Under the Dome

“Holy God,” Rose said. “Well… at least you got my good side. If I can be said to have one.”

“Rose,” Tony Guay said solemnly, “you look like Michelle Pfieffer.”

Rose snorted and flipped him the bird. She was already turning to the editorial.

PANIC NOW, SHAME LATER

By Julia Shumway

Not everybody in Chester’s Mill knows Dale Barbara—he is a relative newcomer to our town—but most people have eaten his cooking in Sweetbriar Rose. Those who do know him would have said, before today, that he was a real addition to the community, taking his turn at umpiring softball games in July and August, helping out with the Middle School Book Drive in September, and picking up trash on Common Cleanup Day just two weeks ago.

Then, today, “Barbie” (as he is known by those who do know him) was arrested for four shocking murders. Murders of people who are well known and well loved in this town. People who, unlike Dale Barbara, have lived here most or all of their lives.

Under ordinary circumstances, “Barbie” would have been taken to the Castle County Jail, offered his one phone call, and provided with a lawyer if he couldn’t afford one. He would have been charged, and the evidence-gathering—by experts who know what they are doing—would have begun.

None of that has happened, and we all know why: because of the Dome that has now sealed our town off from the rest of the world. But have due process and common sense also been sealed off? No matter how shocking the crime, unproved accusations are not enough to excuse the way Dale Barbara has been treated, or to explain the new Police Chief’s refusal to answer questions or allow this correspondent to verify that Dale Barbara is still alive, although the father of Dorothy Sanders—First Selectman Andrew Sanders—was allowed to not only visit this uncharged prisoner but to vilify him…

“Phew,” Rose said, looking up. “You’re really going to print this?”

Julia gestured to the stacked copies. “It’s already printed. Why? Do you object?”

“No, but…” Rose was rapidly scanning the rest of the editorial, which was very long and increasingly pro-Barbie. It ended with an appeal for anyone with information about the crimes to come forward, and the suggestion that when the crisis ended, as it surely would, the behavior of the residents regarding these murders would be closely scrutinized not just in Maine or the United States, but all over the world. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get in trouble?”

“Freedom of the press, Rose,” Pete said, sounding remarkably unsure himself.

“It’s what Horace Greeley would have done,” Julia said firmly, and at the sound of his name, her Corgi—who had been asleep on his dogbed in the corner—looked up. He saw Rose and came over for a pat or two, which Rose was happy to provide.

“Do you have more than what’s in here?” Rose asked, tapping the editorial.

“A little,” Julia said. “I’m holding it back. Hoping for more.”

“Barbie could never have done a thing like this. But I’m afraid for him, just the same.”

One of the cell phones scattered on the desk rang. Tony snared it. “Democrat, Guay.” He listened, then held out the phone to Julia. “Colonel Cox. For you. He doesn’t sound like a happy camper.”

Cox. Julia had forgotten all about him. She took the telephone.

“Ms. Shumway, I need to talk to Barbie and find out what sort of progress he’s making in taking administrative control there.”