By Reason of Insanity (10 page)

She turned off the water and sat down on the cot, shaking from the horror of what she had witnessed.

"What's the matter, Barbie?" the inmate across the hall asked.

A deputy came by to check out her cell. "What's with the shouting?"

Shaken, Cat looked at the deputy, barely able to bring the woman into focus. "Just a nightmare," she said.

"Happens a lot," said the deputy. She turned and walked away.

And that's when Cat saw it--with her eyes wide open, in the broad daylight of her cell, unmistakable and as real as the cot Cat sat on.

Handwriting on the wall. Bloodred.

The offspring of evildoers

will never be remembered.

Prepare a place of slaughter for the sons

because of the iniquities of their fathers.

19

Catherine wrestled all afternoon with the implications of her second vision in less than twenty-four hours. As a logical person, she realized that all the classic ingredients for nightmares had converged on her life at once.

She assumed that the content for the dreams had been derived, at least in part, by the capital punishment debate between Quinn Newberg and Marc Boland at the law school. Quinn's graphic depictions of botched executions had played a prominent role in both dream sequences.

On top of that, she had been reading an intense thriller when she fell asleep and had been an emotional wreck these last few days. Jail was a frightening place, and in her case, the fear was compounded by occasional whispers from her own conscience about possibly impeding the investigation into the Carver kidnappings. She had seen the pictures of those beautiful twin babies. Just thinking about the way they might have died made her sick to her stomach.

Even apart from all these stimuli, Catherine was pretty sure she would have experienced nightmares just from being confined to this cell. While she didn't believe in ghosts and hauntings, she did acknowledge that some places tended to cause nightmares. Take the woods, for example. Camping out and listening to night creatures as she fell asleep was a guaranteed ticket to a dreamland horror show.

One more reason to hate camping.

But still, she had to face some hard truths about these visions. They were far more powerful than normal nightmares. The deal with the sink and splashing herself with water was bizarre. Frankly, she wondered if she might be losing it. And, if she was, who could blame her? Who wouldn't go a little psycho in here?

The thing that puzzled her most was the biblical language she recognized in the handwriting on the wall. Perhaps this element came from the bizarre rantings of Harold Pryor. But she doubted it. Though she didn't recall exactly what the reverend had said the night of the debate, the words in the visions seemed somehow different. More disturbing. More sinister.

She sensed that the words themselves might somehow be important, so she pulled out her journal to jot them down. The first vision, twenty-four hours ago--how had that gone exactly? She thought hard, closing her eyes so she could visualize the bloodred writing dripping toward the rinse basin.
The sins of the fathers will be visited on the third and fourth generation.
That was the gist of it, the best she could do for now.

Today's words were still fresh. She jotted them in her journal also, confident that she had remembered them pretty much word for word.

The offspring of evildoers will never be remembered. Prepare a place of slaughter for the sons because of the iniquities of their fathers.

Late that afternoon, a deputy came to Catherine's cell and unlocked the door. "Don't forget your toothbrush, O'Rourke," she said. "You're going home."

Just like that?
The whole thing seemed rather anticlimactic, but Catherine wasn't complaining. She gathered her books, journal, toiletries, and pen. All of her possessions reduced to this. She took a last glance around the small cell--she sure wouldn't miss this place--and followed the guard to the processing desk. She endured one last pat down--as if she might be trying to smuggle something dangerous
out
of the jail--changed clothes, signed an inventory for her personal belongings, and felt a rush of gratitude when she saw Marc Boland waiting for her.

She gave her attorney a spontaneous hug.

"Chalk one up for the First Amendment," he said. He handed her a three-page document. "The clerk of the Virginia Supreme Court faxed this to my office about a half hour ago. I wanted to deliver it personally."

"I am so glad I fired Jacobs and hired you," Catherine said, folding the order and placing it inside her journal. "How can I ever thank you?"

Bo didn't try to mask his excitement as a big smile lit up his schoolboy face. "It's all part of Boland Legal Services. Slaying dragons, winning Supreme Court arguments, saving damsels in distress."

"I think I'm going to get sick," said the desk clerk.

"We were just leaving," Bo said.

20

Quinn took a cab to the front door of the Venetian. Oblivious to the hotel's opulence, he walked straight through the massive rotunda with its rich marble floor and white-pillared walkways and wound his way through the sprawling gaming area and its mile-long "Grand Canal," the casino's attempt to replicate Venice. The gaming tables and slot machines were just background noise. Quinn Newberg was on a mission.

The Venetian had spared no expense in its featured poker room, draping it in rich leathers, dark-grained woods, velvet curtains, and tastefully displayed paintings from the Renaissance era. Quinn checked in at the desk and added his name to the list for the tables in the high-stakes area. He slipped the clerk two fifties and watched her make the appropriate adjustments so he could join his desired table. Thirty-five minutes later, a seat opened up, and Quinn took his place, two chairs away from a local card shark named Bobby Jackson.

Jackson was forty-five but could generally talk his way into a senior citizen discount. He had thin gray hair, a face with the tanned texture of a well-worn baseball glove, and a close-cropped beard that sprouted half gray and half black. He pulled his rounded shoulders in tight, shielding his cards, as if the entire world might be part of a giant conspiracy designed to separate Bobby from his money.

Quinn ordered a soda and settled in next to a brawny man with cowboy boots who had accumulated a sizable pile of chips. He had a thick Southern drawl, and the other players called him Tex.

"Aren't you that boy I saw on TV defending his crazy sister after she knocked off her old man?" Tex asked loudly.

"Oh my gosh!" said a brunette standing behind one of the other players. She frantically fished into her purse and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. "Would you mind signing this?"

Feeling like an idiot, Quinn scribbled a signature across the top of the bill. He gave her a dismissive smile, but she had already pulled out a disposable camera. She handed it to the older gentleman sitting in front of her at the table. "Will you take our picture, honey?" she asked.

Quinn stood next to the woman, and she placed her arm around Quinn's waist to pull him close. Her scowling husband or boyfriend or whatever he was counted to three and snapped a shot.

"Thanks!" said the woman. "I knew I would meet somebody famous in Las Vegas!"

"We gonna play cards or we gonna play Hollywood celebrity?" Tex drawled.

"Sorry," Quinn muttered. He returned to his seat, and the dealer dealt a new hand. For nearly an hour, Quinn played the game methodically, trusting math rather than intuition or luck. He counted cards, studied the body language of opponents, and kept a mental list of hands worth betting on. Discipline and patience were the hallmarks of his success, along with a programmed set of bluffs that he would sometimes spend half an hour developing.

His first big opportunity came at a few minutes after eleven, when Quinn's two hole cards were the ace of clubs and the four of diamonds. Quinn was sitting on the small blind, meaning he had already put five hundred in the pot before the cards were even dealt. Tex, on Quinn's immediate left, was sitting on the big blind, meaning he had anted up a thousand. During the first round of betting, everyone had folded except Tex, Bobby Jackson, and Quinn, who promptly anted up another five hundred so he could see the flop.

The three cards in the flop were no help to Quinn--the ten and eight of clubs and the queen of hearts. He noticed that Tex had grown extraordinarily quiet as he stared at the three cards faceup in front of the dealer. He probably had two clubs in his hand and was hoping for a flush. Bobby Jackson stole a peek at his two hole cards and blinked three quick times.

Jackson nonchalantly pushed in a pile of chips so the pot grew to four thousand. The bid fell to Quinn, who stacked and restacked a few chips, letting them filter through his fingers as he stared at Tex.

The big man sitting to his left couldn't resist a slight grin. "You Vegas boys sure do fold quickly," Tex said. "I thought this was the high-stakes table."

Quinn shoved some chips to the middle. "I'll see your thousand," he said, then carefully counted out a neat new pile. "And raise it twelve."

"Well, well," said Tex. He quickly counted his own stack of chips. "I'll see your twelve, and bump it up another twelve." He grinned broadly; the only thing missing was a cigar.

"I'll call," Bobby said, pushing his own pile to the middle.

Quinn quickly shoved an additional twelve into the pot, and the table grew quiet with tension. "I'll call as well."

The dealer burned another card before she put the fourth card faceup on the table. The turn--the eight of spades--was another throwaway for Quinn's hand. But he could also see the disappointment register on Tex's beefy face, confirming Quinn's suspicion that the man was working on a flush and needed another club. Quinn bid the pot up another few thousand dollars. Both Tex and Bobby stayed in and the dealer burned another card then placed the fifth community card on the table.

The river was the jack of clubs. Tex immediately went into a lone-star scowl, but he wasn't fooling Quinn. The man now had his flush. Meanwhile, Bobby Jackson's blinking had gone on overdrive--three quick blinks followed by two more. Quinn had nothing--a pair of eights from the community cards and the ace high he had in the hole. He couldn't possibly win--unless he could bluff the others into folding.

"I'm good," said Bobby, tapping the table.

Quinn snuck a peek at his hole cards just for drama and allowed himself a big smile. He went for the blue chips and raised the pot nearly ten thousand.

"My, my," Tex said. "Either you're sittin' on a nine or a couple clubs or you've got more guts than a cat burglar." He pushed his own stack to the middle. "Let's find out."

Quinn noticed that Tex didn't go all in. The big man must have been at least a little worried.

"See your ten and raise it five," Bobby said.

Tex stiffened at the move. If he had a flush, as Quinn suspected, he probably wouldn't fold. His flush would beat a straight, but it wouldn't hold up against a full house. Quinn did some quick math. There was now a hundred and ten thousand in the pot. Tex was in for thirty-five.

Quinn took a deep breath, spread his palms, and decided he would test the man's ego. "All in," he said, shoving the rest of his chips into the middle of the table. Then he looked at Tex. "You might want to remember the Alamo."

The dealer counted the chips. The table grew quiet as the players stared at the huge pile in the center.

"Eighty to stay," the dealer told Tex.

Quinn watched the big man's face redden. Tex looked at his two hole cards again, as if checking to make sure they hadn't changed. He looked at Quinn. "If I recall my history correctly, Santa Anna eventually lost that little war." He shoved his chips to the middle of the table.

"I'll call," said Bobby Jackson. Expressionless, he counted his chips and pushed several piles into the middle. All eyes turned to Quinn.

When Quinn dramatically flipped his cards, Tex beamed. "Ace high!" Tex shouted. "You slimy rascal!" He gave Quinn a punch in the arm, a little too hard to be good-natured but not hard enough to risk starting a fistfight. "You almost bluffed me into folding with an ace high!"

Next, Tex flipped his cards with a show of gusto, standing as he did--the king and queen of clubs. He not only had a flush, it was a king-high flush. He grinned as the attention turned to Bobby Jackson.

"Full house," said Bobby calmly, flipping over a pair of tens. "Tens over eights."

Tex made a grunting noise, as if someone had punched him in the gut, and then cursed his luck as Bobby raked in the chips. "It's always the quiet ones that get ya." Tex reached into his pocket and pulled out a few more markers to replenish his depleted pile of chips. He took his seat, shaking his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn could have sworn he saw Bobby Jackson drooling.

A few minutes after midnight, sitting at the blackjack tables, Quinn felt somebody brush up against the back of his chair. Quinn mumbled some excuses, cashed in his chips, and followed Bobby Jackson to a corner table in the TAO Lounge.

Bobby and Quinn did some quick math on a napkin before Bobby peeled off forty-five thousand dollars in markers and handed them to Quinn. "I thought you overreached when you went all in," Bobby said. "I thought we should have bet him up in ten thousand increments."