By Reason of Insanity (49 page)

Boland placed his gun on the desk, and his expression softened, like a father reluctantly scolding a wayward son. "Sherri McNamara
was
a beautiful woman, Quinn. Full of life--the kind of person who makes you feel more alive just hanging around her. And yes, I did love her."

Bo looked straight at Quinn now, but really beyond him, years into the past. "We kept our relationship private--people would have considered it inappropriate for a member of the commonwealth's attorney's staff to be carrying on with someone he met in the victim assistance program.

"I sat through every day of that trial. It was like they raped her a second time, the way Archibald ripped her apart on the stand.

"A week after Sherri's suicide, I was having a drink with a couple of detectives on the Richmond force. Conversation turned to the Donaldson trial, and I found out that Billy Long had a prior run-in with Archibald as well. Archibald had sprung a drug dealer on the basis of an illegal search. He accused Billy of lying on the affidavit to obtain the warrant. The judge agreed and crucified Billy in a written opinion.

"That incident, combined with a prior allegation of police brutality by another defendant, pretty much consigned Billy Long to desk-jockey status. Anyhow, Billy and I got together. We figured if the system was too corrupt to exact justice in these cases, then we probably needed to give it a little help."

Bo stopped, studying Quinn as if seeing him for the first time, fixing his gaze on the blood dripping down Quinn's cheek. "Billy can get a little violent, Quinn. But he's not in charge of the sentencing phase. I am. For that you should be grateful. I save the electric chair for the rapists."

Quinn found scant comfort in the words. He felt like a death-row prisoner, exhausting one appeal after another, sometimes winning a delay but having no chance at acquittal. A gun might be less painful, but it would be equally final.

"I didn't want any collateral damage," Bo continued, his voice calm, almost compassionate, the same tone he used on juries. "I just needed a little misdirection. The babies were unharmed and were placed in homes through the black market--untraceable to us, I can assure you. That's why I had Billy 'discover' one of them--the first step toward getting them back with their original families. Once Catherine's case was over, we would have leaked that info to the cops. The Carvers and Clarence Milburn may have suffered a little emotional trauma in the meantime, but they deserved it.

"As for you, my friend, I'm actually glad you bared your soul about shooting your brother-in-law. That may be the one thing that allows me to live with myself when this dirty little business is finished. Makes me think I might just be doing the Lord's work after all."

Bo stood and walked around his desk until he was standing directly in front of Quinn. "I'll give you a chance to write out your confession exactly as you told it to me. You have my word that I'll deliver it to the Vegas district attorney."

Bo began untying Quinn's gag. "Sorry, Vegas, but that's the best I can do--a relatively painless death, a bullet to the forehead, just like your brother-in-law. We'll bury you at the bottom of the Atlantic and send a note to the authorities from the Avenger along with your confession. Just think--by dying, you might actually save your sister's life."

Quinn spit out the gag. "If there's a God," he said, "I hope you rot in hell."

Bo unhooked Quinn's right arm and wrenched it next to his left wrist, causing pain in Quinn's rotator cuff. "A mouth like that, and I can see why Billy got a little carried away." Bo handcuffed Quinn's wrists together, put leg-irons on his ankles, and undid the leather restraints.

"I'm going to let you go to the head right across the hall," Boland said. "Wash the blood off your face. Get ready for your final meal on deck. A good man like you is entitled to one last meal."

Bizarre,
thought Quinn. But he wouldn't refuse this small act of decency. Anything to buy a little more time.

"What about Catherine?" Quinn asked. "A rape
victim
. How do you live with yourself, putting this whole thing on her?"

"Catherine will be fine," Boland said sternly. "Her only mistake was dragging you into this. Go clean up. I'll tell you the plan while you write your confession."

Quinn shuffled across the hall, followed closely by Bo, and appraised himself in the bathroom mirror. He washed some blood from his swollen face, wincing in pain as he dabbed at his cheek with a washcloth. The gash continued to seep new blood, looking like it might require half a dozen stitches to sew it shut. But Quinn's mind was elsewhere. If he could just get to the deck, maybe even dive overboard . . . could he even swim with handcuffs and leg-irons on? Would he stand a chance of getting rescued in the dark waters of the Atlantic?

Probably not, but what were his options?

Still at gunpoint, Quinn returned to the converted guest suite. Bo snapped on some rubber gloves, removed a sheet of paper from a package on the desk, and broke a new pen out of its plastic container.

"Start writing," Bo ordered. "Nothing cute or I won't deliver it."

His mind racing ahead, Quinn slowly printed his confession. If nothing else, at least Sierra might be reunited with her mom.

Bo stood behind Quinn, watching carefully. "You're a showman, Vegas; you would have loved this final piece of the operation. There's still one person who hasn't paid for the life of Sherri McNamara--life for life, as the Scripture says. Know who that is?"

Quinn paused in his writing. Another murder?

"The jury forewoman who freed Paul Donaldson, believing him instead of Sherri," Bo said. "The Avenger will take her out in a very dramatic fashion at the precise moment I'm giving my closing statement. Time of death will be easy to verify. Catherine will no longer be a legitimate suspect, and I'll have an airtight alibi if anybody is ever inclined to look in my direction."

Quinn didn't turn to look, but it almost sounded like Boland was smiling.

"Billy Long has no connection to the McNamara case," Bo continued, "so no one will ever suspect him. These crimes will remain unsolved forever."

Quinn felt the barrel of the gun against the back of his neck.

"Hurry up, Vegas. You're stalling and I'm getting hungry."

102

Without warning, everything went dark.

Quinn had no idea what had just happened. A blown fuse? The engine was still powering beneath them, the boat gliding forward. Quinn could barely make out the contour of objects in the study--the darkness broken only by a dim light that seemed to be filtering down the hallway from the main deck.

This might be his last chance.

He flung his handcuffed fists back and to his right, like a double-fisted backhand, connecting with what felt like the face of Boland. Pain shot through Quinn's injured right shoulder.

Crack!
Boland squeezed off a shot as he fell backward, and Quinn felt the bullet breeze past his head.

Bo crashed into the wall, and Quinn dove at him, landing on top of Bo and grabbing his right wrist with both hands. Quinn slammed Bo's gun hand against the wall, trying to dislodge the gun, but Bo held on. With surprising speed, Bo locked onto Quinn's arm, lowered his own shoulder, and rolled, his weight carrying him on top of Quinn. He jammed his left elbow into Quinn's gut, a blow that caused Quinn to release his grip on Bo's wrist as the air fled from Quinn's lungs.

Bo exploded to his feet, then whirled and towered over Quinn, the gun pointed at his chest. "Nice try, Vegas," Bo gasped. "I like your spunk."

He took a step or two backward, out of Quinn's reach. Not that it mattered. Quinn was in excruciating pain and had no fight left in him.

"Billy!" Boland yelled. "What happened to the fuse?"

Getting no answer, Bo back-stepped to the door and flipped the light switch a few times to no avail. He raised the gun slightly so it pointed directly at Quinn's forehead. Though Boland's hand was steady, Quinn could tell that the darkness and the lack of response from Billy Long had him worried.

"Billy!" Bo yelled again.

He glanced into the narrow hallway and apparently saw nothing. Breathing heavily, he took a step toward Quinn. "You just forfeited your last meal, Vegas. Any last words?"

Surprisingly, looking down the barrel of the gun, Quinn felt no fear. In that final split second, his life reduced itself to a series of images, past and future, flashing across Quinn's brain in nanoseconds, producing a final collage of intense emotions. Annie and Sierra embracing again. Sierra's wedding. Annie's grandchild. Law partners in solemn mourning one second and at their desks the next. Snapshots of clients and friends. And one final picture freezing on Catherine O'Rourke, her compassionate eyes comforting Quinn, her lips mouthing his name. . . .

A shot rang out. Quinn flinched, anticipating the impact.

103

At first, Jamarcus Webb was skeptical. The last six months had been among the hardest in his life. His friend Catherine O'Rourke had gone to jail to protect him as her source. But when the evidence began mounting against her, Jamarcus did what he had to do.

Even at the time, he knew how much it would cost him.

He told the police chief everything he knew about Catherine, revealing his own status as Catherine's inside source and bringing down the wrath of the entire department on his head. A disciplinary board would ultimately decide his fate. In the meantime, he had been reassigned to administrative duty. He cursed the day he had first met Catherine O'Rourke.

So it didn't make sense when he accepted her collect call from jail. It made even less sense when her supposed confession turned into a plea for help. She had seen another vision. Quinn Newberg was in trouble. This time the handwriting was not a Scripture verse but a location.
Class Action
.

"Marc Boland is the Avenger of Blood," Catherine said, pleading with Jamarcus to believe her. "It all makes sense. Please, Jamarcus, I'm begging you. Go check it out."

Against his better judgment, he did.

He watched from a perch on the deck of a neighboring boat as Quinn Newberg climbed onto
Class Action
, carrying what was left of his six-pack. He saw Quinn's investigator, Billy Long, appear a few minutes later, silently waiting in the shadows on deck. Through the tinted glass of the salon area he could see Quinn and Marc Boland engaged in tense conversation until the shades came down and covered the windows. A minute or two later, he watched Billy Long scramble inside the pilothouse, gun drawn.

Five minutes later, the engines of
Class Action
started, and then Marc Boland began unmooring the boat from the dock.

Questions raced through Jamarcus's head. Why had Billy Long been sneaking around the boat? What had happened to make the man hustle inside the pilothouse, gun drawn? Where were these three going at this time of night?

And a final question, one that haunted him most of all: could Catherine O'Rourke really be innocent, her visions the result of some supernatural gift?

To his astonishment, Jamarcus heard some faint shouting from below deck. Somebody--Quinn?--yelling for help, calling for the police. Somebody was facing imminent harm--a legal justification for boarding the boat. Jamarcus knew he would probably regret it later, but as
Class Action
began pulling away from the dock, he crouched low, jogged to the starboard side away from Marc Boland's line of sight, and jumped on board.

As they cruised out to the Chesapeake Bay, Jamarcus squatted on the outside deck, peering through the windows to the main pilothouse. As he watched Boland pilot the boat, Jamarcus flashed back to the phone call with Catherine. In her vision, she had seen Quinn Newberg sitting in a makeshift electric chair. Could that be what was happening below deck?

Jamarcus had to be careful here. He was an officer of the law. He was piling one assumption on top of another. What did he really have?

He slipped around to the back of the boat and quietly entered the salon area through the sliding door. He pulled out his gun and moved quickly to the steps at the front of the salon leading to the pilothouse, being careful to stay out of sight. Billy Long had just come up from below deck.

"He's all yours," Billy said to Bo, taking Bo's place in the pilot's seat.

"I'm going to be a real gentleman about it," Bo said. "Give him a last meal and everything."

"Your call," Long said gruffly. "He's no different than the others."

The exchange confirmed Jamarcus's worst fears, but it also bought him a little time. They were planning to give Quinn a last meal.

Jamarcus listened for any disturbances below and, hearing none, found the location of the fuse box. He waited until
Class Action
hit the big waters of the Chesapeake Bay. Then, as Billy Long hunched over a chart, Jamarcus crept up behind the captain's chair, said a quick prayer, and knocked Billy out cold with the butt of his gun.

Jamarcus had no idea how to pilot a yacht, so he decided not to touch any of the controls. He checked for Billy's pulse, found one, and scrambled to the fuse box. He cut off the lights below deck and headed for the stairs. He let silence answer Marc Boland's calls to Billy.