If the Dome wasn't bad enough, weird enough, there's the Selectman from Hell.

What worried her the most, she realized—what scared her the most—was how fast this was happening, Rennie had gotten used to being the biggest, meanest rooster in the farmyard, and she would have expected him to try to strengthen his hold on the town eventually—say after a week or a month cut off from the outside world. But this was only three days and change. Suppose Cox and his scientists cracked through the Dome tonight? Suppose it even disappeared on its own? Big Jim would immediately shrink back to his former size, only he'd have egg on his face, too.

'What egg?' she asked herself, still looking in at the DARK PLOTS. 'He'd just say he was doing the best he could under trying circumstances. And they'd believe him.'

That was probably true. But it still didn't explain why the man hadn't waited to make his move.

Because something went wrong and he had to. Also—

'Also, I don't think he's completely sane,' she told the heaped-up paperbacks. 'I don't think he ever was.'

Even if true, how did you explain people 'who still had fully stocked pantries rioting at the local supermarket? It made no sense, unless—

'Unless he instigated it.'

That was ridiculous, the Blue Plate Special at the Paranoid Cafe. Wasn't it? She supposed she could ask some of the people who'd been at Food City what they'd seen, but weren't the murders more important? She was the only real reporter she had, after all, and—

'Julia? Ms Shumway?'

Julia was so deep in thought she almost lifted out of her loafers. She wheeled around and might have fallen if Jackie Wettington hadn't steadied her. Linda Everett was with her, and it was she who had spoken. They both looked scared.

'Can we talk to you?'Jackie asked.

'Of course. Listening to people talk is what I do. The downside is that I write what they say. You ladies know that, don't you?'

'But you can't use our names,' Linda said. 'If you don't agree to that, forget the whole thing.'

'As far as I'm concerned,' Julia said, smiling, 'you two are just a source close to the investigation. Does that work?'

'If you promise to answer our questions, too,' Jackie said. 'Will you?'

'All right.'

'You were at the supermarket, weren't you?' Linda asked.

Curiouser and curiouser. 'Yes. So were you two. So let's talk. Compare notes.'

'Not here,' Linda said. 'Not on the street. It's too public. And not at the newspaper office, either.'

'Take it easy, Lin,' Jackie said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

'You take it easy,' Linda said.'You're not the one with the husband who thinks you just helped railroad an innocent man.'

'I don't have a husband,' Jackie said—quite reasonably, Julia thought, and lucky for her; husbands were so often a complicating factor. 'But I do know a place we can go. It's private, and always unlocked.' She considered. 'At least it was. Since the Dome, I dunno.'

Julia, who had just been considering whom to interview first, had no intention of letting these two slip away. 'Come on,' she said. 'We'll walk on opposite sides of the street until we're past the police station, shall we?'

At this, Linda managed a smile. 'What a good idea,' she said.

2

Piper Libby lowered herself carefully in front of the altar of the First Congo Church, wincing even though she had put down a pew-pad for her bruised and swollen knees. She braced herself with her right hand, holding her recently dislocated left arm against her side. It seemed okay—less painful than her knees, in fact—but she had no intention of testing it unnecessarily. It would be all too easy to get it out of joint again; she had been informed of that (sternly) after her soccer injury in high school. She folded her hands and closed her eyes. Immediately her tongue went to the hole where there; had been a tooth up until yesterday. But there was a worse hole in her life.

'Hello, Not-There,' she said. 'It's me again, back for another helping of Your love and mercy.' A tear trickled from beneath one swollen eyelid and ran down one swollen (not to mention colorful) cheek, 'Is my dog anywhere around? I only ask because I miss him so much. If he is, I hope you'll give him the spiritual equivalent of a chewbone. He deserves one.'

More tears now, slow and hot and stinging.

'Probably he's not. Most major religions agree that dogs don't go td heaven, although certain offshoot sects—and the Reader's Digest, I believe—disagree.'

Of course if there was no heaven, the question was moot, and the idea of this heavenless existence, this heavenless cosmology, was where what remained of her faith seemed more and more at home. Maybe oblivion; maybe something worse. A vast trackless plain under a white sky, say—a place where none was always the hour, nowhere the destination, and nobody your companions. Just a big old Not-There, in other words: for bad cops, lady preachers, kids who accidentally shot themselves, and galoot German shepherds who: died trying to protect their mistresses. No Being to sort the wheat from the chaff.There was something histrionic about praying to such a concept (if not downright blasphemous), but occasionally it helped.

'But heaven's not the point,' she resumed. 'The point right now is trying to figure out how much of—what happened to Clover was my fault. I know I have to own some of it—my temper got the best jof me. Again. My religious teaching suggests You put that short fuse in me to begin with, and it's my job to deal with it, but I hate that idea. I don't completely reject it, but I hate it. It makes me think of how, when you take your car to get repaired, the guys in the shop always find a way to blame the problem on you. You ran it too much, you didn't run it enough, you forgot to release the handbrake, you forgot to close your windows and the rain got in the wiring. And you know what's worse? If You're Not-There, I can't shove even a little of the blame off on You. What does that leave? Fucking genetics?'

She sighed.

'Sorry about the profanity; why don't You just pretend it Wasn't There? That's what my mother always used to do. In the meantime, I have another question: What do I do now? This town is in terrible trouble, and I'd like to do something to help, only I can't decide what. I feel foolish and weak and confused. I suppose if I was one of those Old Testament eremites, I'd say I need a sign. At this point, even YIELD or REDUCE SPEED IN SCHOOL ZONE would look good.'

The moment she finished saying this, the outside door opened, then boomed shut. Piper looked over her shoulder, half-expecting to see an angel, complete with wings and blazing white robe. If he wants to wrestle, he'll have to heal my arm first, she thought.

It wasn't an angel; it was Rommie Burpee. Half his shirt was untucked, hanging down his leg almost to mid-thigh, and he looked almost as downcast as she felt. He started down the center aisle, then saw her and stopped, as surprised to see Piper as she was him.

'Oh, gee,' he said, only with his Lewiston on park accent, it came out Oh, shee. 'I'm sorry, I didn't know you was dere. I'll come back later.'

'No,' she said, and struggled to her feet, once more using just her right arm. 'I'm done, anyway'

'I'm actually a Cat Tick,' he said (No shit, Piper thought), 'but there isn't a Cat'lick church in The Mill… which acourse you know, bein a minister… and you know what they say bout any port in a storm. I thought I'd come in and say a little prayer for Brenda. I always liked dat woman.' He rubbed a hand up one cheek. The rasp of his palm on the beard-stubble there seemed very loud in the hollow silence of the church. His Elvis 'do was drooping around his ears. 'Loved her, really. I never said, but I t'ink she knew.'

Piper stared at him with growing horror. She hadn't been out of the parsonage all day, and although she knew about what had happened at Food City—several of her parishioners had called her—she had heard nothing about Brenda Perkins.

'Brenda? What happened to her?'

'Murdered. Others, too. They're savin that guy Barbie did it. He been arrested.'

Piper clapped a hand over her mouth and swayed on her feet. Rommie hurried forward and put a steadying arm around her waist. And that was how they were standing before the altar, almost like a man and woman about to be married, when the vestibule door opened again and Jackie led Linda and Julia inside.

'Maybe this isn't such a good place, after all,' Jackie said.

The church was a soundbox, and although she didn't speak loudly, Piper and Romeo Burpee heard her perfectly.

'Don't leave,' Piper said. 'Not if it's about what happened. I can't believe Mr Barbara… I would have said he was incapable. He put my a^m back in after it was dislocated. He was very gentle about it.' She paused to think about that. 'As gentle as he could be, under the circumstances. Come down front. Please come down front.'

'People can fix a dislocated arm and still be capable of murder,' Linda said, but she was biting her lip and twisting her wedding ring.

Jackie put a hand on her wrist. 'We were going to keep this quiet, Lin—remember?'

'Too late for that,' Linda said. 'They've seen us "with Julia. If she writes a story and those two say they saw us with her, we'll get blamed.'

Piper had no clear idea what Linda was talking about, but she got the general gist. She raised her right arm and swept it around. 'You're in my church, Mrs Everett, and what's said here stays here.'

'Do you promise?' Linda asked.

'Yes. So why don't we talk about it? I was just praying for a sign, land here you all are.'

T don't believe in stuff like that,' Jackie said.

'Neither do I, actually,' Piper said, and laughed.

T don't like it,' Jackie said. It was Julia she was addressing. 'No matter what she says, this is too many people. Losing my job like Marty is one thing. I could deal with that, the pay sucks, anyway. Getting Jim Rennie mad at me, though…' She shook her head. 'Not a good idea.'

'It isn't too many,' Piper said. 'It's just the right number. Mr Burpee, can you keep a secret?'

Rommie Burpee, who had done any number of questionable deals! in his time, nodded and put a finger over his lips. 'Mum's the word,' he said. Word came out woid.

'Let's go in the parsonage,' Piper said. When she saw that Jackie looked doubtful, Piper held out her left hand to her… very carefully. 'Come, let us reason together. Maybe over a little tot of whiskey?'

And with this, Jackie was at last convinced.

3

BURN CLEANSE BURN CLEANSE

THE BEAST WILL BE CAST INTO A

BURNING LAKE OF FIRE (REV 19:20)

"2 BE TORMENTED DAY & NITE 4-EVER" (20:10)

BURN THE WICKED

PURIFY THE SAINTLIE

BURN CLEANSE BURN CLEANSE

JESUS OF FIRE COMING

The three men crammed into the cab of the rumbling Public Works truck looked at this cryptic message with some wonder. It had been painted on the storage building behind the WCIK studios, black on red and in letters so large they covered almost the entire surface.

The man in the middle was Roger Killian, the chicken farmer with the bullet-headed brood. He turned to Stewart Bowie, who was behind the wheel of the truck. 'What's it mean, Stewie?'

It was Fern Bowie who answered. 'It means that goddam Phil Bushey s crazier than ever, that's what it means.' He opened the truck's glove compartment, removed a pair of greasy work gloves, and revealed a.38 revolver. He checked the loads, then snapped the cylinder back into place with a flick of his wrist and jammed the pistol in his belt.

'You know, Fernie,' Stewart said, 'that is a goddam good way to blow your babymakers off.'

'Don't you worry about me, worry about him,' Fern said, pointing back at the studio. From it the faint sound of gospel music drifted to them. 'He's been gettin high on his own supply for most of a year now, and he's about as reliable as nitroglycerine.'

'Phil likes people to call him The Chef now,' Roger Killian said.

They had first pulled up outside the studio and Stewart had honked the PW truck's big horn—not once but several times. Phil Bushey had not come out. He might be in there hiding; he might be wandering in the woods behind the station; it was even possible, Stewart thought, that he was in the lab. Paranoid. Dangerous. Which still didn't make the gun a good idea. He leaned over, plucked it from Fern's belt, and tucked it under the driver's seat.

'Hey!' Fern cried.

'You're not firing a gun in there,' Stewart said. 'You're apt to blow us all to the moon.' And to Roger, he said: 'When's the last time you saw that scrawny motherfucker?'

Roger mulled it over. 'Been four weeks, at least—since the last big shipment out of town. When we had that big Chinook helicopter come in.' He pronounced it Shin-oook. Rommie Burpee would have understood.

Stewart considered. Not good. If Bushey was in the woods, that was all right. If he was cowering in the studio, paranoid and thinking they were Feds, probably still no problem… unless he decided to come out shooting, that was.