Under the Dome

All this in four days and change, Rusty marveled as Carter forced him down the hallway, staggering and bent almost double by the grip on his neck. His left hand was no longer a hand, only a bellowing chunk of pain below his wrist. Just four days and change.

He wondered if the leatherheads—whatever or whoever they might be—were enjoying the show.

10

It was late afternoon before Linda finally came across The Mill’s librarian. Lissa was biking back toward town along Route 117. She said she’d been talking to the sentries out at the Dome, trying to glean further information about Visitors Day.

“They’re not supposed to schmooze with the townies, but some will,” she said. “Especially if you leave the top three buttons on your blouse undone. That seems to be a real conversation-starter. With the Army guys, anyway. The Marines… I think I could take off all my clothes and dance the Macarena and they still wouldn’t say boo. Those boys seem immune to sex appeal.” She smiled. “Not that I’ll ever be mistaken for Kate Winslet.”

“Did you pick up any interesting gossip?”

“Nope.” Lissa was straddling her bike, and looking in at Linda through the passenger window. “They don’t know squat. But they’re awfully concerned about us; I was touched by that. And they’re hearing as many rumors as we are. One of them asked me if it was true that over a hundred people had committed suicide already.”

“Can you get in the car with me for a minute?”

Lissa’s smile broadened. “Am I being arrested?”

“There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Lissa put down the kickstand of her bike and got in, first moving Linda’s citation clipboard and a nonfunctioning radar gun out of the way. Linda told her about the clandestine visit to the funeral home and what they’d found there, then about the proposed meeting at the parsonage. Lissa’s response was immediate and vehement.

“I’ll be there—you just try to keep me away.”

The radio cleared its throat then, and Stacey came on. “Unit Four, Unit Four. Break-break-break.”

Linda grabbed the mike. It wasn’t Rusty she was thinking of; it was the girls. “This is Four, Stacey. Go.”

What Stacey Moggin said when she came back changed Linda’s unease to outright terror. “I’ve got something bad to tell you, Lin. I’d tell you to brace yourself, but I don’t think you can brace yourself for a thing like this. Rusty’s been arrested.”

“What?” Linda nearly screamed, but only to Lissa; she didn’t depress the SEND button on the side of the mike.

“They’ve put him downstairs in the Coop with Barbie. He’s all right, but it looks to me like he’s got a broken hand—he was holding it against his chest and it was all swollen.” She lowered her voice. “It happened resisting arrest, they said. Over.”

This time Linda remembered to key the mike. “I’ll be right there. Tell him I’m coming. Over.”

“I can’t,” Stacey said. “No one’s allowed down there anymore except for officers on a special list… and I’m not one of them. There’s a whole basket of charges, including attempted murder and accessory to murder. Take it easy coming back to town. You won’t be allowed to see him, so there’s no sense wrecking your shop on the way —”

Linda keyed the mike three times: break-break-break. Then she said, “I’ll see him, all right.”

But she didn’t. Chief Peter Randolph, looking freshly rested from his nap, met her at the top of the PD steps and told her he’d need her badge and gun; as Rusty’s wife, she was also under suspicion of undermining the lawful town government and fomenting insurrection.

Fine, she wanted to tell him. Arrest me, put me downstairs with my husband. But then she thought of the girls, who would be at Marta’s now, waiting to be picked up, wanting to tell her all about their day at school. She also thought of the meeting at the parsonage that night. She couldn’t attend that if she was in a cell, and the meeting was now more important than ever.

Because if they were going to break one prisoner out tomorrow night, why not two?

“Tell him I love him,” Linda said, unbuckling her belt and sliding the holster off it. She hadn’t really cared for the weight of the gun, anyway. Crossing the little ones on the way to school, and telling the middle-school kids to ditch both their cigarettes and their foul mouths… those things were more her forte.

“I will convey that message, Mrs. Everett.”

“Has anyone looked at his hand? I heard from someone that his hand might be broken.”

Randolph frowned. “Who told you that?”

“I don’t know who called me. He didn’t identify himself. It was one of our guys, I think, but the reception out there on 117 isn’t very good.”

Randolph considered this, decided not to pursue it. “Rusty’s hand is fine,” he said. “And our guys aren’t your guys anymore. Go on home. I’m sure we’ll have questions for you later.”

She felt tears and fought them back. “And what am I supposed to tell my girls? Am I supposed to tell them their daddy is in jail? You know Rusty’s one of the good guys; you know that. God, he was the one who diagnosed your hot gallbladder last year!”

“Can’t help you much there, Mrs. Everett,” Randolph said—his days of calling her Linda seemed to be behind him. “But I suggest you don’t tell them that Daddy conspired with Dale Barbara in the murder of Brenda Perkins and Lester Coggins—the others we’re not sure of, those were clearly sex crimes and Rusty may not have known about them.”

“That’s insane!”

Randolph might not have heard. “He also tried to kill Selectman Rennie by withholding vital medication. Luckily, Big Jim had the foresight to conceal a couple of officers nearby.” He shook his head. “Threatening to withhold lifesaving medication from a man who’s made himself sick caring for this town. That’s your good guy; that’s your goddam good guy.”

She was in trouble here, and knew it. She left before she could make it worse. The five hours before the meeting at the Congo parsonage stretched long before her. She could think of nowhere to go, nothing to do.

Then she did.

11

Rusty’s hand was far from fine. Even Barbie could see that, and there were three empty cells between them. “Rusty—anything I can do?”

Rusty managed a smile. “Not unless you’ve got a couple of aspirin you can toss me. Darvocet would be even better.”

“Fresh out. They didn’t give you anything?”

“No, but the pain’s down a bit. I’ll survive.” This talk was a good deal braver than he actually felt; the pain was very bad, and he was about to make it worse. “I’ve got to do something about these fingers, though.”

“Good luck.”

For a wonder, none of the fingers was broken, although a bone in his hand was. It was a metacarpal, the fifth. The only thing he could do about that was tear strips from his tee-shirt and use them as a splint. But first…

He grasped his left index finger, which was dislocated at the proximal interphalangeal joint. In the movies, this stuff always happened fast. Fast was dramatic. Unfortunately, fast could make things worse instead of better. He applied slow, steady, increasing pressure. The pain was gruesome; he felt it all the way up to the hinges of his jaw. He could hear the finger creaking like the hinge of a door that hasn’t been opened in a long time. Somewhere, both close by and in another country, he glimpsed Barbie standing at the door of his cell and watching.