24
Barbie sat up on the bunk. On the other side of the bars stood Jackie Wettington with a white plastic bowl in one hand. Behind her, Linda Everett had her gun drawn and held in a double fist, pointing at the floor. Carter Thibodeau was last in line at the foot of the stairs with his hair in sleep-spikes and his blue uniform shirt unbuttoned to show the bandage covering the dogbite on his shoulder.
“Hello, Officer Wettington,” Barbie said. Thin white light was creeping in through his slit of a window. It was the kind of first light that makes life seem like the joke of jokes. “I’m innocent of all accusations. I can’t call them charges, because I haven’t been—”
“Shut up,” Linda said from behind her. “We’re not interested.”
“Tell it, Blondie,” Carter said. “You go, girl.” He yawned and scratched at the bandage.
“Sit right there,” Jackie said. “Don’t you move a muscle.” Barbie sat. She pushed the plastic bowl through the bars. It was small, and just fit.
He picked up the bowl. It was filled with what looked like Special K. Spit gleamed on top of the dry cereal. Something else as well: a large green booger, damp and threaded with blood. And still his stomach rumbled. He was very hungry.
He was also hurt, in spite of himself. Because he’d thought Jackie Wettington, whom he had spotted as ex- military the first time he saw her (it was partly the haircut, mostly her way of carrying herself), was better than this. It had been easy to deal with Henry Morrison’s disgust. This was harder. And the other woman cop—the one married to Rusty Everett—was looking at him as if he were some rare species of stinging bug. He had hoped at least some of the department’s regular officers—
“Eat up,” Thibodeau called from his place on the steps. “We fixed it nice for you. Didn’t we, girls?”
“We did,” Linda agreed. The corners of her mouth twitched down. It was little more than a tic, but Barbie’s heart lightened. He thought she was faking. Maybe that was hoping for too much, but—
She moved slightly, blocking Thibodeau’s line of sight to Jackie with her body… although there was no real need. Thibodeau was otherwise occupied with trying to peek under the edge of his bandage.
Jackie glanced back to make sure she was clear, then pointed to the bowl, turned her hands up, and raised her eyebrows:
He nodded.
“Enjoy it, fuckstick,” Jackie said. “We’ll get you something better at noon. I’m thinking pissburger.”
From the stairs, where he was now picking at the edges of the bandage, Thibodeau gave a bark of laughter.
“If you’ve got any teeth left to eat it with,” Linda said.
Barbie wished she had kept silent. She didn’t sound sadistic, or even angry. She only sounded scared, a woman who wished to be anywhere but here. Thibodeau, however, didn’t seem to notice. He was still investigating the state of his shoulder.
“Come on,” Jackie said. “I don’t want to watch him eat.”
“That wet enough for you?” Thibodeau asked. He stood up as the women came down the corridor between the cells to the stairs, Linda reholstering her weapon. “Cause if it’s not…” He hawked back phlegm.
“I’ll make do,” Barbie said.
“Course you will,” Thibodeau said. “For a while. Then you won’t.”
They went up the stairs. Thibodeau went last, and gave Jackie a whack on the butt. She laughed and slapped at him. She was good, a lot better than the Everett woman. But they had both just shown plenty of guts.
Barbie picked the booger off the Special K and flicked it toward the corner he’d pissed in. He wiped his hands on his shirt. Then he began to dig down through the cereal. At the bottom, his fingers found a slip of paper.
Barbie did.
25
An hour after he ate the note and then the cereal, heavy footsteps slowly descended the stairs. It was Big Jim Rennie, already dressed in a suit and a tie for another day of under-the-Dome administration. He was followed by Carter Thibodeau and another fellow—a Killian, judging by the shape of his head. The Killian boy was carrying a chair, and making difficulties with it; he was what old-time Yankees would have called “a gormy lad.” He handed the chair to Thibodeau, who placed it in front of the cell at the end of the corridor.
Rennie sat down, delicately tweezing his pantslegs first to preserve the crease.
“Good morning, Mr. Barbara.” There was a slight, satisfied emphasis on the civilian title.
“Selectman Rennie,” Barbie said. “What can I do for you besides give you my name, rank, and serial number… which I’m not sure I remember?”
“Confess. Save us some trouble and soothe your own soul.”
“Mr. Searles mentioned something last night about waterboarding,” Barbie said. “He asked me if I’d ever seen it in Iraq.”
Rennie’s mouth was pursed in a slight smile that seemed to say
“In fact, I did. I have no idea how often the technique was actually used in the field—reports varied—but I saw it twice. One of the men confessed, although his confession was worthless. The man he named as an Al Qaeda bombmaker turned out to be a school-teacher who’d left Iraq for Kuwait fourteen months previous. The other man had a convulsion and suffered brain damage, so there was no confession from him. Had he been capable, though, I’m sure he would have given one.
“Then save yourself some grief,” Big Jim said.
“You look tired, sir. Are you well?”
The tiny smile was replaced by a tiny frown. It emanated from the deep crease between Rennie’s eyebrows. “My current condition is none of your concern. A word of advice, Mr. Barbara. Don’t bullspit me and I won’t bullspit you. What you should be concerned about is your own condition. It may be fine now, but that could change. In a matter of minutes. You see, I am indeed thinking of having you waterboarded. Am, in fact, seriously considering it. So confess to these murders. Save yourself a lot of pain and trouble.”
“I think not. And if you waterboard me, I’m apt to talk about all sorts of things. Probably ought to keep that in mind when you decide who you want in the room when I start talking.”
Rennie considered this. Although he was neatly put together, especially for such an early hour, his complexion was sallow and his small eyes were rimmed with purple flesh-like bruises. He really did not look well. If Big Jim just dropped dead, Barbie could see two possible results. One was that the ugly political weather in The Mill would clear without spawning any further tornadoes. The other was a chaotic bloodbath in which Barbie’s own death (quite likely by lynching rather than firing squad), would be followed by a purge of his suspected co- conspirators. Julia might be first on that list. And Rose could be number two; frightened people were great believers in guilt by association.
Rennie turned to Thibodeau. “Step back, Carter. All the way to the stairs, if you please.”
“But if he makes a grab for you—”
“Then you’d kill him. And he knows it. Don’t you, Mr. Barbara?”
Barbie nodded.
“Besides, I’m not getting any closer than this. Which is why I want you to step back. We’re having a private
