I follow it.'

'Then follow this, as well: with Dale Barbara on the loose, not to mention his co-conspirator Everett, the people will look even more fervently to their public servants for protection. And hard-pressed though we may be, we'll rise to the occasion, won't we?'

Randolph finally got it. He might not know that there was a president as well as a mountain named McKinley, but he did seem to grasp that a Barbie in the bush was in many ways more useful to them than a Barbie in the hand.

'Yes,' he said. 'We will. Damn straight. What about the press conference? If you're not going to do it, do you want to appoint—'

'No, I do not. I will be right here at my post, where I belong, monitoring developments. As for the press, they can darn well conference with the thousand or so people that are going to be grubbed up out there on the south side of town like gawkers at a construction site. And good luck to them translating the babble they'll get.'

'Some folks may say things that aren't exactly flattering to us,' Randolph said.

Big Jim flashed a wintery smile. 'That's why God gave us the big shoulders, pal. Besides, what's that meddling cotton-picker Cox going to do? March in here and turn us out of office?'

Randolph gave a dutiful chuckle, started for the door, then thought of something else. 'There are going to be a lot of people out there, and for a long time. The military's put up Porta-Potties on their side. Should we do something like that on ours? I think we've got a few in the supply building. For road crews, mostly. Maybe Al Timmons could—'

Big Jim gave him a look that suggested he thought the new Chief of Police had gone mad.'If it had been left up to me, our folks would be safe in their homes tomorrow instead of streaming out of town like the Israelites out of Egypt.' He paused for emphasis. 'If some of them get caught short, let them poop in the goshdarn woods.'

13

When Randolph was finally gone, Carter said: 'If I swear I'm not brown-nosing, can I tell you something?'

'Yes, of course.'

'I love to watch you operate, Mr Rennie.'

Big Jim grinned—a great big sunny one that lit his whole face. 'Well, you're going to get your chance, son; you've learned from the rest, now learn from the best.'

'I plan on it.'

'Right now I need you to give me a lift home. Meet me promptly at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.We'll come down here and watch the show on CNN. But first we'll sit up on Town Common Hill and watch the exodus. Sad, really; Israelites with no Moses.'

'Ants without a hill,' Carter added. 'Bees without a hive.'

'But before you pick me up, I want you to visit a couple of people. Or try; I've got a bet with myself that you'll find them absent without leave.'

'Who?'

'Rose Twitchell and Linda Everett. The medico's wife.'

'I know who she is.'

'You might also take a check for Shumway. I heard she might be staying with Libby, the preacher-lady with the badnatured dog. If you find any of them, question them about the whereabouts of our escapees.'

'Hard or soft?'

'Moderate. I don't necessarily want Everett and Barbara captured right away, but I wouldn't mind knowing where they are.'

On the step outside, Big Jim breathed deeply of the smelly air and then sighed with something that sounded like satisfaction. Carter felt pretty satisfied himself. A week ago, he'd been replacing mufflers, wearing goggles to keep the sifting rust flakes from salt-rotted exhaust systems out of his eyes. Today he was a man (if position and influence. A little smelly air seemed a small price to pay for that.

'I have a question for you,' Big Jim said. 'If you don't want to answeir, it's okay'

Carter looked at him.

'The Bushey girl,' Big Jim said. 'How was she? Was she good?'

Carter hesitated, then said: 'A little dry at first, but she oiled up a-country fair.'

Big Jim laughed. The sound was metallic, like the sound of coins dropping into the tray of a slot machine.

14

Midnight, and the pink moon descending toward the Tarker's Mills horizon, where it might linger until daylight, turning into a ghost before finally disappearing.

Julia picked her way through the orchard to where the McCoy land sloped down the western side of Black Ridge, and was not surprised to see a darker shadow sitting against one of the trees. Off to her right, the box with the alien symbol engraved on its top sent out a flash every fifteen seconds: the world's smallest, strangest lighthouse.

'Barbie?' she asked, keeping her voice low. 'How's Ken?'

'Gone to San Francisco to march in the Gay Pride parade. I always knew that boy wasn't straight.'

Julia laughed, then took his hand and kissed it. 'My friend, I'm awfully glad you're safe.'

He took her in his arms, and kissed her on both cheeks before letting her go. Lingering kisses. Real ones. 'My friend, so am I.'

She laughed, but a thrill went straight through her, from neck to knees. It was one she recognized but hadn't felt in a long time. Easy, girl, she thought. He's young enough to be your son.

Well, yes… if she'd gotten pregnant at thirteen.

'Everyone else is asleep,' Julia said. 'Even Horace. He's in with the kids. They had him chasing sticks until his tongue was practically dragging on the ground. Thinks he died and went to heaven, I bet.'

'I tried sleeping. Couldn't.'

Twice he'd come close to drifting off, and both times he found himself back in the Coop, facing Junior Rennie.The first time Barbie had tripped instead of jigging to the right and had gone sprawling to the bunk, presenting a perfect target. The second time, Junior had reached through the bars with an impossibly long plastic arm and had seized him to make him hold still long enough to give up his life. After that one, Barbie had left the barn where the men were sleeping and had come out here. The air still smelled like a room where a lifelong smoker had died six months ago, but it was better than the air in town.

'So few lights down there,' she said.'On an ordinary night there'd be nine times as many, even at this hour. The streetlights would look like a double strand of pearls.'

'There's that, though.' Barbie had left one arm around her, but he lifted his free hand and pointed at the glow-belt. But for the Dome, where it ended abruptly, she thought it would have been a perfect circle. As it was, it looked like a horseshoe.

'Yes. Why do you suppose Cox hasn't mentioned it? They must see it on their satellite photos.' She considered. 'At least he hasn't said anything to me. Maybe he did to you.'

'Nope, and he would've. Which means they don't see it.'

'You think the Dome… what? Filters it out?'

'Something like that. Cox, the news networks, the outside world—they don't see it because they don't need to see it. I guess we do.'

'Is Rusty right, do you think? Are we just ants being victimized by cruel children with a magnifying glass? What kind of intelligent race would allow their children to do such a thing to another intelligent race?'

' We think we're intelligent, but do they? We know that ants are social insects—home builders, colony builders, amazing architects. They work hard, as we do. They bury their dead, as we do. They even have race wars, the blacks against the reds. We know all this, but we don't assume ants are intelligent.'

She pulled his arm tighter around her, although it wasn't cold. 'Intelligent or not, it's wrong.'

'I agree. Most people would. Rusty knew it even as a child. But most kids don't have a moral fix on the world. That takes years to develop. By the time we're adults, most of us have put away childish things, which would include burning ants with a magnifying glass or pulling the wings off flies. Probably their adults have done the same. If they notice the likes of us at all, that is. When's the last time you bent over and really examined an anthill?'

'But still… if we found ants on Mars, or even microbes, we wouldn't destroy them. Because life in the universe is such a precious commodity. Every other planet in our system is a wasteland, for God's sake.'

Barbie thought if NASA found life on Mars, they would have no compunctions whatever about destroying it in order to put it on a microscope slide and study it, but he didn't say so. 'If we were more scientifically advanced—or more spiritually advanced, maybe that's what it actually takes to go voyaging around in the great what's-out-there—we might see that there's life everywhere. As many inhabited worlds and intelligent life-forms as there are anthills in this town.'

Was his hand now resting on the sideswell of her breast? She believed it was. It had been a long time since there had been a man's hand there, and it felt very good.

'The one thing I'm sure of is that there are other worlds than the ones we can see with our puny telescopes here on Earth. Or even with the Hubble. And… they're not here, you know. It's not an invasion. They're just looking. And… maybe… playing.'

'I know what that's like,' she said. 'To be played with.'

He was looking at her. Kissing distance. She wouldn't mind being kissed; no, not at all.

'What do you mean? Rennie?'

'Do you believe there are certain defining moments in a person's life? Watershed events that actually do change us?'

'Yes,' he said, thinking of the red smile his boot had left on the Abdul's buttock. Just the ordinary asscheek of a man living his ordinary little life. 'Absolutely'

'Mine happened in fourth grade. At Main Street Grammar.'

'Tell me.'

'It won't take long. That was the longest afternoon of my life, but it's a short story'

He waited.

'I was an only child. My father owned the local newspaper—he had a couple of reporters and one ad salesman, but otherwise he was pretty much a one-man band, and that was just how he liked it. There was never any question that I'd take over when he retired. He believed it, my mother believed it, my teachers believed it, and of course I believed it. My college education was all planned out. Nothing so bush-league as the University of Maine, either, not for Al Shumway's girl. Al Shumway's girl was going to Princeton. By the time I was in the fourth grade, there was a Princeton pennant over my bed and I practically had my bags packed.

'Everyone—not excluding me—just about worshipped the ground I walked on. Except for my fellow fourth-graders, that was. At the time I didn't understand the causes, but now I wonder how I missed them. I was the one who sat in the front row and always raised my hand when Mrs Connaught asked a question, and I always got the answer right. I turned in my assignments ahead of time if I could, and volunteered for extra credit. I was a grade-grind and a bit of a wheedler. Once, when Mrs Connaught came back into class after having to leave us alone for a few minutes, little Jessie Vachon's nose was bleeding. Mrs Connaught said we'd all have to stay after unless someone told her who did it. I raised my hand and said it was Andy Manning.Andy punched Jessie in the nose when Jessie wouldn't lend Andy his art-gum eraser. And I didn't see anything wrong with that, because it was the truth. Are you getting this picture?'

'You're coming in five-by.'

'That little episode was the last straw. One day not long afterwards, I was walking home across the Common and a bunch of girls were laying for me inside the Peace Bridge. There were six of them. The ringleader was Lila Strout, who's now Lila Killian—she married Roger Killian, which serves her absolutely right. Don't ever let anyone tell you children can't carry their grudges into adulthood.

'They took me to the bandstand. I struggled at first, but then two of them—Lila was one, Cindy Collins, Toby Manning's mother, was the other—punched me. Not in the shoulder, the way kids usually do, either. Cindy hit me in the cheek, and Lila punched me square in the right boob. How that hurt! I was just getting my breasts, and they ached even when they were left alone.

'I started crying. That's usually the signal—among kids, at least—that I things have gone far enough. Not that day. When I started screaming, Lila said, "Shut up or you get worse." There was nobody to stop them, either. It was a cold, drizzly afternoon, and the Common was deserted except for us.

'Ilila slapped me across the face hard enough to make my nose bleed and said, "Tattle-tale tit! All the dogs in town come to have a little bit!" And the other girls laughed. They said it wras because I told on Andy, and at the time I thought it was, but now I see it was everything, right down to the way my skirts and blouses and even my hair ribbons matched. They wore clothes, I had outfits. Andy was just the last straw.'

'How bad was it?'

'There was slapping. Some hair-pulling. And… they spit on me. All of them. That was after my legs gave out and I fell down on the bandstand. I was crying harder than ever, and I had my hands over my face, but I felt it. Spit's warm, you know?'

'Yeah.'

'They were saying stuff like teacher's pet and goody-goody-gumdrops and little miss shit-don't-stink. And then, just when I thought they were done, Corrie Macintosh said,"Let's pants her!" Because I was wearing slacks that day, nice ones my mom got from a catalogue. I loved them. They were the kind of slacks yoti might see a coed wearing as she crossed the Quad at Princeton. At least that's what I thought then.

'I fought them harder that time, but they won, of course. Four of them held me down while Lila and Corrie pulled off my slacks. Then Cindy Collins started laughing and pointing and saying, "She's got frickin Poohbear on her underpants!" Which I did, along with Eeyore and Roo. They all started laughing, and… Barbie… I got smaller… and smaller… and smaller. Until the bandstand floor was like a great flat desert and I was an insect stuck in the middle of it. Dying in the middle of it.'

'Like an ant under a magnifying glass, in other words.'

'Oh, no! No, Barbie! It was cold, not hot. I was freezing. I had goosebumps on my legs. Corrie said, "Let's take her pannies, too!" but that was a little farther than they were prepared to go. As the next best thing, maybe, Lila took my nice slacks and threw them onto the roof of the bandstand. After that, they left. Lila was the last one to go. She said, "If you tattle this time, I'll get my brother's knife and cut off your bitch nose." '

'What happened?' Barbie asked. And yes, his hand was definitely resting against the side of her breast.

'What happened at first was just a scared little girl crouching there on the bandstand, wondering how she was going to get home without half the town seeing her in her silly baby underwear. I felt like the smallest, dumbest Chiclet who ever lived. I finally decided I'd wait until dark. My mother and father would be worried, they might even call the cops, but I didn't care. I was going to wait until dark and then sneak home by the sidestreets. Hide behind trees if anyone came along.

'I must have dozed a little bit, because all at once Kayla Bevins was standing over me. She'd been right in there with the rest, slapping and pulling my hair and spitting on me. She didn't say as much as the rest, but she was part of it. She helped hold me while Lila and Corrie pantsed me, and when they saw one of the legs of my slacks was hanging off the edge of the roof, Kayla got up on the railing and flipped it all the way up, so I wouldn't be able to reach it.

'I begged her not to hurt me anymore. I was beyond things like pride and dignity. I begged her not to pull my underwear down. Then I begged her to help me. She just stood there and listened, like I was nothing to her. I was nothing to her. I knew that then. I guess I forgot it over the years, but I've sort of reconnected with that particular home truth as a result of the Dome experience.

'Finally I ran down and just lay there sniffling. She looked at me a little longer, then pulled off the sweater she was wearing. It was an old baggy brown thing that hung almost to her knees. She was a big girl and it was a big sweater. She threw it down on top of me and said, "Wear it home, it'll look like a dress."

'That was all she said. And although I went to school with her for eight more years—all the way to graduation at Mills High—we never spoke again. But sometimes in my dreams I still hear her saying that one thing: Wear it home, it'll look like a dress. And I see her face. No hate or anger in it, but no pity, either. She didn't do it out of pity, and she didn't do it to shut me up. I don't know why she did it. I don't know why she even came back. Do you?'

'No,' he said, and kissed her mouth. It was brief, but warm and moist and quite terrific.

'Why did you do that?'

'Because you looked like you needed it, and I know I did. What happened next, Julia?'

'I put on the sweater and walked home—what else? And my parents were waiting.'

She lifted her chin pridefully.

'I never told them what happened, and they never found out. For about a week I saw the pants on my way to school, lying up there on the handstand's little conical roof. Every time I felt the shame and the hurt—like a knife in my heart. Then one day they were gone. That didn't make the pain all gone, but after that it was a little better. Dull instead of sharp.

'I never told on those girls, although my father was furious and grounded me until June—I could go to school but nothing else. I was even forbidden the class trip to the Portland Museum of Art, which I'd been looking forward to all year. He told me I could go on the trip and have all my privileges restored if I named the kids who had "abused" me. That was his word for it. I wouldn't, though, and not just because dummying up is the kids' version of the Apostles' Creed.'

'You did it because somewhere deep inside, you thought you deserved what happened to you.'

'Deserved is the wrong word. I thought I'd bought and paid for it, which isn't the same thing at all. My life changed after that. I kept on getting good grades, but I stopped raising my hand so much. I never quit grade-grinding, but I stopped grade-grubbing. I could have been valedictorian in high school, but I backed off during the second semester of my senior year. Just enough to make sure Carlene Plummer would win instead of me. I didn't want it. Not the speech, not the attention that went with the speech. I made some friends, the best ones in the smoking area behind the high school.

'The biggest change was going to school in Maine instead of at Princeton… where 1 was indeed accepted. My father raved and thundered about how no daughter of his was going to go to a land-grant cow college, but I stood firm.'

She smiled.

'Pretty firm. But compromise is love's secret ingredient, and I loved my dad plenty. I loved thern both. My plan had been to go to the University of Maine at Orono, but during the summer after my senior year, I made a last-minute application to Bates—what they call a Special Circumstances application—and was accepted. My father made me pay the late fee out of my own bank account, which I was glad to do, because there was finally a modicum of peace in the family after sixteen months of border warfare between the country of Controlling Parents and the smaller but well-fortified principality of Determined Teenager. I declared a journalism major, and that finished the job of healing the breach… which had really been there ever since that day on the bandstand. My parents just never knew why. I'm not here in The Mill because of that day—my future at the Democrat was pretty much foreordained—but I am who I am in large part because of that day.'

She looked up at him again, her eyes shining with tears and defiance. 'I am not an ant, however. I am not an ant.'

He kissed her again. She wrapped her arms around him tightly and gave back as good as she got. And when his hand tugged her blouse from the waistband of her slacks and then slipped up across her midriff to cup her breast, she gave him her tongue. When they broke apart, she was breathing fast.

'Want to?' he asked.

'Yes. Do you?'

He took her hand and put it on his jeans, where how much he wanted to was immediately evident.

A minute later he was poised above her, resting on his elbows. She took him in hand to guide him in. 'Take it easy on me, Colonel Barbara. I've kind of forgotten how this thing goes.'

'It's like riding a bicycle,' Barbie said.

Turned out he was right.

15

When it was over, she lay with her head on his arm, looking up at the pink stars, and asked what he was thinking about.

He sighed.'The dreams. The visions. The whatever-they-are. Do you have your cell phone?'

'Always. And it's holding its charge nicely, although for how much longer I couldn't say. Who are you planning to call? Cox, I suppose.'

'You suppose correctly. Do you have his number in memory?'

'Yes.'

Julia reached over for her discarded pants and pulled the phone off her belt. She called COX and handed the phone to Barbie, who started talking almost at once. Cox must have answered on the first ring.

'Hello, Colonel. It's Barbie. I'm out. I'm going to take a chance and tell you our location. It's Black Ridge. The old McCoy orchard. Do you have that on your… you do. Of course you do. And you have satellite images of the town, right?'

He listened, then asked Cox if the images showed a horseshoe of light encircling the ridge and ending at the TR-90 border. Cox replied in the negative, and then, judging from the way Barbie was listening, asked for details.

'Not now,' Barbie said. 'Right now I need you to do something for me, Jim, and the sooner the better. You'll need a couple of Chinooks.'

He explained what he wanted. Cox listened, then replied.

'I can't go into it right now,'Barbie said,'and it probably wouldn't make a lot of sense if I did. Just take it from me that some very dinky-dau shit is going on in here, and I believe that worse is on the way. Maybe not until Halloween, if we're lucky. But I don't think we're going to be lucky'

16

While Barbie was speaking with Colonel James Cox, Andy Sanders was sitting against the side of the supply building behind WCIK, looking up at the abnormal stars. He was high as a kite, happy as a clam, cool as a cucumber, other similes may apply. Yet there was a deep sadness—oddly tranquil, almost comforting—running beneath, like a powerful underground river. He had never had a premonition in his whole prosy, practical, workaday life. But he was having one now. This was his last night on earth. When the bitter men came, he and Chef Bushey would go. It was simple, and not really all that bad.

'I was in the bonus round, anyway,' he said. 'Have been ever since I almost took those pills.'

'What's that, Sanders?' Chef came strolling along the path from the rear of the station, shining a flashlight beam just ahead of his bare feet. The froggy pajama pants still clung precariously to the bony wings of his hips, but something new had been added: a large white cross. It was tied around his neck on a rawhide loop. Slung over his shoulder was GOD'S WARRIOR. Two grenades swung from the stock on another length of rawhide. In the hand not holding the flashlight, he carried the garage door opener.

'Nothing, Chef,' Andy said. T was just talking to myself. Seems like I'm the only one who listens these days.'

"That's bullshit, Sanders. Utter and complete bullshit-aroonie. God listens. He's tapped into souls the way the FBI's tapped into phones. I listen, too.'

The beauty of this—and the comfort—made gratitude well up in Andy's heart. He offered the bong. 'Hit this shit. It'll get your boiler lit.'

Chef uttered a hoarse laugh, took a deep drag on the glasspipe, held the smoke in, then coughed it out. 'Bazoom!' he said. 'God's power! Power by the hour, Sanders!'

'Got that right,' Andy agreed. It was what Dodee always said, and at the thought of her, his heart broke all over again. He wiped his eyes absently. 'Where did you get the cross?'

Chef pointed the flashlight toward the radio station. 'Coggins has got an office in there. The cross was in his desk. The top drawer was locked, but I forced it open. You know what else was in there, Sanders? Some of the skankicst jerk-off material I have ever seen.'

'Kids?' Andy asked. He wouldn't be surprised. When the devil got a preacher, he was apt to fall low, indeed. Low enough to put on a tophat and crawl under a rattlesnake.

'Worse, Sanders.' He lowered his voice. 'Orientals.'

Chef picked up Andy's AK-47, which had been lying across Andy's thighs. He shone the light on the stock, where Andy had carefully printed CLAUDETTE with one of the radio station's Magic Markers.

'My wife,' Andy said. 'She was the first Dome casualty.'

Chef gripped him by the shoulder. 'You're a good man to remember her, Sanders. I'm glad God brought us together.'

'Me too.' Andy took back the bong. 'Me too, Chef.'

'You know what's apt to happen tomorrow, don't you?'

Andy gripped CLAUDETTE's stock. It was answer enough.

'They'll most likely be wearing body armor, so if we have to go to war, aim for the head. No single-shot stuff; just hose em down. And if it looks like they're going to overrun us… you know what comes next, right?'

'Right.'

'To the end, Sanders?' Chef raised the garage door opener in front of his face and shone the flashlight on it.

'To the end,' Andy agreed. He touched the door opener with CLAUDETTE's muzzle.

17

Ollie Dinsmore snapped awake from a bad dream, knowing something was wrong. He lay in bed, looking at the wan and somehow dirty first light peeping through the window, trying to persuade himself that it was just the dream, some nasty nightmare he couldn't quite recall. Fire and shouting was all he could remember.

Not shouting. Screaming.

His cheap alarm clock was ticking away on the little table beside his bed. He grabbed it. Quarter of six and no sound of his father moving around in the kitchen. More telling, no smell of coffee. His father was always up and dressed by five fifteen at the very latest ('Cows won't wait' was Alden Dinsmore's favorite scripture), and there was jalways coffee brewing by five thirty.

Not this morning.

Ollie got up and pulled on yesterday's jeans. 'Dad?'

No answer. Nothing but the tick of the clock, and—distant—the lowing of one disaffected bossy. Dread settled over the boy. He told himself there was no reason for it, that his family—all together and perfectly happy only a week ago—had sustained all the tragedies God would allow, at least for awhile. He told himself, but himself didn't believe it.

'Daddy?'

The generator out back was still running and he could see the green digital readouts on both the stove and the microwave when he went into the kitchen, but the Mr Coffee stood dark and empty. The living room was empty, too. His father had been watching TV when Ollie turned in last night, and it: was still on, although muted. Some crooked-looking guy was demonstrating the new and improved ShamWow. 'You're spending forty bucks a month on paper towels and throwing your money away,' the crooked-looking guy said from that other world where such things might matter.

He's out feeding the cows, that's all.

Except wouldn't he have turned off the TV to save electricity? They had a big tank of propane, but it would only last so long.

'Dad?'

Still no answer. Ollie crossed to the window and looked out at the barn. No one there. With increasing trepidation, he went down the back hall to his parents' room, steeling himself to knock, but there was no need. The door was open. The big double bed was messy (his father's eye for mess seemed to fall blind once he stepped out of the barn) but empty. Ollie started to turn away, then saw something that scared him. A wedding portrait of Alden and Shelley had hung on the wall in here for as long as Ollie could remember. Now it was gone, with only a brighter square of wallpaper to mark where it had been.

That's nothing to be scared of.

But it was.

Ollie continued on down the hall. There was one more door, and this one, which had stood open for the last year, was now closed. Something yellow had been tacked to it. A note. Even before he was close enough to read it, Ollie recognized his father's handwriting. He should have; there had been enough notes in that big scrawl waiting for him and Rory when they came home from school, and they always ended the same way.

Sweep the barn, then go play. Weed the tomatoes and beans, then go play. Take in your mother's washing, and mind you don't drag it in the mud. Then go play.

Playtime's over, Ollie thought dismally.

But then a hopeful thought occurred to him: maybe he was dreaming. Wasn't it possible? After his brother's death by ricochet and his mother's suicide, why wouldn't he dream of waking to an empty house?

The cow lowed again, and even that was like a sound heard in a dream.

The room behind the door with the note on it had been Grampy Tom's. Suffering the slow misery of congestive heart failure, he had come to live with them when he could no longer do for himself. For a while he'd been able to hobble as far as the kitchen to take meals with the family, but in the end he'd been bedridden, first with a plastic thingie jammed up his nose—it was called a candelabra, or something like that—and then with a plastic mask over his face most of the time. Rory once said he looked like the world's oldest astronaut, and Mom had smacked his face for him.

At the end they had all taken turns changing his oxygen tanks, and one night Mom found him dead on the floor, as if he'd been trying to get up and had died of it. She screamed for Alden, who came, looked, listened to the old man's chest, then turned off the oxy. Shelley Dinsmore began to cry. Since then, the room had mostly been closed.

Sorry was what the note on the door said. Go to town Ollie. The Morgans or Dentons or Rev Libby will take you in.

Ollie looked at the note for a long time, then turned the knob with a hand that didn't seem to be his own, hoping it wouldn't be messy.

It wasn't. His father lay on Grampy's bed with his hands laced together on his chest. His hair was combed the way he combed it when he was going to town. He was holding the wedding picture. One of Grampy s old green oxygen tanks still stood in the corner; Alden had hung his Red Sox cap, the one that said WORLD SERIES CHAMPS, over the valve.

Ollie shook his father's shoulder. He could smell booze, and for a few seconds hope (always stubborn, sometimes hateful) lived in his heart again. Maybe he was only drunk.

'Dad? Daddy? Wake up!'

Ollie could feel no breath against his cheek, and now saw that his jfafher's eyes weren't completely closed; little crescents of white peeped out between the upper and lower lids. There was a smell of what his mother called eau de pee.

His father had combed his hair, but as he lay dying he had, like his late wife, pissed his pants. Ollie wondered if knowing that might happen would have stopped him.

He backed slowly away from the bed. Now that he wanted to feel like he was having a bad dream, he didn't. He was having a bad reality, and that was something from which you could not wake. His stomach clenched and a column of vile liquid rose up his throat. He ran for the bathroom, where he was confronted by a glare-eyed intruder. He almost screamed before recognizing himself in the mirror over the sink.

He knelt at the toilet, grasping what he and Rory had called Grampy's crip-rails, and vomited. When it was out of him, he flushed (thanks to the gennie and a good deep well, he could flush), lowered the lid, and sat on it, trembling all over. Beside him, in the sink, were two of Grampy Tom's pill bottles and a bottle of Jack Daniels. All the bottles were empty. Ollie picked up one of the pill bottles. PERCOCET, the label said. He didn't bother with the other one.

'I'm alone now,' he said.

The Morgans or Dentons or Rev Libby will take you in.

But he didn't want to be taken in—it sounded like what his mom would have done to a piece of clothing in her sewing room. He had sometimes hated this farm, but he had always loved it more. Thtf farm had him. The farm and the cows and the woodpile. They were his and he was theirs. He knew that just as he knew that Rory would have gone away to have a bright and successful career, first at college and then in some city far from here where he would go to plays and art galleries and things. His kid brother had been smart enough to make something of himself in the big world; Ollie himself might have been smart enough to stay ahead of the bank loans and credit cards, but not much more.

He decided to go out and feed the cows. He would treat them to double mash, if they would eat it. There might even be a bossy or two who'd want to be milked. If so, he might have a little straight from the teat, as he had when he was a kid.

After that, he would go as far down the big field as he could, and throw rocks at the Dome until the people started showing up to visit with their relatives. Big doins, his father would have said. But there was no one Ollie wanted to see, except maybe Private Ames from South Cah'lina. He knew that Aunt Lois and Uncle Scooter might come—they lived just over in New Gloucester—but what would he say if they did? Hey, Unc, they're all dead but me, thanks for coming?

No, once the people from outside the Dome started to arrive, he reckoned he'd go up to where Mom was buried and dig a new hole nearby. That would keep him busy, and maybe by the time he went to bed, he'd be able to sleep.

Grampy Tom's oxygen mask was dangling from the hook on the bathroom door. His mother had carefully washed it clean and hung it there; who knew why. Looking at it, the truth finally crashed down on him, and it was like a piano hitting a marble floor. Ollie clapped his hands over his face and began to rock back and forth on the toilet seat, wailing.

18

Linda Everett packed up two cloth grocery sacks' worth of canned stuff, almost put them by the kitchen door, then decided to leave them in the pantry until she and Thurse and the kids were ready to go. When she saw the Thibodeau kid coming up the driveway, she was glad she'd done so. That young man scared the hell out of her, but she would have had much more to fear if he'd seen two bags filled with soup and beans and tuna fish.

Going somewhere, Mrs Everett? Let's talk about that.

The trouble was, of all the new cops Randolph had taken on, Thibodeau was the only one who was smart.

Why couldn't Rennie have sent Searles?

Because Melvin Searles was dumb. Elementary, my dear Watson.

She glanced out the kitchen window into the backyard and saw Thurston pushing Jannie and Alice on the swings. Audrey lay nearby, with her snout on one paw. Judy and Aidan were in the sandbox. Judy had her arm around Aidan and appeared to be comforting him. Linda loved her for that. She hoped she could get Mr Carter Thibodeau satisfied and on his way before the five people in the backyard even knew he'd been there. She hadn't acted since playing Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire back in junior college, but she was going onstage again this morning. The only good review she wanted was her continued freedom and that of the people out back.

She hurried through the living room, fixing what she hoped was a suitably anxious look on her face before opening the door.

Carter was standing on the WELCOME mat with his fist raised to knock. She had to look up at him; she was five-nine, but he was over half a foot taller.

'Well, look at you,' he said, smiling. 'All brighteyed and bushy-tailed, and it's not even seven-thirty.'

He did not feel that much like smiling; it hadn't been a productive morning. The preacher lady was gone, the newspaper bitch was gone, her two pet reporters seemed to have disappeared, and so had Rose Twitchell. The restaurant was open and the Wheeler kid was minding the store, but said he had no clue as to where Rose might be. Carter believed him. Anse Wheeler looked like a dog who's forgotten where he buried his favorite bone. Judging by the horrible smells coming from the kitchen, he had no clue when it came to cooking, either. Carter had gone around back, checking for the Sweet-briar van. It was gone. He wasn't surprised.

After the restaurant he'd checked the department store, hammering first in front, then in back, where some careless clerk had left a bunch of roofing material rolls out for any Light-Finger Harry to steal. Except when you thought about it, who'd bother with roofing material in a town where it no longer rained?

Carter had thought Everett's house would also be a dry hole, only went there so he could say he'd followed the boss's instructions to the letter, but he had heard kids in the backyard as he walked up the idriveway. Also, her van was there. No doubt it was hers; one of those stick-on bubble-lights was sitting on the dash. The boss had said moderate questioning, but since Linda Everett was the only one he could find, Carter thought he might go on the hard side of moderate. Like it or not—and she wouldn't—Everett would have to answer for the ones he hadn't been able to find as well as herself. But before he could open his mouth, she was talking. Not only talking, but taking him by the hand, actually pulling him inside.

'Have you found him? Please, Carter, is Rusty okay? If he's not…' She let go of his hand. 'If he's not, keep your voice down, the kids are out back and I don't want them any more upset than they are already.'

Carter walked past her into the kitchen and peered out through the window over the sink. 'What's the hippie doctor doing here?'

'He brought the kids he's taking care of. Caro brought thern to the jmeeting last night, and… you know what happened to her.'

This speed-rap babble was the last thing Carter had expected. Maybe she didn't know anything. The fact that she'd been at the meeting last night and was still here this morning certainly argued in favor of the idea. Or maybe she was just trying to keep him off-balance. Making a what-did-you-call-it, preemptive strike. It was possible; she was smart. You only had to look at her to see that. Also sort of pretty, for an older babe.

'Have you found him? Did Barbara…' She found it easy to put a catch in her voice. 'Did Barbara hurt him? Hurt him and leave him somewhere? You can tell me the truth.'

He turned to her, smiling easily in the diluted light coming in through the window. 'You go first.'

'What?'

'You go first, I said. You tell me the truth.'

'All I know is he's gone.' She let her shoulders slump. 'And you don't know where. I can see you don't. What if Barbara kills him? What if he's killed him aire—'

Carter grabbed her, spun her around as he would have spun a partner at a country dance, and hoisted her arm behind her back until her shoulder creaked. It was done with such eerie, liquid speed that she had no idea he meant to do it until it was done.

He knows! He knows and he's going to hurt me! Hurt me until I tell-

His breath was hot in her ear. She could feel his beard-stubble tickling her cheek as he spoke, and it made her break out in shivers.

'Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Mom.' It was little more than a whisper. 'You and Wettington have always been tight—hip to hip and tit to tit. You want to tell me you didn't know she was going to break your husband out? That what you're saying?'

He jerked her arm higher and Linda had to bite her lip to stifle a scream.The kids were right out therejannie calling over her shoulder forThurse to push her higher. If they heard a scream from the house—

'If she'd told me, I would have told Randolph,' she panted. 'Do you think I'd risk Rusty getting hurt when he didn't do anything?'

'He did plenty. Threatened to withhold medicine from the boss unless he stepped down. Fucking blackmail. I heard it.' He jerked her arm again. A little moan escaped her.'Got anything to say about that? Mom?

'Maybe he did. I haven't seen him or talked to him, so how would I know? But he's still the closest thing this town has to a doctor. Rennie never would have executed him. Barbara, maybe, but not Rusty. I knew it, and you must know it, too. Now let me go.'

For a moment he almost did. It all hung together. Then he had a better idea, and marched her to the sink. 'Bend over, Mom.'

'No!'

He jerked her arm up again. It felt like the ball of her shoulder was going to tear right out of its socket. 'Bend over. Like you're going to wash that pretty blond hair.'

'Linda?' Thurston called. 'How are you doing?'

Jesus, don't let him ask about the groceries. Please, Jesus.

And then another thought struck her: Where were the kids' suitctases? Each of the girls had packed a little traveling case. What if they were sitting in the living room?

'Tell him you're fine,' Carter said. 'We don't want to bring the hippie into this. Or the kids. Do we?'

God, no. But where were their suitcases?

'Fine!' she called.

'Almost finished?' he called.

Oh, Thurse, shut up!

'1 need five minutes!'

Thurston stood there looking like he might say something else, but then went back to pushing the girls.

'Good job.' He was pressing against her now, and he had a hardon. She could feel it against the seat of her jeans. It felt as big as a monkey wrench. Then he pulled away. 'Almost finished with what?'

She almost said making breakfast, but the used bowls were in the sink; For a moment her mind was a roaring blank and she almost wished he'd put his damn boner on her again, because when men were occupied with their little heads, their big ones switched to a test pattern.

But he jerked her arm up again. 'Talk to me, Mom. Make Dad happy'

'Cookies!' she gasped. 'I said I'd make cookies. The kids asked!'

'Cookies with no power,' he mused. 'Best trick of the week.'

'They're the no-bake kind! Look in the pantry, you son of a bitch!' If he looked, he would indeed find no-bake oatmeal cookie mix on the shelf. But of course if be looked down, he would also see the supplies she had packed. And he might well do that, if he registered how many of the pantry shelves were now half or wholly empty.

'You don't know where he is.' The erection was back against her. With the throbbing pain in her shoulder, she hardly registered it. 'You're sure about that.'

'Yes. I thought you knew. I thought you came to tell me he was hurt or d-d—'

'I think you're lying your pretty round ass off.' Her arm jerked up higher, and now the pain was excruciating, the need to cry out unbearable. But somehow she did bear it. 'I think you know plenty, Mom. And if you don't tell me, I'm going to rip your arm right out of its socket. Last chance. Where is he?'

Linda resigned herself to having her arm or shoulder broken. Maybe both. The question was whether or not she could keep from screaming, which would bring the Js and Thurston on the run. Head down, hair dangling in the sink, she said: 'Up my ass. Why don't you kiss it, motherfucker? Maybe he'll pop out and say hi.'

Instead of breaking her arm, Carter laughed. That was a good one, actually. And he believed her. She would never dare to talk to him like that unless she was telling the truth. He only wished she wasn't wearing Levi's. Fucking her probably still would have been out of the question, but he certainly could have gotten a good deal closer to it if she'd been in a skirt. Still, a dry hump wasn't the worst way to start Visitors Day, even if it was against a pair of jeans instead of some nice soft panties.

'Hold still and keep your mouth shut,' he said. 'If you can do that, you may get out of this in one piece.'

She heard the jingle of his belt-buckle and the rasp of his zipper. Then what had been rubbing against her was rubbing again, only now with a lot less cloth between them. Some faint part of her was glad that at least she'd put on a fairly new pair of jeans; she could hope he'd give himself a nasty rug rash.

Just as long as the Js don't come in and see me like this.

Suddenly he pressed tighter and harder. The hand not holding her arm groped her breast. 'Hey, Mom,' he murmured. 'Hey-hey, my-my' She felt him spasm, although not the wetness that followed such spasms as day follows night; the jeans were too thick for that, thank God. A moment later the upward pressure on her arm finally loosened. She could have cried with relief but didn't. Wouldn't. She turned around. He was buckling his belt again.

'Might want to change those jeans before you go making any cookies. At least, I would if I were you.' He shrugged.'But who knows—maybe you like it. Different strokes for different folks.'

'Is this how you keep the law around here now? Is this how your boss wants the law kept?'

'He's more of a big-picture man.' Carter turned to the pantry, and her racing heart seemed to stop. Then he glanced at his watch and yanked up his zipper.'You call Mr Rennie or me if your husband gets in touch. It's the best thing to do, believe me. If you don't, and I find out, the next load I shoot is going straight up the old wazoo. Whether the kids are watching or not. I don't mind an audience.'

'Get out of here before they come in.'

'Say please, Mom.'

Her throat worked, but she knew Thurston would soon be checking on her, and she got it out. 'Please.'

He headed for the door, then looked into the living room and stopped. He had seen the little suitcases. She was sure of it.

But something else was on his mind.

'And turn in the bubble light I saw in your van. In case you forgot, you're fired.'

19

She was upstairs when Thurston and the kids came in three minutes later. The first thing she did was look in the kids' room. The traveling cases were on their beds. Judy's teddy was sticking out of one.

'Hey, kids!' she called down gaily. Toujours gai, that was her. 'Look at some picture-books, and I'll be down in a few!'

Thurston came to the foot of the stairs. 'We really ought to—'

He saw her face and stopped. She beckoned him.

'Mom?' Janelle called. 'Can we have the last Pepsi if I share it out?'

Although she ordinarily would have vetoed the idea of soda this early, she said: 'Go ahead, but don't spill!'

Thurse came halfway up the stairs. 'What happened?'

'Keep your voice down. There was a cop. Carter Thibodeau.'

'The big tall one with the broad shoulders?'

'That's him. He came to question me—'

Thurse paled, and Linda knew he was replaying what he'd called to her when he thought she was alone.

'I think we're okay,' she said, 'but I need you to make sure he's reallyi gone. He was walking. Check the street and over the back fence into the Edmundses' yard. I have to change my pants.'

'What did he do to you?'

'Nothing!' she hissed. 'Just check to make sure he's gone, and if he is, we are getting the holy hell out of here.'

20

Piper Libby let go of the box and sat back, looking at the town with tears welling in her eyes. She was thinking of all those late-night prayers to The Not-There. Now she knew that had been nothing but a silly, sophomoric joke, and the joke, it turned out, was on her. There was a There there. It just wasn't God.

'Did you see them?'

She started. Norrie Calvert was standing there. She looked thinner. Older, too, and Piper saw that she was going to be beautiful. To the boys she hung with, she probably already was.

'Yes, honey, I did.'

'Are Rusty and Barbie right? Are the people looking at us just kids?'

Piper thought, Maybe it takes one to know one.

'I'm not a hundred percent sure, honey. Try it for yourself.'

Norrie looked at her. 'Yeah?'

And Piper—not knowing if she was doing right or doing wrong—nodded. 'Yeah.'

'If I get… I don't know… weird or something, will you pull me back?'

'Yes. And you don't have to if you don't want to. It's not a dare.'

But to Norrie it was. And she was curious. She knelt in the high grass and gripped the box firmly on either side. She was immediately galvanized. Her head snapped back so hard Piper heard the vertebrae in her neck crack like knuckles. She reached for the girl, then dropped her hand as Norrie relaxed. Her chin went to her breastbone and her eyes, which had squeezed shut when the shock hit her, opened again. They were distant and hazy.

'Why are you doing this?' she asked. 'Why?'

Piper's arms broke out in gooseflesh.

'Tell me!'A tear fell from one of Nome's eyes and struck the top of the box, where it sizzled and then disappeared. 'Tell me!'

Silence spun out. It seemed very long. Then the girl let go and rocked backward until her butt sat on her heels. 'Kids.'

'For sure?'

'For sure. I couldn't tell how many. It kept changing. They have leather hats on, They have bad mouths. They were wearing goggles and looking at their own box. Only theirs is like a television. They see everywhere, all over towru

'How do you know?'

Norrie shook her head helplessly. 'I can't tell you, but I know it's true. They're bad kids with bad mouths. I never want to touch that box again. I feel so dirty! She began to cry.

Piper held her. 'When you asked them why, what did they say?'

'Nothing.'

'Did they hear you, do you think?'

'They heard. They just didn't care.'

From behind them came a steady beating sound, growing louder. Two transport helicopters were coming in from the north, almost skimijring the TR-90 treetops.

'They better watch out for the Dome or they'll crash like the airplane!' Norrie cried.

The copters did not crash. They reached the edge of safe airspace some two miles distant, then began to descend.

21

Cox had told Barbie of an old supply road that ran from the McCoy orchard to the TR-90 border, and said it still looked passable. Barbie, Rusty, Rommie, Julia, and Pete Freeman drove along it around seven thirty Friday morning. Barbie trusted Cox, but not necessarily pictures of an | old truck-track snapped from two hundred miles up, so they'd taken the van Ernie Calvert had stolen from Big Jim Rennie's lot. That one Barbie was perfectly willing to lose, if it got stuck. Pete was sans camera; his digital Nikon had ceased to work when he got close to the box.

'ETs don't like the paparazzi, broha,' Barbie said. He thought it was a moderately funny line, but when it came to his camera, Pete had no sense of humor.

The ex-phone company van made it to the Dome, and now the five of them watched as the two huge CH-47s waddled toward an overgrown hayfield on the TR-90 side. The road continued over there, and the Chinooks' rotors churned dust up in great clouds. Barbie and the others shielded their eyes, but that was only instinct, and unnecessary; the dust; billowed as far as the Dome and then rolled off to either side.

The choppers alit with the slow decorum of overweight ladies settling into theater seats a tad too small for their bottoms. Barbie heard the hellish screeee of metal on a protruding rock, and the copter to the left lumbered thirty yards sideways before trying again.

A figure jumped from the open bay of the first one and strode through the cloud of disturbed grit, waving it impatiently aside. Barbie would have known that no-nonsense little fireplug anywhere. Cox slowed as he approached, and put out one hand like a blindman feeling for obstructions in the dark. Then he was wiping away the dust on his side.

'It's good to see you breathing free air, Colonel Barbara.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cox shifted his gaze. 'Hello, Ms Shumway. Hello, you other Friends of Barbara. I want to hear everything, but it will have to be quick—I've got a little dog-and-pony show going on across town, and I want to be there for it.'

Cox jerked a thumb over his shoulder where the unloading had already begun: dozens of Air Max fans with attached generators. They were big ones, Barbie saw with relief, the kind used for drying tennis courts and racetrack pit areas after heavy rains. Each was bolted to its own two-wheeled dolly-platform. The gennies looked twenty-horsepower at most. He hoped that would be enough.

'First, I want you to tell me those aren't going to be necessary.'

'I don't know for sure,' Barbie said, 'but I'm afraid they might be. You may want to get some more on the 119 side, where the townspeople are meeting their relatives.'

'By tonight,' Cox said. 'That's the best we can do.'

'Take some of these,' Rusty said. 'If we need them all, we'll be in extremely deep shit, anyway.'

'Can't happen, son. Maybe if we could cut across Chester's Mill airspace, but if we could do that, there wouldn't be a problem, would there? And putting a line of generator-powered industrial fans where the visitors are going to be kind of defeats the purpose. Nobody would be able to hear anything. Those babies are loud! He glanced at his watch. 'Now how much can you tell me in fifteen minutes?'

HALLOWEEN COMES EARLY

1

At quarter to eight, Linda Everett's almost-new Honda Odyssey Green rolled up to the loading dock behind Burpee's Department Store. Thurse was riding shotgun.The kids (far too silent for children setting off on an adventure) were in the backseat. Aidan was hugging Audrey's head. Audi, probably sensing the little boy's distress, bore this patiently.

Linda's shoulder was still throbbing in spite of three aspirin, and she couldn't get Carter Thibodeau's face out of her mind. Or his smell: a mixture of sweat and cologne. She kept expecting him to pull up behind her in one of the town police cars, blocking their retreat. The next load I shoot is going straight up the old wazoo. Whether the kids are watching or not.

He'd do it, too. He would. And while she couldn't get all the way out of town, she was wild to put as much distance between herself and Rennie's new Man Friday as possible.

'Grab a whole roll, and the metal-snips,' she told Thurse.'They're under that milk box. Rusty told me.'

Thurston had opened the door, but now he paused. 'I can't do that. What if somebody else needs them?'

She wasn't going to argue; she'd probably wind up screaming at him and scaring the children.

'Whatever. Just hurry up. This is like a box canyon.'

'As fast as I can.'

Yet it seemed to take him forever to snip pieces of the lead roll, and she had to restrain herself from leaning out the window and asking if he had been born a prissy old lady or just grew into one.

Keep it shut. He lost someone he loved last night.

Yes, and if they didn't hurry, she might lose everything. There were already people on Main Street, heading out toward 119 and the Dinsmore dairy farm, intent on getting the best places. Linda jumped every time a police loudspeaker blared,'CARS ARE NOT ALLOWED ON THE HIGHWAY! UNLESS YOU ARE PHYSICALLY DISABLED, YOU MUST WALK.'

Thibodeau was smart, and he had sniffed something. What if he came back and saw that her van was gone? Would he look for it? Meanwhile, Thurse just kept snipping pieces of lead from the roofing roll. He turned and she thought he was done, but he was only visually measuring the windshield. He started cutting again.

Whacking off another piece. Maybe he was actually trying to drive her mad. A silly idea, but once it had entered her mind it wouldn't leave.

She could still feel Thibodeau rubbing against her bottom. The tickle of his stubble. The fingers squeezing her breast. She told herself not to look at what he'd left on the seat of her jeans when she took them off, but she couldn't help it. The word that rose in her mind was mansplat, and she'd found herself in a short, grim struggle to keep her breakfast down. Which also would have pleased him, if he had known.

Sweat sprang out on her brow.

'Mom?' Judy, right in her ear. Linda jumped and uttered a cry. Tm sorry, 1 didn't mean to jump you. Can I have something to eat?'

'Not now.'

'Why does that man keep loudspeakering?'

'Honey, I can't talk to you right now.'

'Are you bummin?'

'Yes. A little. Now sit back.'

'Are we going to see Daddy?'

'Yes.' Unless we get caught and I get raped in front of you. 'Now sit back.'

Thurse was finally coming. Thank God for small favors. He appeared to be carrying enough cut squares and rectangles of lead to armor a tank. 'See? That wasn't so ba- oh, shit.'

The kids giggled, the sound like rough files sawing away at Linda's brain. 'Quarter in the swear-jar, Mr Marshall,'Janelle said.

Thurse was looking down, bemused. He had stuck the metal-snips in his belt.

'I'll just put these back under the milk box—'

Linda snatched them before he could finish, restrained a momentary urge to bury them up to the handles in his narrow chest—admirable restraint, she thought—and got out to put them away herself.

As she did, a vehicle slid in behind the van, blocking access to West Street, the only way out of this cul-de-sac.

Atop Town Common Hill, just below the Y-intersection where Highland Avenue split off from Main Street, Jim Rennie's Hummer sat idling. From below came the amplified exhortations for people to leave their cars and walk unless they were disabled. People were flowing down the sidewalks, many with packs on their backs. Big jim eyed them with that species of longsuffering contempt which is felt only by caretakers who do their jobs not out of love but out of duty.

Going against the tide was Carter Thibodeau. He was striding in the middle of the street, every now and then shoving someone out of his way. He reached the Hummer, got in on the passenger side, and armed sweat from his forehead. 'Man, that AC feels good. Not hardly eight in the morning and it's got to be seventy-five degrees out there already. And the air smells like a frickin ashtray. 'Scuse the language, boss.'

'What kind of luck did you have?'

'The bad kind. I talked to Officer Everett. Ex-Officer Everett. The others are in the breeze.'

'Does she know anything?'

'No. She hasn't heard from the doc. And Wettington treated her like a mushroom, kept her in the dark and fed her shit.'

'You're sure?'

'Yeah.'

'Her kids there with her?'

'Yup. The hippy, too. The one who straightened out your ticker. Plus the two kids Junior and Frankie found out at the Pond.' Carter thought about this. 'With his chick dead and her husband gone, him and Everett'll probably be boinking each other's brains out by the end of the week. If you want me to take another run at her, boss, I will.'

Big Jim flicked a single finger up from the steering wheel to show that wouldn't be necessary. His attention was elsewhere. 'Look at them, Carter.'

Carter couldn't very well help it. The foot traffic out of town was thickening every minute.

'Most of them will be at the Dome by nine, and their cotton-picking relatives won't arrive until ten. At the earliest. By then they'll be good and thirsty. By noon the ones who didn't think to bring water will be drinking cow-piddle out of Alden Dinsmore's pond, God love them. God must love them, because the majority are too dumb to work and too nervous to steal.'

Carter barked laughter.

'That's what we've got to deal with,' Rennie said. 'The mob. The cotton-picking rabble. What do they want, Carter?'

'I don't know, boss.'

'Sure you do. They want food, Oprah, country music, and a warm bed to thump uglies in when the sun goes down. So they can make more just like them. And goodness me, here comes another member of the tribe.'