Stephen King - Under the Dome

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.

“Remember,” Barbie said to Rusty as the plastic cuffs went on… and were then tightened until they dug into the scant meat above the heels of his hands.

Rusty stood up. When Linda tried to hold him, he pushed her away and gave her a look she had never seen before. There was sternness in it, and reproach, but there was also pity. “Peter,” he said, and when Randolph began to turn away, he raised his voice to a shout. “ I’m talking to you! You look at me while I do!”

Randolph turned. His face was a stone.

“He knew you were here for him.”

“Sure he did,” Junior said. “He may be crazy, but he’s not stupid.” Rusty took no notice of this. “He showed me his arms, his face, raised his shirt to show me his stomach and back. He’s unmarked, unless he raises a bruise where Thibodeau suckerpunched him.”

Carter said, “Three women? Three women and a preacher ? He deserved it.”

Rusty didn’t shift his gaze from Randolph. “This is a setup.”

“All due respect, Eric, not your department,” Randolph said. He had holstered his sidearm. Which was a relief.

“That’s right,” Rusty said. “I’m a patch-em-up guy, not a cop or a lawyer. What I’m telling you is if I have occasion to look him over again while he’s in your custody and he’s got a lot of cuts and bruises, God help you.”

“What are you gonna do, call the Civil Liberties Union?” Frank DeLesseps asked. He was white-lipped with fury. “Your friend there beat four people to death. Brenda Perkins’s neck was broken. One of the girls was my fiancée, and she was sexually molested. Probably after she was dead as well as before, is the way it looks.”

Most of the crowd that had scattered at the gunshot had crept back to watch, and now a soft and horrified groan arose from it.

“This is the guy you’re defending? You ought to be in jail yourself!”

“Frank, shut up!” Linda said.

Rusty looked at Frank DeLesseps, the boy he had treated for chicken pox, measles, head lice picked up at summer camp, a broken wrist suffered sliding into second base, and once, when he was twelve, a particularly malicious case of poison ivy. He saw very little resemblance between that boy and this man. “And if I was locked up? Then what, Frankie? What if your mother has another gallbladder attack, like last year? Do I wait for visiting hours at the jail to treat her?”