Free Under the Dome: A Novel by Stephen King Page A

that was no collision. The plane wasn’t anywhere near the ground. I seen it. I was covering plants in case of frost, and I
seen
it.”
    “I did, too—” Rory began, and this time it was his brother Ollie who went up the backside of Rory’s head. Rory began to whine.
    Alden Dinsmore said, “It
hit
something. Same thing the truck hit. It’s there, you can touch it. That young fella—the cook—said there oughta be a no-fly zone out here, and he was right. But Mr. Rennie”—again pointing at Rennie like he thought he was a gosh-darnPerry Mason instead of a fellow who earned his daily bread attaching suction cups to cows’ tiddies—“wouldn’t even
talk.
Just hung up.”
    Rennie did not stoop to rebuttal. “You’re wasting time,” he told Randolph. Moving a little closer and speaking just above a whisper, he added: “The Chief’s coming. My advice would be to look sharp and control this scene before he gets here.” He cast a cold momentary eye on the farmer. “You can interview the witnesses later.”
    But—maddeningly—it was Alden Dinsmore who got the last word. “That fella Barber was right. He was right and Rennie was wrong.”
    Rennie marked Alden Dinsmore for later action. Sooner or later, farmers always came to the Selectmen with their hats in their hands—wanting an easement, a zoning exception, something—and when Mr. Dinsmore next showed up, he would find little comfort, if Rennie had anything to say about it. And he usually did.
    “Control this scene!” he told Randolph.
    “Jackie, move those people back,” the Assistant Chief said, pointing toward the lookie-loos on the pulp-truck side of the accident. “Establish a perimeter.”
    “Sir, I think those folks are actually in Motton—”
    “I don’t care, move them back.” Randolph glanced over his shoulder to where Duke Perkins was working his way out of the green Chief’s car—a car Randolph longed to see in his own driveway. And would, with Big Jim Rennie’s help. In another three years at the very latest. “Castle Rock PD’ll thank you when they get here, believe me.”
    “What about …” She pointed at the smoke-smudge, which was still spreading. Seen through it, the October-colorful trees looked a uniform dark gray, and the sky was an unhealthy shade of yellowy-blue.
    “Stay clear of it,” Randolph said, then went to help Hank Morrison establish the perimeter on the Chester’s Mill side. But first he needed to bring Perk up to speed.
    Jackie approached the people on the pulp-truck side. The crowd over there was growing all the time as the early arrivers worked their cell phones. Some had stamped out little fires in the bushes, whichwas good, but now they were just standing around, gawking. She used the same shooing gestures Hank was employing on The Mill side, and chanted the same mantra.
    “Get back, folks, it’s all over, nothing to see you haven’t seen already, clear the road for the firetrucks and the police, get back, clear the area, go home, get ba—”
    She hit something. Rennie had no idea what it was, but he could see the result. The brim of her hat collided with it first. It bent, and the hat tumbled off behind her. An instant later those insolent tiddies of hers—a couple of cotton-picking gunshells was what they were—flattened. Then her nose squashed and gave up a jet of blood that splattered against something … and began to run down in long drips, like paint on a wall. She went on her well-padded ass with an expression of shock on her face.
    The goddarn farmer stuck his oar in then: “See? What’d I tell you?”
    Randolph and Morrison hadn’t seen. Neither had Perkins; the three of them were conferring together by the hood of the Chief’s car. Rennie briefly considered going to Wettington, but others were doing that, and besides—she was still a little too close to whatever it was she’d run into. He hurried toward the men instead, set face and big hard belly projecting get-’er-done