Randolph looked at him curiously. “Didn’t you
Big Jim grimaced as his sore shoulder twinged. “Of course, but I never thought it would. And that fellow with the girl’s name and his new friend Julia managed to get everyone all worked up and hopeful, didn’t they? Oh yes, you bet. Do you know she’s never endorsed me for office in that rag of hers? Not one single time.”
He pointed at the pedestrians streaming back toward town.
“Take a good look, pal—this is what incompetency, false hope, and too much information gets you. They’re just unhappy and disappointed now, but when they get over that, they’ll be mad. We’re going to need more police.”
“
“It won’t be enough. And we’ve got—”
The town whistle began to hammer the air with short blasts. They looked west and saw the smoke rising.
“We’ve got Barbara and Shumway to thank,” Big Jim finished.
“Maybe we ought to do something about that fire.”
“It’s a Tarker’s Mills problem. And the U.S. government’s, of course. They started a fire with their cotton-picking missile, let them deal with it.”
“But if the heat sparked one on this side—”
“Stop being an old woman and drive me back to town. I’ve got to find Junior. He and I have things to talk about.”
Brenda Perkins and the Reverend Piper Libby were in Dipper’s parking lot, by Piper’s Subaru.
“I never thought it would work,” Brenda said, “but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t disappointed.”
“Me too,” Piper said. “Bitterly. I’d offer you a ride back to town, but I have to check on a parishioner.”
“Not out on Little Bitch, I hope,” Brenda said. She lifted a thumb at the rising smoke.
“No, the other way. Eastchester. Jack Evans. He lost his wife on Dome Day. A freak accident. Not that all of this isn’t freakish.”
Brenda nodded. “I saw him out at Dinsmore’s field, carrying a sign with his wife’s picture on it. Poor, poor man.”
Piper went to the open driver’s-side window of her car, where Clover was sitting behind the wheel and watching the departing crowd. She rummaged in her pocket, gave him a treat, then said, “Push over, Clove—you know you flunked your last driver’s test.” To Brenda, she confided: “He can’t parallel-park worth a damn.”
The shepherd hopped onto the passenger side. Piper opened the car door and looked at the smoke. “I’m sure the woods on the Tarker’s Mills side are burning briskly, but that needn’t concern us.” She gave Brenda a bitter smile. “We have the Dome to protect us.”
“Good luck,” Brenda said. “Give Jack my sympathy. And my love.”
“I’ll do that,” Piper said, and drove off. Brenda was walking out of the parking lot with her hands in the pockets of her jeans, wondering how she was going to get through the rest of the day, when Julia Shumway drove up and helped her with that.
The missiles exploding against the Dome didn’t wake Sammy Bushey; it was the clattery wooden crash, followed by Little Walter’s screams of pain, that did that.
Carter Thibodeau and his friends had taken all of her fridge-dope when they left, but they hadn’t searched the place, so the shoe-box with the rough skull-and-crossbones drawn on it was still in the closet. There was also this message, printed in Phil Bushey’s scrawly, backslanting letters: MY SHIT! TOUCH IT AND U DIE!
There was no pot inside (Phil had always sneered at pot as a “cocktail-party drug”), and she had no interest in the Baggie of crystal. She was sure the “deputies” would have enjoyed smoking it, but Sammy thought crystal was crazy shit for crazy people—who else would inhale smoke that included the residue of matchbook striker-pads marinated in acetone? There was another, smaller Baggie, however, that contained half a dozen Dreamboats, and when Carter’s posse left she had swallowed one of these with warm beer from the bottle stashed under the bed she now slept in alone… except for when she took Little Walter in with her, that was. Or Dodee.
She had briefly considered taking all of the Dreamboats and ending her crappy unhappy life once and for all; might even have done it, if not for Little Walter. If she died, who would take care of him? He might even starve to death in his crib, a horrible thought.
Suicide was out, but she had never felt so depressed and sad and hurt in all her life. Dirty, too. She had been degraded before, God knew, sometimes by Phil (who had enjoyed drug-fueled threesomes before losing interest in sex completely), sometimes by others, sometimes by herself—Sammy Bushey had never gotten the concept of being her own best friend.
