CLAPPING and BOARDS CREAKING.
The door opens. LINOGE conies in, followed by MIKE and HATCH. LINOGE moves toward the cell, then stops as a PARTICULARLY HARD GUST OF WIND strikes the building and makes it shudder.
Snow puffs in under the loading dock door.
HATCH I don't like the sound of that.
MIKE
Move, Mr. Linoge.
As they pass the desk, MIKE puts down the box of plastic bags and picks up a large combination padlock. From his pocket he takes his key ring, looking ruefully at the busted-off loading door key for a second. He hands the keys and the combination lock to HATCH. He also swaps weapons, giving HATCH his pistol and taking the shotgun. As they reach the cell: 85
MIKE Put your hands up and grab a couple of bars.
(LINOGE does) Now spread your legs.
(LINOGE does) Wider.
(LINOGE does)
I'm going to pat you down, and if you move, my good friend Alton Hatcher is going to save us all a lot of wear and tear.
HATCH gulps, but points the pistol. MIKE sets the shotgun aside.
MIKE
Don't even twitch, Mr. Linoge. You had your filthy hands on my son, so don't you so much as twitch.
MIKE reaches into the pockets of LINOGE'S pea coat and brings out the YELLOW GLOVES. They are BLOTCHED AND STAINED with MARTHA'S blood. MIKE grimaces with distaste and tosses them onto the desk. He rummages in the jacket pockets some more and finds nothing. He reaches into the front pockets of LINOGE'S jeans and pulls them inside out. They're empty. Checks the back pockets. Nothing but a few lint balls. He takes off LINOGE'S watch cap and looks inside it. Nothing.
He tosses it on the desk with the gloves.
MIKE Where's your wallet?
(nothing from LINOGE) Where's your wallet, huh?
MIKE slaps LINOGE twice on the shoulder, first time sorta friendly, second time sorta hard. Still no response.
MIKE Huh?
HATCH
(uneasy) Mike, take it easy.
MIKE
Guy had his hands on my son, had his face right down in my son's face; guy kissed my son's nose don't tell me to take it easy. Where's your wallet, sir?
MIKE shoves LINOGE, hard. LINOGE crashes into the bars of the cell, but keeps his high grip on the home-welded bars and his legs spread.
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MIKE
Where's your wallet? Where's your bank card? Where's your blood-donor card? Where's your discount card from ValuMart? What sewer did you crawl through to get here? Huh? Answer me!
All his frustration, anger, fear, and humiliation are on the verge of coming out. He grabs LINOGE
by the hair and SLAMS HIS FACE INTO THE BARS.
MIKE
Where's your wallet?
HATCH
Mike
MIKE SLAMS LINOGE'S FACE INTO THE BARS AGAIN. He'd do it again, too, but HATCH reaches out and grabs his arm.
HATCH
Mike, stop it!
MIKE stops, takes a deep breath, and somehow gets hold of himself. Outside the WIND GUSTS, and we hear the FAINT SOUND OF CRASHING WAVES.
MIKE
(he's breathing hard) Take off your boots.
LINOGE
I'll have to let go of the bars to do that. They lace up.
MIKE kneels. He grabs the shotgun. He props the stock against the floor and plants the barrels dead center in the seat of LINOGE'S jeans.
MIKE
If you move, sir, you'll never have to worry about constipation again.
HATCH looks more and more scared. This is a side of MIKE he's never seen (and could have done without). MIKE, meanwhile, unties LINOGE'S boots and loosens the laces. Then he stands up, takes 87
the shotgun, and stands back.
MIKE
Kick them off.
LINOGE kicks them off. MIKE nods to HATCH, who bends down (keeping a skittery eye on LINOGE as he does) and picks them up. HATCH feels inside them, then shakes them.
HATCH
Nothing.
MIKE Toss them over by the desk.
HATCH does.
MIKE
Step into the cell, Mr. Linoge. Move slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.
LINOGE opens the door of the cell and swings it back and forth a time or two before going in. The door SQUEAKS, and doesn't hang quite true when it's all the way open. LINOGE touches a couple of the home welds with the ball of one finger, and smiles.
MIKE You think it won't hold you? It'll hold you.
Yet MIKE doesn't look entirely sure, and HATCH looks even more doubtful. LINOGE steps in, crosses the cell, and sits down facing the door. He draws his legs up so that the heels of his stocking feet (white athletic socks) are on the edge of the cot and he is looking at us from between his bent knees. We will see him in this same posture for some little time, now. His hands dangle limply. He wears a trace of a smile. If we saw a guy looking at us this way, we'd probably run. It's that caged-tiger look very still and watchful, but full of pent-up violence.
MIKE closes the cell door, and HATCH uses a key from the ring to lock it. With that done, he shakes the door. It's locked, but he and MIKE share an unhappy glance, just the same. That door is as rattly the last tooth in an old man's jaw. The cell is for the likes of SONNY BRAUTIGAN, who has a nasty habit of getting drunk and breaking the windows in his ex-wife's house with stones . . . not for a stranger with no ID who beat an old widow to death.
MIKE crosses to the loading dock door, looks at the dead bolt, then tries the knob. The door opens easily, letting in a FRIGID GASP OF WIND and a SWIRL OF SNOW. HATCH'S mouth drops open.
88
HATCH Mike, I swear it wouldn't budge.
MIKE closes the door. As he finishes doing that, ROBBIE BEALS comes in. He crosses to the desk and reaches for one of the gloves.
MIKE Don't touch that!
ROBBIE
(draws his hand back) Does he have any ID on him?
MIKE I want you out of here.
ROBBIE picks up the joke sign and shakes it at MIKE.
ROBBIE
I want to tell you something, Anderson: your sense of humor is entirely HATCH, who actually put that sign around the dummy's neck, looks embarrassed. Neither of the other men notice. MIKE snatches the damned thing out of ROBBIE'S hand and dumps it in the wastebasket.
MIKE
I don't have the time or the patience for this. Get out or I'll throw you out.
ROBBIE looks at him and sees that MIKE absolutely means it. ROBBIE backs toward the door.
ROBBIE
Come town meeting, there's maybe going to be a change in law
