Under the Dome

Junior could picture the Castle County Sheriff or a state police detective saying, We only have to keep out of sight and wait, boys. The killer always revisits the scene of his crime. It's a well-known fact.

TV bullshit. Still, as he crossed the street (drawn, it seemed, by a force outside himself), Junior kept expecting spotlights to go on, pinning him like a butterfly on a piece of cardboard; kept expecting someone to shout—probably through a bullhorn: 'Stop where you are and get those hands in the air!'

Nothing happened.

When he reached the foot of the McCain driveway heart skittering in his chest and blood thumping in his temples (still no headache, though, and that was good, a good sign), the house remained dark and silent. Not even a generator roaring, although there was one at the Grmnells' next door.

Junior looked over his shoulder and saw a vast white bubble of light rising above the trees. Something at the south end of town, or perhaps over in Motton. The source of the accident that had killed the power? Probably.

He went to the back door.The front door would still be unlocked if no one had returned since Angie's accident, but he didn't want to go in the front. He would if he had to, but maybe he wouldn't. He was, after all, on a roll.

The doorknob turned.

Junior stuck his head into the kitchen and smelled the blood at once—an odor a little like spray starch, only gone stale. He said, 'Hi? Hello? Anybody home?'Almost positive there wasn't, but if someone was, if by some crazy chance Henry or LaDonna had parked over by the common and returned on foot (somehow missing their daughter lying dead on the kitchen floor), he would scream. Yes! Scream and 'discover the body.' That wouldn't do anything about the dreaded forensics van, but it would buy him a little time.

'Hello? Mr McCain? Mrs McCain?' And then, in a flash of inspiration: 'Angie? Are you home?'

Would he call her like that if he'd killed her? Of course not! But then a terrible thought lanced through him:What if she answered? Answered from where she was lying on the floor? Answered through a throatful of blood?

'Get a grip,' he muttered.Yes, he had to, but it was hard. Especially in the dark. Besides, in the Bible stuff like that happened all the time. In the Bible, people sometimes returned to life like the zombies in Night of the Living Dead.

'Anybody home?'

Zip. Nada.

His eyes had adjusted to the gloom, but not enough. He needed a light. He should've brought a flashlight from the house, but it was easy to forget stuff like that when you were used to just flipping a switch. Junior crossed the kitchen, stepping over Angie's body, and opened the first of two doors on the far side. It was a pantry. He could just make out the shelves of bottled and canned goods. He tried the other door and had better luck. It was the laundry. And unless he was mistaken about the shape of the thing standing on the shelf just to his right, he was still on a roll.

He wasn't mistaken. It was a flashlight, a nice bright one. He'd have to be careful about shining it around the kitchen—easing down the shades would be an excellent idea—but in the laundry room he could shine it around to his heart's content. In here he was fine.

Soap powder. Bleach. Fabric softener. A bucket and i Swiffer. Good. With no generator there'd only be cold water, but there would probably be enough to fill one bucket from the taps, and then, of course, there were the various toilet tanks. And cold was what he wanted. Cold for blood.

He would clean like the demon housekeeper his mother had once been, mindful of her husband's exhortation:'Clean house, clean hands, clean heart.' He would clean up the blood. Then he'd wipe everything he could remember touching and everything he might have touched without remembering. But first;…

The body. He had to do something with the body.

Junior decided the pantry would do for the time being. He dragged her in by the arms, then let them go: flump. After that he set to work. He sang under his breath as he first replaced the fridge magnets, then drew the shades. He had filled the bucket almost to the top before the faucet started spitting. Another bonus.

He was still scrubbing, the work well begun but nowriere near done, when the knock came at the front door.

Junior looked up, eyes wide, lips drawn back in a hunic rless grin of horror.

'Angie?' It was a girl, and she was sobbing.'Angie, are you there?' More knocking, and then the door opened. His roll, it seemed, was over. 'Angie, please be here. I saw your car in the garage…'

Shit. The garage! He never checked the fucking garage!

'Angie?' Sobbing again. Someone he knew. Oh God, was it that idiot Dodee Sanders? It was. 'Angie, she said my mom's dead! Mrs Shumway said that she died!

Junior hoped she'd go upstairs first, check Angie's room. But she came down the hall toward the kitchen instead, moving slowly and tentatively in the dark.

'Angie? Are you in the kitchen? I thought I saw a light.'