MISSILE STRIKE IMMINENT 14 page

By the time they reached the foot of this path, the needle in the COUNTS PER SECOND window stood between +5 and +10. Beyond +10, the meter’s calibration rose steeply to +500 and then to +1000. The top end of the dial was marked in red. The needle was miles below that, but Joe was pretty sure its current position indicated more than just a background count.

Benny was looking at the faintly quivering needle, but Joe was looking at Norrie.

“What were you thinking about?” he asked her. “Don’t be afraid to spill it, because it doesn’t seem like such a stupid idea, after all.”

“No,” Benny agreed. He tapped the COUNTS PER SECOND window. The needle jumped, then settled back to +7 or 8.

“I was thinking a generator and a transmitter are practically the same thing,” Norrie said. “And a transmitter doesn’t have to be in the middle, just high up.”

“The CIK tower isn’t,” Benny said. “Just sits in a clearing, pumpin out the Jesus. I’ve seen it.”

“Yeah, but that thing’s, like, super-powerful,” Norrie replied. “My Dad said it’s a hundred thousand watts, or something. Maybe what we’re looking for has a shorter range. So then I thought, ‘What’s the highest part of the town?’”

“Black Ridge,” Joe said.

“Black Ridge,” she agreed, and held up a small fist.

Joe bumped her, then pointed. “That way, two miles. Maybe three.” He turned the Geiger-Müller tube in that direction and they all watched, fascinated, as the needle rose to +10.

“I’ll be fucked,” Benny said.

“Maybe when you’re forty,” Norrie said. Tough as ever … but blushing. Just a little.

“There’s an old orchard out on the Black Ridge Road,” Joe said. “You can see the whole Mill from it—TR­90, too. That’s what my dad says, anyway. It could be there. Norrie, you’re a genius.” He didn’t have to wait for her to kiss him, after all. He did the honors, although daring no more than the corner of her mouth.

She looked pleased, but there was still a frown line between her eyes. “It might not mean anything. The needle’s not exactly going crazy. Can we go out there on our bikes?”

“Sure!” Joe said.

“After lunch,” Benny added. He thought of himself as the practical one.

While Joe, Benny, and Norrie were eating lunch at the McClatchey house (it was indeed chop suey) and Rusty Everett, assisted by Barbie and the two teenage girls, were treating supermarket-riot casualties at Cathy Russell, Big Jim Rennie sat in his study, going over a list and checking off items.

He saw his Hummer roll back up the driveway, and checked off another item: Brenda dropped off with the others. He thought he was ready—as ready as he could be, anyway. And even if the Dome disappeared this afternoon, he thought his butt was covered.

Junior came in and dropped the Hummer’s keys on Big Jim’s desk. He was pale and needed a shave worse than ever, but he no longer looked like death on a cracker. His left eye was red, but not flaming.

“All set, Son?”

Junior nodded. “Are we going to jail?” He spoke with an almost disinterested curiosity.

“No,” Big Jim said. The idea that he might go to jail had never crossed his mind, not even when the Perkins witch had shown up here and started making her accusations. He smiled. “But Dale Barbara is.”

“No one’s going to believe he killed Brenda Perkins.”

Big Jim continued to smile. “They will. They’re frightened, and they will. It’s how these things work.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’m a student of history. You ought to try it sometime.” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Junior why he had left Bowdoin—had he quit, flunked out, or been asked to leave? But this wasn’t the time or the place. Instead he asked his son if he was up to one more errand.

Junior rubbed at his temple. “I guess. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“You’ll need help. You could take Frank, I suppose, but I’d prefer the Thibodeau lad, if he’s able to move around today. Not Sear-les, though. A good fellow, but stupid.”

Junior said nothing. Big Jim wondered again what was wrong with the boy. But did he really want to know? Perhaps when this crisis was over. In the meantime, he had many pots and skillets on the stove, and dinner would be served soon.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Let me check one thing first.” Big Jim picked up his cell. Each time he did this, he expected to find it as useless as tits on a bull, but it was still working. At least for in-town calls, which was all he cared about. He selected PD. It rang three times at the cop-shop before Stacey Moggin picked up. She sounded harried, not at all like her usual businesslike self. Big Jim wasn’t surprised by that, given the morning’s festivities; he could hear quite an uproar in the background.

“Police,” she said. “If this isn’t an emergency, please hang up and call back later. We’re awfully bus—”

“It’s Jim Rennie, hon.” He knew that Stacey hated being called hon. Which was why he did it. “Put on the Chief. Chop-chop.”

“He’s trying to break up a fistfight in front of the main desk right now,” she said. “Maybe you could call back la—”

“No, I can’t call back later,” Big Jim said. “Do you think I’d be calling if this wasn’t important? Just go over there, hon, and Mace the most aggressive one. Then you send Pete into his office to—”

She didn’t let him finish, and she didn’t put him on hold, either. The phone hit the desk with a clunk. Big Jim was not put out of countenance; when he was getting under somebody’s skin, he liked to know it. In the far distance, he heard someone call someone else a thieving sonofabitch. This made him smile.

A moment later he was put on hold, Stacey not bothering to inform him. Big Jim listened to McGruff the Crime Dog for awhile. Then the phone was picked up. It was Randolph, sounding out of breath.

“Talk fast, Jim, because this place is a madhouse. The ones who didn’t go to the hospital with broken ribs or something are mad as hornets. Everybody’s blaming everybody else. I’m trying to keep from filling up the

cells downstairs, but it’s like half of them want to go there.”

“Does increasing the size of the police force sound like a better idea to you today, Chief?”

“Christ, yes. We took a beating. I’ve got one of the new officers—that Roux girl—up to the hospital with the whole lower half of her face broken. She looks like the Bride of Frankenstein.”

Big Jim’s smile widened to a grin. Sam Verdreaux had come through. But of course that was another thing about feeling it ; when you did have to pass the ball, on those infrequent occasions when you couldn’t shoot it yourself, you always passed it to the right person.

“Someone nailed her with a rock. Mel Searles, too. He was knocked out for a while, but he seems to be all right now. It’s ugly, though. I sent him to the hospital to get patched up.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” Big Jim said.

“Someone was targeting my officers. More than one someone, I think. Big Jim, can we really get more volunteers?”

“I think you’ll find plenty of willing recruits among the upstanding young people of this town,” Big Jim said. “In fact, I know several from the Holy Redeemer congregation. The Killian boys, for instance.”

“Jim, the Killian boys are dumber than Crackerjacks.”

“I know, but they’re strong and they’ll take orders.” He paused. “Also, they can shoot.”

“Are we going to arm the new police?” Randolph sounded doubtful and hopeful at the same time.

“After what happened today? Of course. I was thinking ten or a dozen good trustworthy young people to start with. Frank and Junior can help pick them out. And we’ll need more if this thing isn’t sorted out by next week. Pay em in scrip. Give em first dibs on supplies, when and if rationing starts. Them and their families.”

“Okay. Send Junior down, will you? Frank’s here, and so’s Thibodeau. He got banged around some at the market and he had to get the bandage on his shoulder changed, but he’s pretty much good to go.” Randolph lowered his voice. “He said Barbara changed the bandage. Did a good job, too.”

“That’s ducky, but our Mr. Barbara won’t be changing bandages for long. And I’ve got another job for Junior. Officer Thibodeau, too. Send him up here.”

“What for?”

“If you needed to know, I’d tell you. Just send him up. Junior and Frank can make a list of possible new recruits later on.”

“Well … if you say s—”

Randolph was interrupted by a fresh uproar. Something either fell over or was thrown. There was a crash as something else shattered.

“Break that up!” Randolph roared.

Smiling, Big Jim held the phone away from his ear. He could hear perfectly well, just the same.

“Get those two … not those two, you idiot, the OTHER two…. NO, I don’t want em arrested! I want em the hell out of here! On their asses, if they won’t go any other way!”

A moment later he was speaking to Big Jim again. “Remind me why I wanted this job, because I’m starting to forget.”

“It’ll sort itself out,” Big Jim soothed. “You’ll have five new bodies by tomorrow—fresh young bucks—and another five by Thursday. Another five at least. Now send young Thibodeau up here. And make sure that cell at the far end downstairs is ready for a fresh occupant. Mr. Barbara will be using it as of this afternoon.”

“On what charge?”

“How about four counts of murder, plus inciting a riot at the local supermarket? Will that do?”

He hung up before Randolph could reply.

“What do you want me and Carter to do?” Junior asked.

“This afternoon? First, a little reconnaissance and planning. I’ll assist with the planning. Then you take part in arresting Barbara. You’ll enjoy that, I think.”

“Yes I will.”

“Once Barbara’s in the jug, you and Officer Thibodeau should eat a good supper, because your real job’s tonight.”

“What?”

“Burning down the Democrat office—how does that sound?”

Junior’s eyes widened. “Why?”

That his son had to ask was a disappointment. “Because, for the immediate future, having a newspaper is not in the town’s best interest. Any objections?” “Dad—has it ever occurred to you that you might be crazy? ” Big Jim nodded. “Like a fox,” he said.

“All the times I’ve been in this room,” Ginny Tomlinson said in her new foggy voice, “and I never once imagined myself on the table.”

“Even if you had, you probably wouldn’t have imagined being worked on by the guy who serves you your morning steak and eggs.” Barbie tried to keep it light, but he’d been patching and bandaging since arriving at Cathy Russell on the ambulance’s first run, and he was tired. A lot of that, he suspected, was stress: he was scared to death of making someone worse instead of better. He could see the same worry on the faces of Gina Buffalino and Harriet Bigelow, and they didn’t have the Jim Rennie clock ticking in their heads to make things worse.

“I think it will be awhile before I’m capable of eating another steak,” Ginny said.

Rusty had set her nose before seeing any of the other patients. Barbie had assisted, holding the sides of her head as gently as he could and murmuring encouragement. Rusty plugged her nostrils with gauze soaked in medicinal cocaine. He gave the anesthetic ten minutes to work (using the time to treat a badly sprained wrist and put an elastic bandage on an obese woman’s swollen knee), then tweezed out the gauze strips and grabbed a scalpel. The PA was admirably quick. Before Barbie could tell Ginny to say wishbone, Rusty had slid the scalpel’s handle up the clearer of her nostrils, braced it against her septum, and used it as a lever.

Like a man prying off a hubcap, Barbie had thought, listening to the small but perfectly audible crunch as Ginny’s nose came back to something approximating its normal position. She didn’t scream, but her fingernails tore holes in the paper covering the examination table, and tears poured down her cheeks.

She was calm now—Rusty had given her a couple of Percocets—but tears were still leaking from her less swollen eye. Her cheeks were a puffy purple. Barbie thought she looked a little like Rocky Balboa after the Apollo Creed fight.

“Look on the bright side,” he said.

“Is there one?”

“Definitely. The Roux girl is looking at a month of soup and milkshakes.”

“Georgia? I heard she took a hit. How bad?”

“She’ll live, but it’s going to be a long time before she’s pretty.”

“That one was never going to be Miss Apple Blossom.” And, in a lower voice: “Was it her screaming?”

Barbie nodded. Georgia’s yowls had filled the whole hospital, it seemed. “Rusty gave her morphine, but she didn’t go down for a long time. She must have the constitution of a horse.”

“And the conscience of an alligator,” Ginny added in her foggy voice. “I wouldn’t wish what happened to her on anybody, but it’s still a damned good argument for karmic retribution. How long have I been here? My darn watch is broken.”

Barbie glanced at his own. “It’s now fourteen thirty. So I guess that puts you about five and a half hours on the road to recovery.” He twisted at the hips, heard his back crackle, and felt it loosen up a little. He decided Tom Petty was right: the waiting was the hardest part. He reckoned he would feel easier once he was actually in a cell. Unless he was dead. It had crossed his mind that it might be convenient for him to be killed while resisting arrest.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He held up a set of tweezers. “Now be quiet and let me do this. Soonest begun, soonest done.”

“I ought to get up and pitch in.”

“If you try it, the only pitching you’ll do will be straight down to the floor.”

She looked at the tweezers. “Do you know what you’re doing with those?”

“You bet. I won a gold medal in Olympic Glass Removal.”

“Your bullshit quotient is even higher than my ex-husband’s.” She was smiling a little. Barbie guessed it hurt her, even with painkillers on board, and he liked her for it.

“You’re not going to be one of those tiresome medical people who turns into a tyrant when it’s her turn for treatment, are you?” he asked.

“That was Dr. Haskell. He ran a big splinter under his thumbnail once, and when Rusty offered to take it out, The Wiz said he wanted a specialist.” She laughed, then winced, then groaned.

“If it makes you feel any better, the cop who punched you took a rock in the head.”

“More karma. Is he up and around?”

“Yep.” Mel Searles had walked out of the hospital two hours ago with a bandage wrapped around his head.

When Barbie bent toward her with the tweezers, she instinctively turned her head away. He turned it back, pressing his hand—very gently—against the cheek that was less swollen.

“I know you have to,” she said. “I’m just a baby about my eyes.”

“Given how hard he hit you, you’re lucky the glass is around them instead of in them.”

“I know. Just don’t hurt me, okay?”

“Okay,” he said. “You’ll be on your feet in no time, Ginny. I’ll make this quick.”

He wiped his hands to make sure they were dry (he hadn’t wanted the gloves, didn’t trust his grip in them), then bent closer. There were maybe half a dozen small splinters of broken spectacle-lens peppered in her brows and around her eyes, but the one he was worried about was a tiny dagger just below the corner of her left eye. Barbie was sure Rusty would have taken it out himself if he’d seen it, but he had been concentrating on her nose.

Do it quick, he thought. He who hesitates is usually fucked.

He tweezed the shard out and dropped it into a plastic basin on the counter. A tiny seed-pearl of blood welled up where it had been. He let out his breath. “Okay. Nothing to the rest of these. Smooth sailing.”

“From your lips to God’s ear,” Ginny said.

He had just removed the last of the splinters when Rusty opened the door of the exam room and told Barbie he could use a little help. The PA was holding a tin Sucrets box in one hand.

“Help with what?”

“A hemorrhoid that walks like a man,” Rusty said. “This anal sore wants to leave with his ill-gotten gains. Under normal circumstances I’d be delighted to see his miserable backside going out the door, but right now I might be able to use him.”

“Ginny?” Barbie asked. “You okay?”

She made a waving gesture at the door. He had reached it, following after Rusty, when she called, “Hey, handsome.” He turned back and she blew him a kiss.

Barbie caught it.

There was only one dentist in Chester’s Mill. His name was Joe Boxer. His office was at the end of Strout Lane, where his dental suite offered a scenic view of Prestile Stream and the Peace Bridge. Which was nice if you were sitting up. Most visitors to said suite were in the reclining position, with nothing to look at but several dozen pictures of Joe Boxer’s Chihuahua pasted on the ceiling.

“In one of them, the goddam dog looks like he’s unloading,” Dougie Twitchell told Rusty after one visit. “Maybe it’s just the way that kind of dog sits down, but I don’t think so. I think I spent half an hour looking at a dishrag with eyes take a shit while The Box dug two wisdom teeth out of my jaw. With a screwdriver, it felt like.”

The shingle hung outside Dr. Boxer’s office looked like a pair of basketball shorts large enough to fit a fairy-tale giant. They were painted a gaudy green and gold—the colors of the Mills Wildcats. The sign read JOSEPH BOXER, DDS. And, below that: BOXER IS BRIEF!And he was fairly speedy, everyone agreed, but he recognized no medical plans and accepted only cash. If a pulpcutter walked in with his gums suppurating and his cheeks puffed out like those of a squirrel with a mouthful of nuts and started talking about his dental insurance, Boxer would tell him to get the money from Anthem or Blue Cross or whoever and then come back to see him.

A little competition in town might have forced him to soften these Draconian policies, but the half a dozen who’d tried to make a go of it in The Mill since the early nineties had given up. There was speculation that Joe Boxer’s good friend Jim Rennie might have had something to do with the paucity of competition, but no proof. Meantime, Boxer might be seen on any given day cruising around in his Porsche, with its bumper sticker reading MY OTHER CAR IS ALSO A PORSCHE!

As Rusty came down the hall with Barbie trailing after, Boxer was heading for the main doors. Or trying to; Twitch had him by the arm. Hung from Dr. Boxer’s other arm was a basket filled with Eggo waffles. Nothing else; just packages and packages of Eggos. Barbie wondered—not for the first time—if maybe he was lying in the ditch that ran behind Dipper’s parking lot, beaten to a pulp and having a terrible brain­damaged dream.

“I’m not staying!” Boxer yapped. “I have to get these home to the freezer! What you’re proposing has almost no chance of working, anyway, so take your hands off me.”

Barbie observed the butterfly bandage bisecting one of Boxer’s eyebrows and the larger bandage on his right forearm. The dentist had fought the good fight for his frozen waffles, it seemed.

“Tell this goon to take his hands off me,” he said when he saw Rusty. “I’ve been treated, and now I’m going home.”

“Not just yet,” Rusty said. “You were treated gratis, and I expect you to pay that forward.”

Boxer was a little guy, no more than five-four, but he drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. “Expect and be damned. I hardly see oral surgery—which the State of Maine hasn’t certified me to do, by the way—as a quid pro quo for a couple of bandages. I work for a living, Everett, and I expect to be paid for my work.”

“You’ll be paid back in heaven,” Barbie said. “Isn’t that what your friend Rennie would say?”

“He has nothing to do with th—”

Barbie took a step closer and peered into Boxer’s green plastic shopping basket. The words PROPERTY OF FOOD CITYwere printed on the handle. Boxer tried, with no great success, to shield the basket from him.

“Speaking of payment, did you pay for those waffles?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Everybody was taking everything. All I took were these.” He looked at Barbie defiantly. “I have a very large freezer, and I happen to enjoy waffles.”

“ ‘Everyone was taking everything’ won’t be much of a defense if you’re charged with looting,” Barbie said mildly.

It was impossible for Boxer to draw himself up any further, and yet somehow he did. His face was so red it was almost purple. “Then take me to court! What court? Case closed! Ha!”

He started to turn away again. Barbie reached out and grabbed him, not by the arm but by the basket. “I’ll just confiscate this, then, shall I?”

“You can’t do that!”

“No? Take me to court, then.” Barbie smiled. “Oh, I forgot—what court?”

Dr. Boxer glared at him, lips drawn back to show the tips of tiny perfect teeth.

“We’ll just toast those old waffles up in the caff,” Rusty said. “Yum! Tasty!”

“Yeah, while we’ve still got some electricity to toast em with,” Twitch muttered. “After that we can poke em on forks and cook em over the incinerator out back.”

“You can’t do this!”

Barbie said, “Let me be perfectly clear: unless you do whatever it is Rusty wants you to do, I have no intention of letting go your Eggos.”

Chaz Bender, who had a Band-Aid on the bridge of his nose and another on the side of his neck, laughed. Not very kindly. “Pay up, Doc!” he called. “Isn’t that what you always say?”

Boxer turned his glare first on Bender, then on Rusty. “What you want has almost no chance of working. You must know that.”

Rusty opened the Sucrets box and held it out. Inside were six teeth. “Torie McDonald picked these up outside the supermarket. She got down on her knees and grubbed through puddles of Georgia Roux’s blood to find them. And if you want to have Eggos for breakfast in the near future, Doc, you’re going to put them back in Georgia’s head.”

“And if I just walk away?”

Chaz Bender, the history teacher, took a step forward. His fists were clenched. “In that case, my mercenary friend, I’ll beat the shit out of you in the parking lot.”

“I’ll help,” Twitch said.

“I won’t help,” Barbie said, “but I’ll watch.”

There was laughter and some applause. Barbie felt simultaneously amused and sick to his stomach.

Boxer’s shoulders slumped. All at once he was just a little man caught in a situation too big for him. He took the Sucrets box, then looked at Rusty. “An oral surgeon working under optimum conditions might be able to reimplant these teeth, and they might actually root, although he would be careful to give the patient no guarantees. If I do it, she’ll be lucky to get back one or two. She’s more likely to pull them down her windpipe and choke on them.”

A stocky woman with a lot of flaming red hair shouldered Chaz Bender aside. “I’ll sit with her and make sure that doesn’t happen. I’m her mother.”

Dr. Boxer sighed. “Is she unconscious?”

Before he could get any further, two Chester’s Mill police units, one of them the green Chief’s car, pulled up in the turnaround. Freddy Denton, Junior Rennie, Frank DeLesseps, and Carter Thibodeau got out of the lead car. Chief Randolph and Jackie Wetting-ton emerged from the Chief’s car. Rusty’s wife got out of the back. All were armed, and as they approached the main doors of the hospital, they drew their weapons.

The little crowd that had been watching the confrontation with Joe Boxer murmured and drew back, some in its number undoubtedly expecting to be arrested for theft.

Barbie turned to Rusty Everett. “Look at me,” he said.

“What do you m—”

“Look at me!” Barbie lifted his arms, turning them to show both sides. Then he pulled up his tee-shirt, showing first his flat stomach, then turning to exhibit his back. “Do you see marks? Bruises?”

“No—”

“Make sure they know that,” Barbie said.

It was all he had time for. Randolph led his officers through the door. “Dale Barbara? Step forward.”

Before Randolph could lift his gun and point it at him, Barbie did so. Because accidents happen. Sometimes on purpose.

Barbie saw Rusty’s puzzlement, and liked him even better for his innocence. He saw Gina Buffalino and Harriet Bigelow, their eyes wide. But most of his attention was reserved for Randolph and his backups. All the faces were stony, but on Thibodeau’s and DeLesseps’s he saw undeniable satisfaction. For them this was all about payback for that night at Dipper’s. And payback was going to be a bitch.

Rusty stepped in front of Barbie, as if to shield him.

“Don’t do that,” Barbie murmured.

“Rusty, no !” Linda cried.

“Peter?” Rusty asked. “What’s this about? Barbie’s been helping out, and he’s been doing a damned good job.”

Barbie was afraid to move the big PA aside or even touch him. He raised his arms instead, very slowly, holding his palms out.

When they saw his arms go up, Junior and Freddy Denton came at Barbie, and fast. Junior bumped Randolph on his way by, and the Beretta clutched in the Chief’s fist went off. The sound was deafening in the reception area. The bullet went into the floor three inches in front of Randolph’s right shoe, making a surprisingly large hole. The smell of gunpowder was immediate and startling.

Gina and Harriet screamed and bolted back down the main corridor, vaulting nimbly over Joe Boxer, who was crawling along with his head tucked and his normally neat hair hanging in his face. Brendan Ellerbee, who had been treated for a mildly dislocated jaw, kicked the dentist in the forearm as he stampeded past. The Sucrets box spun out of Boxer’s hand, struck the main desk, and flew open, scattering the teeth Torie McDonald had so carefully picked up.

Junior and Freddy grabbed Rusty, who made no effort to fight them. He looked totally confused. They pushed him aside. Rusty went stumbling across the main lobby, trying to keep his feet. Linda grabbed him, and they sprawled to the floor together.

“What the fuck?” Twitch was roaring. “What in the fuck?”

Limping slightly, Carter Thibodeau approached Barbie, who saw what was coming but kept his hands raised. Lowering them could get him killed. And maybe not just him. Now that one gun had been fired, the chance of others going off was that much higher.

“Hello, hoss,” Carter said. “Ain’t you been a busy boy.” He punched Barbie in the stomach.

Barbie had tensed his muscles in anticipation of the blow, but it still doubled him over. The sonofabitch was strong.

“Stop that!” Rusty roared. He still looked bewildered, but now he looked angry, as well. “Stop that right goddam now!”

He tried to get up, but Linda put both of her arms around him and held him down. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t, he’s dangerous.”

“What?” Rusty turned his head and stared at her with disbelief. “Are you crazy ?”

Barbie was still holding his hands up, showing them to the cops. Doubled over as he was, it made him look like he was salaaming.

“Thibodeau,” Randolph said. “Step back. That’s enough.”

“Put that gun away, you idiot!” Rusty shouted at Randolph. “You want to kill someone?”

Randolph gave him a brief look of dismissive contempt, then turned to Barbie. “Stand up straight, son.”

Barbie did. It hurt, but he managed. He knew that if he hadn’t been prepared for Thibodeau’s gutpunch, he would have been curled on the floor, gasping for breath. And would Randolph have tried kicking him to his feet? Would the other cops have joined him in spite of the spectators in the hall, some of whom were now creeping back for a better view? Of course, because their blood was up. It was how these things went.

Randolph said, “I’m arresting you for the murders of Angela McCain, Dorothy Sanders, Lester A. Coggins, and Brenda Perkins.”

Each name struck Barbie, but the last one hit the hardest. The last one was a fist. That sweet woman. She had forgotten to be careful. Barbie couldn’t blame her—she had still been in deep grief for her husband —but he could blame himself for letting her go to Rennie. For encouraging her.

“What happened?” he asked Randolph. “What in God’s name did you people do?”

“Like you don’t know,” Freddy Denton said.

“What kind of psycho are you?” Jackie Wettington asked. Her face was a twisted mask of loathing, her eyes small with rage.

Barbie ignored them both. He was staring into Randolph’s face with his hands still raised over his head. All it would take was the smallest excuse and they’d be on him. Even Jackie, ordinarily the pleasantest of women, might join in, although with her it would take a reason instead of just an excuse. Or perhaps not. Sometimes even good people snapped.

“A better question,” he said to Randolph, “is what you let Rennie do. Because this is his mess, and you know it. His fingerprints are all over it.”

“Shut up.” Randolph turned to Junior. “Cuff him.”

Junior reached for Barbie, but before he could so much as touch a raised wrist, Barbie put his hands behind his back and turned around. Rusty and Linda Everett were still on the floor, Linda with her arms wrapped around her husband’s chest in a restraining bearhug.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 543