didn't. Because there was no choice. None, at least, that she could see.
14
The WCIK studio was set well back from Little Bitch Road, and the driveway leading to it (paved, and in far better shape than the road itself) was almost a quarter of a mile long. At the Little Bitch end, it was flanked by a pair of hundred-year oaks. Their fall foliage, in a normal season brilliant enough to qualify for a calendar or tourism brochure, now hung limp and brown. Andy Sanders stood behind one of these crenellated trunks. Chef was behind the other. They could hear the approaching diesel roar of big trucks. Sweat ran into Andy's eyes and he wiped it away.
'Sanders!'
'What?'
'Is your safety off?'
Andy checked. 'Yes.'
'All right, listen and get it right the first time. If I tell you to start shooting, spray those motherfuckers! Top to bottom, fore and aft! If I don't tell you to shoot, just stand there. Have you got that?'
'Y-Yes.'
'I don't think there's going to be any killing.'
Thank God, Andy thought.
'Not if it's just the Bowies and Mr Chicken. But I can't be sure. If I do have to make a play, will you back me?'
'Yes.' No hesitation.
'And keep your finger off that damn trigger or you're apt to blow your own head off.'