Under the Dome

'They've put him downstairs in the Coop with Barbie. He's all right, jbut 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 dp?'

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.'

'pood 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 insteajd 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.

Then, suddenly, the finger was magically straight again and the pain was less. In that one, anyway. He sat down on the bunk, gasping like a man who has just run a race.

'Done?' Barbie asked.