Xet me finish. Your side of 119 is totally fubar.That means—'

'I know the expression, Colonel, I used to be a Tom Clancy reader. What exactly do you mean by it in regard to Route 119?'

'1 mean it looks like, pardon the vulgarity, opening night at a free whorehouse out there. Half your town has parked their cars and pickups on both sides of the road and in some dairy farmer's field.'

She put her camera on the floor, took a notepad from her coat pocket, and scrawled Col. James Cox and Like open night at free w'house. Then she added Dinsmore farm?Yes, he was probably thinking about Alden Dinsmore's place.

'All right,' she said, 'what do' you suggest?'

'Well, I can't stop you from coining, you're absolutely right about that.' He sighed, the sound seeming to suggest it was an unfair world. 'And I can't stop what you print in your paper, although I don't think it matters, since no one outside of Chester's Mill is going to see it.'

She stopped smiling. 'Would you mind explaining that?'

'I would, actually, and you'll work it out for yourself. My suggestion is that, if you want to see the barrier—although you can't actually see it, as I'm sure you've been told—you bring Captain Barbara out to where it cuts Town Road Number Three. Do you know Town Road Number Three?'

For a moment she didn't. Then she realized what he was talking about, and laughed.

'Something amusing, Ms Shumway?'

'In The Mill, folks call that one Little Bitch Road. Because in mud season, it's one little bitch.'

'Very colorful.'

'No crowds out on Little Bitch, I take it?'

'No one at all right now'

'All right.' She put the pad in her pocket and picked up the camera. Hector continued waiting patiently by the door.

'Good. When may I expect your call? Or rather, Barbie's call on your cell?'

She looked at her watch and saw it had just gone ten. How in God's name had it gotten that late so early? 'We'll be out there by ten thirty, assuming I can find him. And I think I can.'

'That's fine. Tell him Ken says hello. That's a—'

'A joke, yes, I get it. Will someone meet us?'

There was a pause. When he spoke again, she sensed reluctance. 'There will be lights, and sentries, and soldiers manning a roidblock, but they have been instructed not to speak to the residents.

'Not to—why? In God's name, why?'

'If this situation doesn't resolve, Ms Shumway, all these things will become clear to you. Most you really will figure out on your own—you sound like a very bright lady'

'Well, fuck you very much, Colonel!' she cried, stung. At the door, Hector pricked up his ears.

Cox laughed, a big unoffended laugh. 'Yes, ma'am, receiving you five-by-five. Ten thirty?'

She was tempted to tell him no, but of course there was no way she could do that.

'Ten thirty. Assuming I can hunt him up. And I call you?'

'Either you or him, but it's him I need to speak with. I'll be waiting with one hand on the phone.'

'Then give me the magic number.' She crooked the phon; against her ear and fumbled the pad out again. Of course you always wanted your pad again after you'd put it away; that was a fact of li::e when you were a reporter, which she now was. Again. The number he gave her to call somehow scared her more than anything else he'd said. The area code was 000.

'One more thing, Ms Shumway: do you have a pacemaker implant? Hearing-aid implants? Anything of that nature?'

'No. Why?'

She thought he might again decline to answer, but he didn't. 'Once you're close to the Dome, there's some kind of interference. It's not harmful to most people, they feel it as nothing more than a low-level electric shock which goes away a second or two after it comeS, but it plays hell with electronic devices. Shuts some down—most Icell phones, for instance, if they come closer than five feet or so— ^nd explodes others. If you bring a tape recorder out, it'll shut down. Bring an iPod or something sophisticated like a BlackBerry, it's apt to explode.'

'Did Chief Perkins's pacemaker explode? Is that what killed him?'

'Ten thirty. Bring Barbie, and be sure to tell him Ken says hello.'

He broke the connection, leaving Julia standing in silence beside her dog. She tried calling her sister in Lewiston.The numbers peeped… then nothing. Blank silence, as before.

The Dome, she thought. He didn't call it the barrier there at the end; he called it the Dome.

5

Barbie had taken off his shirt and was sitting on his bed to untie his sneakers when the knock came at the door, which one reached by climbing an outside flight of stairs on the side of Sanders Hometown Drug. The knock wasn't welcome. He had walked most of the day, then put on an apron and cooked for most of the evening. He was beat.

4.nd suppose it was Junior and a few of his friends, ready to throw him a welcome-back party? You could say it was unlikely, even paranoid, but the day had been a festival of unlikely. Besides, Junior and prank DeLesseps and the rest of their little band were among the few people he hadn't seen at Sweetbriar tonight. He supposed they might be out on 119 or 117, rubbernecking, but maybe somebody had told them he was back in town and they'd been making plans for later tonight. Later like now.

The knock came again. Barbie stood up and put a hand on the portable TV. Not much of a weapon, but it would do some damage if thrown at the first one who tried to cram through the door. There was a wooden closet rod, but all three rooms were small and it was too long to swing effectively. There was also his Swiss Army Knife, but he wasn't going to do any cutting. Not unless he had t—

'Mr Barbara?' It was a woman's voice. 'Barbie? Are you in there?'

He took his hand off the TV and crossed the kitchenette. 'Who is it?' But even as he asked, he recognized the voice.

'Julia Shumway. I have a message from someone who wants to speak to you. He told me to tell you that Ken says hello.'

Barbie opened the door and let her in.

6

In the pine-paneled basement conference room of the Chester's Mill Town Hall, the roar of the generator out back (an elderly Kelvinator) was no more than a dim drone. The table in the center of the room was handsome red maple, polished to a high gleam, twelve feet long. Most of the chairs surrounding it were empty that night. The four attendees of what Big Jim was calling the Emergency Assessment Meeting were clustered at one end. Big Jim himself, although only the Second Selectman, sat at the head of the table. Behind him was a map showing the athletic-sock shape of the town.

Those present were the selectmen and Peter Randolph, the acting Chief of Police. The only one who seemed entirely with it was Rennie. Randolph looked shocked and scared. Andy Sanders was, of course, dazed with grief. And Andrea Grinnell—an ovei-weight, graying version of her younger sister, Rose—just seemed dazed. This was not new.

Four or five years previous, Andrea had slipped in her icy driveway while going to the mailbox one January morning. She had fallen hard enough to crack two discs in her back (being eighty or ninety pounds overweight probably hadn't helped). Dr Haskell had prescribed that new wonder-drug, OxyContin, to ease what had been no doubt excruciating pain. And had been giving it to her ever since. Thanks to his good friend Andy, who ran the local drugstore, Big Jim knew that Andrea had begun at forty milligrams a day and had worked her way up to a giddy four hundred. This was useful information.

Big Jim said, T›ue to Andy's great loss, I'm going to chair this meeting, if no one objects. We're all very sorry, Andy'

'You bet, sir,' Randolph said.

'Thank you,' Andy said, and when Andrea briefly covered his hand with her own, he began to ooze at the eyes again.

'Now, we all have an idea of what's happened here,' Big Jim said, 'although no one in town understands it yet—'

'I bet no one out of town does, either,' Andrea said.

Jim ignored her.'-and the military presence hasn't seen fit to communicate with the town's elected officials.'

'Problems with the phones, sir,' Randolph said. He was on a first-rjame basis with all of these people—in fact considered Big Jim a friend—but in this room he felt it wise to stick to sir or ma'am. Perkins had done the same, and on that, at least, the old man had probably been right.

Big Jim waved a hand as if swatting at a troublesome fly.'Someone could have come to the Motton or Tarker's side and sent for me—us—and no one has seen fit to do so.'

'Sir, the situation is still very… uh, fluid.'

Tm sure, I'm sure. And it's very possible that's why no one has put us in the picture just yet. Could be, oh yes, and I pray that's the answer. I hope you've all been praying.'

They nodded dutifully.

'But right now…' Big Jim looked around gravely. He felt grave. But he also felt excited. And ready. He thought it not impossible that his picture would be on the cover of Time magazine before the year was out. Disaster—especially the sort triggered by terrorists—was not always a completely bad thing. Look what it had done for Rudy Giuliani. 'Right now, lady and gentlemen, I think we have to face the very real possibility that we are on our own.'

Andrea put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes shone either with fear or too much dope. Possibly both. 'Surely not, Jim!'

'JHope for the best, prepare for the worst, that's what Claudette always says.' Andy spoke in tones of deep meditation. 'Said, I mean. She made me a nice breakfast this morning. Scrambled eggs and leftover taco cheese. Gosh!'

The tears, which had slowed, began to ooze again. Andrea once more covered his hand. This time Andy gripped it. Andy and Andrea, Big Jim thought, and a thin smile creased the lower half of his fleshy face. The Dumbsey Twins.

iHope for the best, plan for the worst,' he said. 'What good advice that is. The worst in this case could entail days cut off from the outside world. Or a week. Possibly even a month.' He didn't actually believe that, but they'd be quicker to do what he wanted if they were frightened.

Andrea repeated: 'Surely not!'

"We just don't know,' Big Jim said. This, at least, was the unvarnished truth. 'How can we?'

'Maybe we ought to close Food City,' Randolph said. 'At least for th;e time being. If we don't, it's apt to fill up like before a blizzard.'

Rennie was annoyed. He had an agenda, and this was on it, but it wasn't first on it.

'Or maybe that's not a good idea,' Randolph said, reading the Second Selectman's face.

'Actually, Pete, 1 don't think it's a good idea,' Big Jim said.'Same principle as never declaring a bank holiday when currency is tight. You only provoke a run.'

'Are we talking about closing the banks, too?'Andy asked.'What'll we do about the ATMs? There's one at Brownie's Store… Mill Gas and Grocery… my drugstore, of course…' He looked vague, then brightened. 'I think I even saw one at the Health Center, a though I'm not entirely sure about that one…'

Rennie wondered briefly if Andrea had been loaning trie man some of her pills. 'I was only making a metaphor, Andy.' Keeping his voice low and kind. This was exactly the kind of thing you could expect when people wandered off the agenda. 'In a situation like this, food is money, in a manner of speaking. What I'm saying is it should be business as usual. It'll keep people calm.'

'Ah,' Randolph said. This he understood. 'Gotcha.'

'But you'll need to talk to the supermarket manager—what's his name, Cade?'

'Cale,' Randolph said. 'Jack Cale.'

'Also Johnny Carver at the Gas and Grocery, and… who in the heck runs Brownie's since Dil Brown died?'

'Velma Winter,'Andrea said.'She's from Away, but she's very nice.'

Rennie was pleased to see Randolph writing the names down in his pocket notebook. 'Tell those three people that beer and liquor sales are off until further notice.' His face cramped in a rather frightening expression of pleasure. 'And Dipper's is closed!

'A lot of people aren't going to like a booze shutdown,' Randolph said. 'People like Sam Verdreaux.'Verdreaux was the town's most notorious tosspot, a perfect example—in Big Jim's opinion—of why the Volstead Act should never have been repealed.

'Sam and the others like him will just have to suffer once their current supplies of beer and coffee brandy are gone. We can't have half the town getting drunk like it was New Year's Eve.'

'Why not?'Andrea asked.'They'll use up the supplies and that'll be the end of it.'

'And if they riot in the meantime?'

Andrea was silent. She couldn't see what people would have to riot about— not if they had food—but arguing with Jim Rennie, she had found, was usually unproductive and always wearying.

'I'll send a couple of the guys out to talk to them,' Randolph said.

'Talk to Tommy and Willow Anderson personally!'The Andersons ran pipper's. 'They can be troublesome.' He lowered his voice. 'Wingnuts.'

Randolph nodded. 'Left- wingnuts. Got a picture of Uncle Barack over the bar.'

'That's it exactly' And, he didn't need to say, Duke Perkins let those two hippy cotton-pickers get a foothold with their dancing and loud rock 4nd roll and drinking until one in the morning. Protected them. And look at the trouble it led to for my son and his friends. He turned to Andy Sanders. 'Also, you've got to put all the prescription drugs under lock and key. Oh, not Nasonex or Lyrica, that sort of thing. You know the stuff I mean.'

'Anything people might use to get high,' Andy said, 'is already under lock and key' He seemed uneasy at this turn of the conversation. Rennie knew why, but he wasn't concerned about their various sales endeavors just now; they had more pressing business.

'Better take extra precautions, just the same.'

Andrea was looking alarmed.Andy patted her hand.'Don't worry,' he said, '-we always have enough to take care of those in real need.'

Andrea smiled at him.

'Bottom line is, this town is going to stay sober until the crisis ends,'! Big Jim said.'Are we in agreement? Show of hands.'

The hands went up.

'Now,' Rennie said, 'may I go back to where I wanted to start?' He looked at Randolph, who spread his hands in a gesture that simultaneously conveyed go ahead and sorry.

'We need to recognize that people are apt to be scared. And when people are scared, they can get up to dickens, booze or no booze.'

Andrea looked at the console to Big Jim's right: switches that controlled the TV, the AM/FM radio, and the built-in taping system, an innovation Big Jim hated. 'Shouldn't that be on?'

'I see no need.'

The darned taping system (shades of Richard Nixon) had been the idea of a meddling medico named Eric Everett, a thirtysome-thing pain in the buttinsky who was known around town as Rusty. Everejtt had sprung the taping system idiocy at town meeting two years before, presenting it as a great leap forward. The proposal came as an unwelcome surprise to Rennie, who was seldom surprised, especially by political outsiders.

Big Jim had objected that the cost would be prohibitive. This tactic usually worked with thrifty Yankees, but not that time; Everett had presented figures, possibly supplied by Duke Perkins, showing that the federal government would pay eighty percent. Some Disaster Assistance Whatever; a leftover from the free-spending Clinton years. Rennie had found himself outflanked.

It wasn't a thing that happened often, and he didn't like it, but he had been in politics for many more years than Eric 'Rusty' Everett had been tickling prostates, and he knew there was a big difference between losing a battle and losing the war.

'Or at least someone should take notes?' Andrea asked timidly.

'I think it might be best to keep this informal, for the time being,' Big Jim said. 'Just among the four of us.'

'Well… if you think so…'

'Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead,'Andy said dreamily.

'That's right, pal,' Rennie said, just as if that made sense. Then he turned back to Randolph. 'I'd say our prime concern—our prime responsibility to the town—is maintaining order for the duration of this crisis. Which means police.'

'Damn straight!' Randolph said smartly.

'Now, I'm sure Chief Perkins is looking down on is from Above—'

'With my wife,' Andy said. 'With Claudie.' He produced a snot-clogged honk that Big Jim could have done without. Nonetheless, he patted Andy's free hand.

'That's right, Andy, the two of them together, bathed in Jesus's glory. But for us here on earth… Pete, what kind of force can you muster?'

Big Jim knew the answer. He knew the answers to most of his own questions. Life was easier that way. There were eighteen officers on the Chester's Mill police payroll, twelve full-timers and s:x part-timers (the latter all past sixty, which made their services entrancingly cheap). Of those eighteen, he was quite sure five of the full-timers were out of town; they had either gone to that day's high school football game with their wives and families or to the controlled burn in Castle Rock. A sixth, Chief Perkins, was dead. And while Rennie would never speak ill of the dead, he was sure the town was better off with Perkins in heaven rather than down here, trying to nanage a clustermug that was far beyond his limited abilities.

'I'll tell you what, folks,' Randolph said,'it's not that good.There's Henry Morrison and Jackie Wettington, both of whom responded with me to the initial Code Three. There's also Rupe Libby, Fred Denton, and George Frederick—although his asthmas so bad I don't know how much use he'll be. He was planning to take early retirement at the end of this year.'

'Poor old George,' Andy said. 'He just about lives on Advair.'

'And as you know, Marty Arsenault and Toby Whelan aren't up to much these days. The only part-timer I'd call really able-bodied is Linda Everett. Between that damned firefighting exercise and the football game, this couldn't have happened at a worse time.'

'Linda Everett?' Andrea asked, a little interested. 'Rusty's wife?'

'Pshaw!' Big Jim often said pshaw when he was irritated. 'She's just a jumped-up crossing guard.'

'Yes, sir,' Randolph said, 'but she qualified on the county range over in The Rock last year and she has a sidearm. No reason she can't carry it and go on duty. Maybe not full-time, the Everetts have got aj couple of kids, but she can pull her weight. After all, it 15 a crisis.'

"No doubt, no doubt.' But Rennie was damned if he was going to have Everetts popping up like darned old jack-in-the-boxes every time he turned around. Bottom line: he didn't want that cotton-picket's wife on his first team. For one thing, she was still quite young, no more than thirty, and pretty as the devil. He was sure she'd be a bad influence on the other men. Pretty women always were.Wettington and her gunshell tiddies were bad enough.

'So,' Randolph said, 'that's only eight out of eighteen.'

'You forgot to count yourself,' Andrea said.

Randolph hit his forehead with the heel of his hand, as if trying to knock his brains back into gear. 'Oh. Yeah. Right. Nine.'

'Not enough,' Rennie said. 'We need to beef up the force. Just temporarily, you know; until this situation works itself out.'

'Who were you thinking about, sir?' Randolph asked.

^My boy, to begin with.'

'Junior?' Andrea raised her eyebrows. 'He's not even old enough to vote… is he?'

Big Jim briefly visualized Andrea's brain: fifteen percent favorite onlinje shopping sites, eighty percent dope receptors, two percent memory, and three percent actual thought process. Still, it was what he had to work with. And, he reminded himself, the stupidity of one's colleagues makes life simpler.

'He's twenty-one, actually. Twenty-two in November. And either by luck or the grace of God, he's home from school this weekend.'

Peter Randolph knew that Junior Rennie was home from school permanently— he'd seen it written on the phone pad in the late Chief's office earlier in the week, although he had no idea how Dake had gotten the information or why he'd thought it important enough to write down. Something else had been written there, too: Behavioral issues?

This was probably not the time to share such information with Big Jim, however.

Rennie was continuing, now in the enthusiastic tones ol a gameshow host announcing a particularly juicy prize in the Bonus Round. 'And, Junior has three friends who would also be suitable: Frank DeLesseps, Metvin Searles, and Carter Thibodeau.'

Andrea was once more looking uneasy. 'Urn… weren't those the boys… the young men… involved in that altercation at Dipper's…?'

Big Jim turned a smile of such genial ferocity on her that Andrea shrank back in her seat.

'That business was overblown. And sparked by alcohol, as most such trouble is. Plus, the instigator was that fellow Barbara. Which is why no charges were filed. It was a wash. Or am I wrong, Peter?'

'Absolutely not,' Randolph said, although he too looked uneasy.

'These fellows are all at least twenty-one, and I believe Carter Thibodeau might be twenty-three.'

Thibodeau was indeed twenty-three, and had lately been working as a part-time mechanic at Mill Gas & Grocery. He'd been fired from two previous jobs—temper issues, Randolph had heard—but he seemed to have settled down at the Gas & Grocery. Johnny said he'd never had anyone so good with exhaust and electrical systems.

'They've all hunted together, they're good shots—'

'Please God we don't have to put that to the test,' Andrea said.

'No one's going to get shot, Andrea, and no one's suggesting we make these young fellows full-time police. What I'm saying is that we need to fill out an extremely depleted roster, and fast. So how about it, Chief? They can serve until the crisis is over, and we'll pay them out of the contingency fund.'

Randolph didn't like the idea of Junior toting a gun on the streets of Chester's Mill—Junior with his possible behavioral issues—but he also didn't like the idea of bucking Big Jim. And it really might be a good idea to have a few extra widebodies on ha ad. Even if they were young. He didn't anticipate problems in town, but they could be put on crowd control out where the main roads hit the barrier. If the barrier was still there. And if it wasn't? Problems solved.

He put on a team-player smile. 'You know, I think that's a great idea, sir. You send em around to the station tomorrow around ten—'

'Nine might be better, Pete.'

'Nine's fine,' Andy said in his dreamy voice.

'Further discussion?' Rennie asked.

There was none. Andrea looked as if she might have had something to say but couldn't remember what it was.

'Then I call the question,' Rennie said. 'Will the Board ask acting Chief Randolph to take on Junior, Frank DeLesseps, Melvin Searles, and Carter Thibodeau as deputies at base salary? Their period of service to last until this darn crazy business is sorted out? Those in favor signify in the usual manner.'

They all raised their hands.

'The measure is approv—'

He was interrupted by two reports that sounded like gunfire.

They all jumped. Then a third came, and Rennie, who had worked with motors for most of his life, realized what it was.

'Relax, folks. Just a backfire. Generator clearing its throa—'

The elderly gennie backfired a fourth time, then died. The lights went out, leaving them for a moment in stygian blackness. Andrea shrieked.

On his left, Andy Sanders said: 'Oh my gosh, Jim, the propane—'

Rennie reached out with his free hand and grabbed Andy's arm. Andy shut up. As Rennie was relaxing his grip, light crept back into the long pine-paneled room. Not the bright overheads but the emergency box-lights mounted in the four corners. In their weak glow, the faces clustered at the conference table's north end looked yellow and years older. They looked frightened. Even Big Jim Rennie looked frightened.

'No problem,' Randolph said with a cheeriness that sounded manufactured rather than organic. 'Tank just ran dry, that's all. Plenty more in the town supply barn.'

Andy shot Big Jim a look. It was no more than a shifting of the eyes, but Rennie had an idea Andrea saw it. What she might eventually make of it was another question.

She'll forget it after her next dose of Oxy, he told himself. By morning for sure.

And in the meantime, the town's supplies of propane—or lack thereof- didn't concern him much. He would take care of that situation when it became necessary.

'Okay, folks, I know you're as anxious to get out of here as I am, so-let's move on to our next order of business. I think we should officially confirm Pete here as our Chief of Police pro tern.'

'Yes, why not?' Andy asked. He sounded tired.

'If there's no discussion,' Big Jim said, 'I'll call the question.' They voted as he wanted them to vote. They always did.

7

Junior was sitting on the front step of the big Rennie home on Mill Street when the lights of his father's Hummer splashed up the driveway. Junior was at peace.The headache had not returned. Angie and Dodee were stored in the McCain pantry, where they would be fine—at least for a while. The money he'd taken was back in his father's safe. There was a gun in his pocket—the pearl-grip.38 his father had given him for his eighteenth birthday. Now he and his father would speak. Junior would listen very closely to what the King of Nc Money Down had to say. If he sensed his father knew what he, Junior, had done—he didn't see how that was possible, but his father knew so much—then Junior would kill him. After that he would turn the gun on himself. Because there would be no running away, not tonight. Probably not tomorrow, either. On his way back, he had stooped on the town common and listened to the conversations going en there. What they were saying was insane, but the large bubble of light to the south—and the smaller one to the southwest, where 117 ran toward Castle Rock—suggested that tonight, insanity just happened to be the truth.

The door of the Hummer opened, chunked closed. His father walked toward himr his briefcase banging one thigh. He didn't look suspicious, wary, or angry. He sat down beside Junior on the step without a word. Then, in a gesture that took Junior completely by surprise, he put a hand on the younger man's neck and squeezed gently.

'You heard?' he asked.

'Some,' Junior said. 'I don't understand it, though.'

'None of us do. I think there are going to be some hard days ahead while this gets sorted out. So I have to ask you something.'

'What's that?'Junior's hand closed around the butt of the pistol.

'Will you play your part? You and your friends? Frankie? Carter and the Searles boy?'

Junior was silent, waiting. What was this shit?

'Peter Randolph's acting chief now. He's going to need some men to fill out the police roster. Good men. Are you willing to serve as a deputy until this damn clustermug is over?'

Junior felt a wild urge to scream with laughter. Or triumph. Or both. Big Jim's hand was still on the nape of his neck. Not squeezing. Not pinching. Almost… caressing.

Junior took his hand off the gun in his pocket. It occurred to him that he was still on a roll—the roll of all rolls.

Today he had killed two girls he'd known since childhood.

Tomorrow he was going to be a town cop.

'Sure, Dad,' he said. 'If you need us, we are there! And for the first time in maybe four years (it could have been longer), he kissed his father's cheek.

PRAYERS

1

Barbie and Julia Shumway didn't talk much; there wasn't much to say. Theirs was, as far as Barbie could see, the only car on the road, but lights streamed from most of the farmhouse windows once they cleared town. Out here, where there were always chores to be done and no one fully trusted Western Maine Power, almost everyone had a genme. When they passed the WCIK radio tower, the two red lights at the top were flashing as they always did. The electric cross in front of the little studio building was also lit, a gleamir.g white beacon in the dark. Above it, the stars spilled across the sky in their usual extravagant profusion, a never-ending cataract of energy that needed no generator to power it.

'Used to come fishing out this way,' Barbie said. 'It's peaceful.'

'Any luck?'

'Plenty, but sometimes the air smells like the dirty ur derwear of the gods. Fertilizer, or something. I never dared to eat what I caught.'

'Not fertilizer—bullshit. Also known as the smell of self-righteousness.'

'I beg your pardon?'

She pointed at a dark steeple-shape blocking out the star;.'Christ the Holy Redeemer Church,' she said. 'They own WCIK just back the road. Sometimes known as Jesus Radio?'

He shrugged.'I guess maybe I have seen the steeple. Anc. I know the station. Can't very well miss it if you live around here j.nd own a radio. Fundamentalist?'

'They make the hardshell Baptists look soft. I go to the Congo, myself. Can't stand Lester Coggins, hate all the ha-ha-you're-going-to-hell-and-we're-not stuff. Different strokes for different folks, I guess. Although I have often wondered how they afford a fifty-thousand-watt radio station.'

'Love offerings?'

She snorted. 'Maybe I ought to ask Jim Rennie. He's a deacon.'

Julia drove a trim Prius Hybrid, a car Barbie would not have expected of a staunch Republican newspaper owner (although he supposed it did fit a worshipper at the First Congregational). But it was quiet, and the radio worked. The only problem was that out here on the western side of town, CIK's signal was so powerful it wiped out everything on the FM band. And tonight it was broadcasting some holy accordion shit that hurt Barbie's head. It sounded like polka music played by an orchestra dying of bubonic plague.

'Try the AM band, why don't you?' she said.

Fje did, and got only nighttime gabble until he hit a sports station near the bottom of the dial. Here he heard that before the Red Sox-Mariners playoff game at Fenway Park, there had been a moment of silence for the victims of what the announcer called 'the western Maine event.'

'Event,'Julia said,'A sports-radio term if ever I heard one. Might as well turn it off.'

A mile or so past the church, they began to see a glow through the trees. They came around a curve and into the glare of lights almost the size of Hollywood premiere khegs. Two pointed in their direction; two more were tilted straight up. Every pothole in the road stood out in stark relief. The trunks of the birches looked like narrow ghosts. Barbie felt as if they were driving into a noir movie from the late nineteen forties.

'Stop, stop, stop,' he said. 'This is as close as you want to go. Looks like there's nothing there, but take my word for it, there is. It would likely blow the electronics in your little car, if nothing else.'

She stopped and they got out. For a moment they just stood in front of the car, squinting into the bright light. Julia raised one hand to shield her eyes.

Parked beyond the lights, nose to nose,—were two brown canvas-back military trucks. Sawhorses had been placed on the road for good measure, their feet braced with sandbags. Motors roared steadily in the darkness—not one generator but several. Barbie saw thick electrical cables snaking away from the spotlights and into the woods, where other lights glared through the trees.

'They're going to light the perimeter,' he said, and twirled one finger in the air, like an ump signaling a home run. 'Lights around the whole town, shining in and shining up.'

'Why up?'

'The tip ones to warn away air traffic. If any gets through, that is. Id guess it's mostly tonight they're worried about. By tomorrow they'll have the airspace over The Mill sewn up like one of Uncle Scrooge's moneybags.'

On the dark side of the spotlights, but visible in their back-splash, were half a dozen armed soldiers, standing at parade rest with their backs turned. They must have heard the approach of the car, quiet as it was, but not one of them so much as looked around.

Julia called, 'Hello, fellas!'

No one turned. Barbie didn't expect it—on their way out, Julia had told Barbie what Cox had told her—but he had to try. And because he could read their insignia, he knew what to try. The Army might be running this show—Cox's involvement suggested that—but these fellows weren't Army.

'Yo, Marines!' he called.

Nothing. Barbie stepped closer. He saw a dark horizontal line hanging on the air above the road, but ignored it for the time being. He was more interested in the men guarding the barrier. Or the Dome. Shumway had said Cox called it the Dome.

'I'm surprised to see you Force Recon boys stateside,' he said, walking a little closer. 'That little Afghanistan problem over, is it?'

Nothing. He walked closer. The grit of the hardpan under his shoes seemed very loud.

'A remarkably high number of pussies in Force Reccn, or so I've heard. I'm relieved, actually. If this situation was really bad, they would have sent in the Rangers.'

'Pogeybait,' one of them muttered.