Rusty bore this patiently, thinking he could have had his conversation with Ginny face-to-face. He was almost back to the hospital. When she was done complaining, he asked her if little Jimmy had said anything while he was seizing.
'Yes indeed. Bill said he babbled quite a bit. I think it was something about pink stars. Or Halloween. Or maybe I'm getting it confused with what Rory Dinsmore said after he was shot. People have been talking about that.'
Of course they have, Rusty thought grimly. And they'll be talking about this, too, if they find out. As they probably will.
'AH right,' he said. 'Thanks, Ginny.'
'When you comin back, Red Ryder?'
'Almost there now.'
'Good. Because we have a new patient. Sammy Bushey. She was raped.'!
Rusty groaned.
'It gets better. Piper Libby brought her in. I couldn't get the names of the doers out of the girl, but: I think Piper did. She went out of here like her hair was on fire and her ass - ' A pause. Ginny yawned loud enough for Rusty to hear. '-her ass was catching.'
'Ginny, my love - when's the last time you got some sleep?'
'I'm fine.'
'Go home.'
'Are you kidding?' Sounding aghast.
'No. Go home. Sleep. No setting the alarm, either.'Then an idea struck him.'But stop by Sweetbriar Rose on the way, why don't you? They're having chicken. I heard it from a reliable source.'
'The Bushey girl - '
'I'll be checking on her in five minutes. What you're going to do is make like a bee and buzz.'
He closed his phone before she could protest again.
3
Big Jim Rennie felt remarkably good for a man "who had committed murder the night before. This was partially because he did not see it as murder, no more than he had seen the death of his late wife as murder. It was cancer that had taken her. Inoperable.Yes, he had probably given her too many of the pain pills over the last week, and in the end he'd still had to help her with a pillow over her face (but lightly, ever so lightly, slowing her breathing, easing her into the arms of Jesus), but he had done it out of love and kindness. What had happened to Reverend Coggins was a bit more brutal - admittedly - but the man had been so bullish. So completely unable to put the town's welfare ahead of his own.
'Well, he's eating dinner with Christ the Lord tonight,' Big Jim said.'Roast beef, mashed with gravy, apple crisp for dessert.' He himself was eating a large plate of fettuccini alfredo, courtesty of the Stouffer's company. A lot of cholesterol, he supposed, but there was no Dr Haskell around to nag him about it.
'I outlasted you, you old poop,' Big Jim told his empty study, and laughed goodnaturedly. His plate of pasta and a glass filled with milk (Big Jim Rennie did not drink alcohol) were set on his desk blotter. He often ate in the study, and he saw no need to change that simply because Lester Coggins had met his end here. Besides, the room was once more squared away and spandy-clean. Oh, he supposed one of those investigation units like the ones on TV would be able to find plenty of blood-spatter with their luminol and special lights and things, but none of those people was going to be here in the immediate future. As for Pete Randolph doing any sleuthing in the matter... the idea was a joke. Randolph was an idiot.
'But,' Big Jim told the empty room in a lecturely tone, 'he's my idiot.'
He slurped up the last few strands of pasta, mopped his considerable chin with a napkin, then once more began to jot notes on the yellow legal pad beside the blotter. He had jotted plenty of notes since Saturday; there was so much to do. And if the Dome stayed in place, there would be more still.
Big Jim sort of hoped it would remain in place, at least for a while. The Dome offered challenges to which he felt certain he could rise (with God's help, of course). The first order of business was to consolidate his hold on the town. For that he needed more than a scapegoat; he needed a bogeyman. The obvious choice was Barbara, the man the Democrat Party's Commie-in-Chief had tapped to replace James Rennie.
The study door opened. When Big Jim looked up from his notes, his son was standing there. His face was pale and expressionless.There was something not quite right about Junior lately. As busy as he was with the town's affairs (and their other enterprise; that had also kept him busy), Big Jim realized this. But he felt confident in the boy just the same. Even if Junior let him down, Big Jim was sure he could handle it. He'd spent a lifetime making his own luck; that wasn't going to change now.
Besides, the boy had moved the body. That made him part of this. Which was good - the essence of smalltown life, in fact. In a small town, everybody was supposed to be a part of everything. How did that silly song put it? We all support the team.
'Son?' he asked. 'All right?'
'I'm fine,' Junior said. He wasn't, but he was better, the latest poisonous headache finally lifting. Being with his girlfriends had helped, as he'd known it would. The McCain pantry didn't smell so good, but after he'd sat there awhile, holding their hands, he'd gotten used to it. He thought he could even come to like that smell.
'Did you find anything in his apartment?'
'Yes.' Junior told him what he had found.
'That's excellent, Son. Really excellent. And are you ready to tell me where you put the... where you put him?'
Junior shook his head slowly back and forth, but his eyes stayed in exactly the same place while he did it - pinned on his father's face. It was a little eerie. 'You don't need to know. I told you that. It's a safe place, and that's enough.'
'So now you're telling me what I need to know.' But he said it without his usual heat.
'In this case, yes.'
Big Jim considered his son carefully. 'Are you sure you're all right? You look pale.'
'I'm fine. Just a headache. It's going now.'
'Why not have something to eat? There are a few more fettuc-cinis in the freezer, and the microwave does a great job on them.' He smiled. 'Might as well enjoy them while we can.'