By Reason of Insanity

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."
"I knew he had a flush," Quinn said. "And when I saw the three blinks followed by two, I knew you were sitting on a full house. You had to have either pocket tens or queens. I figured there was no way Tex was going to fold with the hand he had."
Bobby ordered a drink but Quinn passed. Unlike the Bobby Jacksons of the world, Quinn had a day job. "Nice of you to buy some more chips so you could let that old guy from Phoenix win back his money," Bobby said as Quinn stood to leave. "Me, I'd have kept his fifteen grand too."
"He looked suicidal," Quinn said. "I don't believe in separating fools from their pensions."
"I've played with him before," Bobby responded. "The guy's almost a billionaire. Made a fortune with those check-cashing places that charge poor people obscene amounts of money to cash payroll checks." He smiled. "For a jury lawyer, you're a lousy judge of character."
"Obviously," said Quinn. "Look who I chose for a card partner."
On his way home, Quinn did some more math. Forty-five thousand would cover the fee for the jury consultant from Annie's trial, part of Rosemarie Mancini's fee, and the cost of the trial transcript. His firm's legal fees could wait, but expert consultants expected to get paid if you wanted them around for a retrial.
After he had raised enough to cover all of the expenses for Annie's retrial, Quinn would go back to old school gambling--no partners, no scams, just solid strategy and a few well-timed bluffs. In the meantime, for Annie's sake, he would park his conscience at the door and work with Bobby Jackson, rationalizing that blowhards like Tex would never miss a few thousand bucks.



21
Saturday morning started bright, beautiful, and early for Catherine O'Rourke. She slept comfortably in her own bed Friday night, tucked away in her duplex on the corner of Holly Road and 34th Street, just a few blocks from the ocean. She had intended to sleep in late but woke at 6 a.m. and couldn't force herself back to sleep.
She gave up at 7:00, threw on some workout clothes, brushed her teeth, and grabbed the morning paper. She drove to Starbucks and took her coffee to her favorite boardwalk bench, where she could enjoy the unseasonably warm sun. Scanning the local news first, she read the satisfying story of her own release from prison. Boyd Gates stoically said he disagreed with the Virginia Supreme Court's ruling but was prepared to abide by it, as if he had any choice. Marc Boland declared it a banner day for a free press.
The coverage included an unflattering picture of Cat as she emerged from jail. She would give them an earful about that later today.
She sipped her Arabian Mocha coffee and turned to the front-page story about the Carver and Milburn kidnappings written by one of Cat's colleagues. Though the kidnappings had a similar MO, the victims were very dissimilar. The Carvers were rich, white, Southern lawyers, Virginia gentry with lots of money. Clarence Milburn and Sherita Johnson were the unmarried parents of three-month-old Rayshad Milburn, who lived with his mother. They had very little money, and the police report indicated that cocaine residue was found in Sherita's car when the police searched it immediately after the kidnapping. Clarence was a convicted felon who had recently dodged a bullet on rape and murder charges when the police botched a search warrant.
The article featured a number of quotes from Dr. Rebecca Ernst, a well-known criminal profiler. Though other experts thought the Avenger of Blood was a man, Ernst raised the possibility that the Avenger might be an athletic woman. In both kidnappings, the Avenger had used a needle with a fast-acting anesthetic, methohexital, to help subdue the person taking care of the infants. In the case of Sherita Johnson, the Avenger had also used a Taser to immobilize Sherita before injecting the drug. In the Carver case, the Avenger had attacked sixty-nine year old Marcia Carver from behind, covering her mouth and putting her in a choke hold until the drug could do its work. Most men, according to Dr. Ernst, probably would have just knocked the victims out using brute force. Dr. Ernst therefore believed the Avenger was quite possibly a woman with some type of medical background.
Ernst refused to comment on whether the police were dealing with a serial criminal who could be expected to strike again. There were too many unknowns, Ernst said, but mothers and fathers everywhere should exercise extreme caution.
None of this was news to Catherine, though she almost dropped her coffee when she looked at the pictures of Clarence Milburn and Sherita Johnson. She recognized Milburn! The broad nose, the flat face, the volcanic eyes. It was the same man Cat had seen in her second vision--she was sure of it.
The woman in her vision had been more in the shadows in the corner of the cell. There were some strong similarities, but she couldn't say for sure if the woman was Sherita Johnson or not. But there could be no mistaking Clarence Milburn.
Cat stared at the picture for a moment, wondering if she might have seen this man sometime before her jailhouse vision. Somehow, her mind must have stored a picture of Milburn and then subconsciously recalled that picture when she had the vision in the prison cell. Or maybe the man in the vision hadn't really looked like Milburn at all. Maybe she was just filling in the vague features from her nightmare by using Milburn's features, the ones filling her mind's eye at this very minute.
Either way it was creepy. This case was freaking her out.
She folded the paper and headed back to her duplex. She had to get Milburn's image out of her mind. She would go home, lace on her Rollerblades, and head to the boardwalk for a workout. The misty breeze from the salt water would clear her head. Her editor, Ed Shaftner, had authorized her to write a brief journal about her two days behind bars, and she knew she needed to get that finished right away. It would run in the Sunday paper with another story about the Carver case. "We're gonna make you a star," Shaftner had promised.
But after what she had just been through, Catherine didn't want to be a star. She didn't particularly want to deal with any more confidential sources either. She just wanted to be a regular reporter. And she wanted the Avenger behind bars.
She needed to work out some pent-up emotions and feel the ocean breeze blowing in her face. What better way than to go rollerblading at breakneck speed, dodging the tourists and elderly couples and surfers and stroller moms who hogged the boardwalk?
Her editor could wait. The boardwalk couldn't.
Catherine returned to her duplex after a thirty-minute workout and noticed a small brown package leaning against her door. She opened it and found a cell phone inside with a typed note. "Speed dial 2. I owe you. 'A law-enforcement source familiar with the investigation.'"
Catherine recognized the last phrase. It was the way she had described Jamarcus Webb in the article that had landed her behind bars.
She took off her Rollerblades, stepped inside her duplex, and dialed the number.
"Good morning," Webb said in his deep baritone.
"Good morning, Jamarcus."
"Are you inside your apartment?"
It wasn't technically an apartment, but she knew what he meant. "Yes. Why?"
"Let's not take any chances. As you talk, walk down toward the ocean. Make sure you're not being followed."
"Okay. Hang on a second."
This cloak-and-dagger stuff was making Catherine nervous. Nonetheless, she took a quick glance around as she grabbed a pair of sandals. Satisfied she wasn't being followed, she headed for the boardwalk.
"You do owe me," she said.
"I know. And I'm grateful." Jamarcus exhaled. He sounded nervous. "How was the prison food?"
"Why'd you call, Jamarcus? And why this elaborate deal with the new cell phone?"
"There are a lot of folks trying to discover your source. We can't be too careful."
She waited, knowing he had more.
"Did you know we've interviewed about a half dozen persons of interest?" Jamarcus asked.
"No." And in a way, Catherine no longer wanted to know the details. She had a newfound respect for the price of that information.
"Usual rules apply?" Jamarcus asked.
"Meaning you'll let my carcass rot in jail rather than come forward and confess to being my source?"
Catherine's caustic remark created a brief silence. When Jamarcus spoke, his voice was more somber. "Do you want the information or not?"
She studied the horizon beyond the boardwalk--the sun hanging low in a beautiful light blue sky. Honestly, she didn't know.
"Cat?"
"Let me ask you a question," she said at last. "Why do you want to give it to me?"
Jamarcus paused again. "I want to see how one of the persons of interest might react if his name was in the paper. I think he might slip up. I think it might help the investigation."
Catherine sighed. She felt like she was being manipulated. But still . . . "Let me have it."
"The Reverend Harold Pryor," said Jamarcus. "He was questioned yesterday. He has no solid alibi. He was in the D.C. area when Sherita Johnson was attacked. He was in the Hampton Roads area when the Carver kids were taken."
Catherine stopped walking when she reached the concrete boardwalk. She leaned against the railing. "Interesting. But there must be a thousand men and women who meet those criteria. What else do you have?"
"Dead man's talk?" asked Webb.
"If I haven't proven myself by now--" Cat felt a rant coming on, but Webb cut her off.
"Sorry; you're right." He took a deep breath. "The Avenger is sending messages with biblical quotes. Old Testament. Somebody who claims to be a member of Harold Pryor's church sent us an unsigned note that quoted these same verses. Said the reverend has been referring to them a lot recently."
Cat felt her stomach drop. She pressed her ear against the phone. The morning breeze made it difficult to hear. "Did you say biblical quotes? Old Testament?"
"Yeah. Why?"
Cat leaned hard against the railing. She brought her fist to her mouth--confused, frightened.
"Catherine?" Webb said.
The visions flashed in front of her eyes. Biblical quotes. The sins of the fathers will be visited unto the third and fourth generation.
"Catherine?"
She tried to get hold of herself. "What were the exact quotes?"
"I can't say, Catherine."
Her voice became sharp, insistent. "I need to know, Jamarcus. What were the exact quotes?"
"Catherine, I'm trying to help. But I'm not willing to jeopardize this investigation."
"He will visit the sins of the fathers unto the third and fourth generation," Catherine said. "The offspring of evildoers will never be remembered. Prepare a place of slaughter for the sons because of the iniquities of their fathers."
There was silence on the line. Catherine had known Jamarcus Webb for a number of years. She had never seen or heard him flustered. She had never known him to be at a loss for words.
"Who told you this?" he asked.
"If I said, you wouldn't believe me."
"Try me."
Catherine stared out over the ocean. Once she told him, there would be no turning back. "I saw it in a vision. Actually, two visions."
Another period of uncomfortable silence followed. "I think we need to meet," Jamarcus said.



22
Catherine thought Jamarcus was being overly paranoid, but she still followed his instructions to a T. She drove into downtown Norfolk to get beyond the jurisdiction of the Virginia Beach police. At the last possible moment, she jumped aboard the Norfolk-Portsmouth ferry and made sure that nobody got on after she did. Then she called Jamarcus and told him she was not being followed.
He picked her up on the Portsmouth side of the river in his white Ford Taurus. For a fleeting moment she considered the possibility that Jamarcus might be the Avenger. From what she could tell, the killer had some sort of law enforcement experience--who else could commit such crimes without leaving even a trace of DNA or hair or fiber samples? And what did she really know about Jamarcus? A nice guy. A good cop from all reports. A family man. But she didn't really know him.
It dawned on her that he could snuff her out today and nobody would even know she had been meeting with him.
"Excuse me a second," Catherine said. She dialed her editor on her cell phone. "I'm meeting with my source," Catherine explained. "And I won't be able to get you those journal entries until later this afternoon."
"That wasn't smart," Jamarcus said sternly after Catherine hung up.
"Sorry," she said. She tried to put her suspicions aside and focus on her story. After all, if Jamarcus really wanted to kill her, wouldn't he have asked her to meet him at night?
They drove around Portsmouth, Jamarcus checking the mirrors, while Catherine started explaining about the visions. She watched for a reaction, but the man was stoic, working his tense jaw muscles but little else. When she finished telling him about the handwriting on the wall in the first vision, Jamarcus pulled into a 7-Eleven convenience store parking lot.
"Who have you told about this?" he asked. He looked shaken, his face a lighter hue than normal.
"Just you."
"Good. Until I figure out what to do, you've got to keep it that way."
No way am I making that promise. "So the kidnapper must have used basically the same words in some kind of ransom note or phone call?" Cat asked.
"Not basically," Jamarcus said. "Almost word for word." He stared straight ahead, deep in thought, watching folks file in and out of the convenience store. "Tell me more about your second vision."
Catherine continued her narration, providing Jamarcus with every detail she could remember about the second vision. The detective immediately started quizzing her about the appearance of the hooded figure. White or black? Male or female? What size? What age?
As he did so, Catherine realized that the person inside the hood was more of a formless ghost than a real person. Her answers alternated between "I don't know" and "I don't have any idea."
"I know this sounds crazy," Catherine interjected, "but you know how some police detectives work with mediums to find killers? Maybe I'm some kind of medium." She shuddered a little at her own suggestion. Mediums were supposed to be whacked-out older women, chunky charlatans who spent too much time with Ouija boards and cats, not serious working women. And certainly not a cynical newspaper reporter who didn't even believe in this kind of stuff.
"Maybe you saw Clarence Milburn at some point in the past, and your brain just registered it away in your subconscious," Jamarcus reasoned. "Maybe you recalled his face for this dream."
Catherine had already considered this possibility but couldn't recall ever having seen Milburn before the vision. She wondered if it had been smart to even say anything to Jamarcus. She hadn't wanted these visions, hadn't asked for this gift or curse or whatever it was. But she knew it couldn't be explained away through simple logic--she had already tried that. "How would I know about the messages?" she asked.
Jamarcus shrugged. "You're a newspaper reporter. You've got sources."
Catherine turned in her seat to face him. "Not for this," she said sharply. "I'm not making this up, Jamarcus. I don't go around quoting Bible verses. And I don't particularly like the fact that when people find out, if people find out, they're going to look at me like I'm some kind of nutcase. But there are three babies missing, and maybe more that you guys haven't linked up yet. I can't just pretend this didn't happen if it might help you find them."
As Catherine talked, a volatile mix of emotions stirred in her. Fear of the unknown. Frustration at the conversation she was having right now. Confusion at what this meant. And power. Undeniably, there was a certain vague sense of some new and mysterious power. But mostly fear.
Given everything she had just been through, she felt like she was losing control of her life, maybe even her sanity, being dragged into something that shouldn't be her burden.
"Off the record, Catherine, we aren't trying to save those babies." Jamarcus spoke softly, the weariness evident in his deep voice. "The note about the Carver twins was sent with a piece of Chi Ying's blanket, spattered with blood. Considering that, along with the contents of the notes and the fact that there has been no request for a ransom . . ."
He paused and turned to Catherine. "We can't sit on this, you know. I think it might be best if you went to the chief and told him everything you've just told me."
"And leave your name out of it, of course."
Jamarcus nodded. "It won't help either one of us to reveal this relationship. And it sure doesn't bear on whether the visions are true."
Something about this didn't sit right with Catherine. Why should she be out on a limb alone? Did it really make sense to meet with the chief of police, and probably a host of others, with the intent of telling them about the visions but at the same time hide her relationship with Jamarcus?
She fidgeted in her seat. "What if I say no?"
Jamarcus ran both hands over his face and watched an older man limp into the store. "Then I'll go to him myself."
"Give me twenty-four hours to decide," Catherine said.
"Twenty-four hours," Jamarcus agreed. He checked his mirrors and put the car in reverse.
Catherine felt a knot form in the pit of her stomach as they left the parking lot. It was like she had walked over the edge of a cliff and started free-falling into a land where dreams and reality merged, where normality flirted with insanity.
One thing she was certain about. There was a serial killer on the loose. And if she wasn't careful, Catherine could end up right in the middle of his or her crosshairs.
Perhaps she was already there.



23
The Avenger of Blood drove to the home of Paul Donaldson, found a parking spot on the street in front of Donaldson's house, and slouched down behind the wheel. In the past three weeks, the Avenger had been out here two other times.
The Avenger searched the streets for Donaldson's vehicle, a beat-up silver 2002 Volvo that was probably stolen. It was not around. The lights were on in the two-story white vinyl unit squeezed between nearly identical homes in Donaldson's neighborhood, but Donaldson apparently wasn't home.
At 11 p.m., Donaldson's live-in girlfriend, a Goth-looking woman in her twenties, came strutting out of the house, dressed for a night on the town. Black lace stockings. Straight and shiny black hair hanging over her face. A tight cotton top baring one shoulder. Blue lips. Black eyes. White face. The Avenger decided to follow her.
The girlfriend drove to the Mars Bar in the Shockoe Slip area of Richmond, an eerie place where the Avenger felt like a total misfit. Nevertheless, the Avenger found a booth in the corner and kept an eye on Paul Donaldson's girlfriend, watching intently as she flirted with a guy who made himself at home on the bar stool next to her. When they started making out, the Avenger snapped several pictures with a cell phone.
The Avenger found a spot a few feet away from the couple, discreetly snapped another shot, and even smiled while walking past them. The Goth woman stopped mid-kiss and stared back, as if pronouncing a curse with her eyes, but the Avenger just kept moving. A few minutes later, the Avenger drove out of the parking lot, the sweet taste of revenge pungent on half-smiling lips.
For motivation, the Avenger thought about the wasted life of Sherri McNamara, a woman who had been raped by Paul Donaldson. After his arrest, Donaldson and his lawyer had claimed that the sex had been consensual. They had three other witnesses testify that Sherri liked to play rough. Donaldson and his cohorts apparently lied well enough to create reasonable doubt, and the man even had the audacity to cast an accusatory glance at Sherri as he left the courtroom, according to press reports. Two weeks later, Sherri took her own life.
Now Donaldson would pay. And, since he had no children, he would have to pay himself.
By the time the Avenger finished, Donaldson would be wishing that the court had found him guilty. And Donaldson was just the warm-up act. The Avenger's most despised target was yet to come.
Catherine O'Rourke woke on Sunday morning in a cold sweat. She sat straight up in bed, frantically taking in her familiar surroundings, convincing herself that it was all just a nightmare. She felt like she had been wrestling all night, her sheets in a tangled mess.
Though it disturbed her, Catherine tried to focus on the details of her nightmare so she could write them down.
The nightmare started with a familiar scene, one she first experienced eight years ago and thought she had placed forever in the past. A single man, her attacker, came out of the fog, smiling and sweating, taunting her while she tried to run but could not move. His frat brothers, wearing Greek masks, laughed behind him, like a chorus of grotesque ghosts. The man started to unzip his pants.
But this time there was something new. Another man, lurking further in the background. A hooded figure, quietly watching. The Avenger.
Before the first man could attack Catherine, his face turned from lust to concern. He glanced over his shoulder at the Avenger, then dropped to his knees. The chorus of taunting became a chorus of screams. The Avenger extended a hand, pointed a finger, and the first man jerked in violent convulsions as the Avenger laughed.
And Catherine woke up, terrified.
With the images still burning in her mind, Catherine typed a series of cryptic notes into her computer. Rapist. Frat brothers. Same nightmare as before. Hooded figure entered from the shadows. No discernable face. She tried to remember the hand, the pointed finger. Was it the hand of a man or a woman? In truth, she couldn't tell. But the laugh, the one that startled her awake, was still very distinct. It was a sinister sound, haunting. A man's chilling laugh? Catherine typed. The hooded figure crippled the rapist. Electrocuted him?
Catherine saved the notes under the file "Avenger of Blood" and took a deep breath. She realized how tense she had become just thinking about the nightmare--racing heart, clenched muscles, the whole works. She needed to shake this off and get some perspective.
In four hours she was scheduled to meet with the chief of police, the assistant commonwealth's attorney, and Jamarcus Webb. She had concluded late yesterday afternoon that she really had no choice. If her visions could actually help them catch the kidnapper, how could she withhold that information? Still, she worried that coming forward would be crossing some type of line. After this meeting, her life would never be the same.
She put on her workout clothes, picked up the newspaper outside her door, and started brewing her own coffee, an inexpensive store brand, since Starbucks wasn't open yet. It was mid-May, but a cold front had moved through the area, leaving behind an uncharacteristic bite in the air. An outside thermometer said fifty-eight. She grabbed a sweatshirt, pulled it on, and headed out to the patio with her coffee and paper.
She turned first to her own column, "Journal from Jail," and went through the painful experience of reading her own words. Sometimes, the day after she wrote them, the words still resonated. Other times, she wondered what she had been thinking.
First, you strip off your clothes for an invasive full-body search. Next, they begin to strip away your dignity. Being in jail is not so much about confinement as it is about humiliation and invasion of privacy. If you're not antisocial before you enter, odds are you will be when you leave. . . .
It was harsh, Catherine knew. But it was also true. Fortunately for her, she had no plans of returning anytime soon.
As she finished her first cup of coffee, Catherine thought about calling Marc Boland but talked herself out of it. After she fired William Jacobs, the paper's attorney, Cat had been forced to pay her own legal bills. Bo's rate was normally $350 an hour, but he had cut her a break--"only" $300. She couldn't afford to get him involved in this next matter. He would insist on going to the meeting with her. That alone could cost more than a thousand bucks. And Catherine wasn't even a suspect.
She finished reading the paper, changed from her slip-ons into her Rollerblades, and headed to the boardwalk. She started slowly, her muscles sore and tight. She would push through the first five minutes and loosen up. She could do some of her best thinking gliding down the boardwalk, the wind strong in her face, her quads beginning to burn. But this morning, for some reason, she just couldn't get going.
After ten minutes of laborious blading with skates that seemed to have lost their ability to glide, Catherine coasted to a stop. She leaned against the railing on the edge of the boardwalk and stared out at the ocean.
What's wrong with me? She was exhausted, as if she had run a marathon the night before. Plus, her mind was playing games on her. Summoning visions. Constructing nightmares. She felt like a totally normal person who had been dropped onto the set of The Twilight Zone.
She needed to talk with someone. Her mother and sister both lived seven hours away in central Pennsylvania, and her mom didn't need one more thing to worry about. The last time she had seen her dad was fifteen years ago, about six months after he left Cat's mom and filed for divorce. Her friends were wonderful but didn't understand a thing about the criminal justice system except what they picked up from CSI. A recent ex-boyfriend? She quickly put that thought out of her mind.
She started skating slowly back toward her house. She would tell the cops what she'd seen in the jail cell, and then maybe life would return to normal. She could go back to writing about crimes instead of envisioning them.
On her way, she tried to remember the last time she had failed to complete a workout--the last time she had felt so sapped of energy, so out of control.
She remembered it well. She was a senior in college. And she was trying to cope with the fact that a man she once loved had raped her.



24
Catherine walked into the conference room of the Virginia Beach Commonwealth's Attorney and reminded herself not to be intimidated. Her sweaty palms apparently failed to get the message. She shook hands with Boyd Gates, whose strong grip seemed to hold a hint of a grudge. Police chief Arthur Compton, a grandfatherly figure with a round face, sunny disposition, and thinning gray comb-over, could not seem to muster a smile either. Jamarcus Webb shook hands coolly, like a perfect stranger, and managed a "thanks for coming in."
Catherine took a seat and noticed that the men all gathered on the other side of the table. She refused their offer of a drink, and Gates laid out the ground rules.
"This conference is at your request. You have indicated that you might have some information relevant to the Carver kidnappings. You have the right to have counsel present but have chosen not to do so."
Catherine nodded and felt like she had eaten lead for breakfast. Why did this seem like an interrogation?
"Do you mind if I record this?" Gates asked. He slid a recorder into the middle of the table and turned it on.
Of course I mind. "No, that's fine."
"The floor is yours," said Gates. He leaned back and studied her, the way you might eye a life insurance agent who had snaked his way to the kitchen table for a presentation.
Catherine shot a quick look at Jamarcus for reassurance, then began describing the background and substance of her first jailhouse vision. When she described the handwriting on the wall, Gates caught Chief Compton's eye and sat up straighter in his chair.
"Tell me again what that handwriting said?" Gates asked.
"I can't remember word for word. But it was something to the effect of 'He will visit the sins of the fathers unto the third and fourth generations.'"
Gates lowered his eyebrows and didn't try to mask the skepticism in his voice. "This just came to you. Sitting in your cell. Like a dream or something."
Catherine felt herself blushing and reminded herself that she had done nothing wrong. "Not so much like a dream. More like a vision. I don't think I ever really went to sleep."
"A vision."
"Right. Like a vision."
"Okay," Gates said, with a tone he might have used to pacify a nutcase. "And this confidential source you have--he didn't provide you with any information about messages the Avenger might have sent to the Carvers."
"He, or she, did not."
"You said there were two visions," Gates said. "Tell us about the second one."
Catherine walked them through the second vision, step-by-step. She recited from memory the words of the handwriting. "The offspring of evildoers will never be remembered. Prepare a place of slaughter for the sons because of the iniquities of their fathers."
This time, the men's faces betrayed no emotion. She waited. During the few seconds of silence, she heard the air vents kick in.
At last, Gates spoke. "Ms. O'Rourke, I'm going to tell you a few things and ask you a few questions. But first, I need you to pledge that this entire conversation will remain totally off-the-record and out of the paper. Are we clear about that?"
"Okay."
"You've just described, almost to the word, the two messages sent by this person who calls himself--" Gates paused--"or herself, the Avenger of Blood." He leaned forward and folded his hands, elbows on the table. "And frankly, I'm not at all sure what to make of this."
Gates held the pose for a moment, frowned, and took a sip of his soda, all for dramatic effect, displaying the showmanship of a trial lawyer even in a conference room. "Either you're some type of psychic, or somebody from inside the investigation leaked this information to you, or somehow you've been in contact with the Avenger of Blood. Can you think of any other options I'm missing?"
"I hadn't really thought about it in those terms," Catherine said.
"Well, I suppose," said Gates, "that you could actually be the Avenger. But let's dismiss that one as somewhat unlikely, at least for now."
"You had me worried for a minute," said Catherine, but nobody smiled. Not even Jamarcus.
"Since I don't really believe much in psychics, let me ask you this--have you discussed with your confidential source, either before or after you had these visions, anything relating to the substance of these messages?"
The question sounded accusatory and Catherine tried hard not to be defensive. "No," she said.
The chief leaned forward. "It seems to me," he said, in a slow and friendly Southern drawl, "that the first thing I might do if I had one of these visionary deals would be to contact my source who had been providing me with all this information and bounce it off him. Or her."
"Maybe my source is a little gun-shy about talking to me right now."
"Will you tell us who your source is?" Gates asked.
"I just spent two days in jail protecting him. Why would I give him up now?"
"Or her," said Gates with a thin smile.
"Whatever," said Catherine. Despite her efforts to remain calm, she felt anger bubbling to the surface. She was trying to help. And her reward? Getting questioned like a criminal. "Are we done?"
"You're free to go at any time," Gates replied. "This meeting is entirely noncustodial. But I think it would be in your best interest to cooperate with us."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Are you willing to take a lie detector test? We need some kind of assurance that your source is not leaking bits and pieces of this investigation to you."
Catherine surveyed all three men, giving her a chance to bore into Jamarcus with a quick and accusatory look before locking her eyes back on Gates. "If my source is feeding me information, you think I'm going to come in here claiming I saw it in a vision? For what purpose?"
"Does that mean you'll take a lie detector test?" Gates asked.
"No. I don't trust their reliability."
"Oh, they're pretty dependable," Chief Compton chimed in. "A polygraph measures your pulse, breathing, and galvanic skin response when you answer a question. Stress is increased if you try to tell a lie. Only the most experienced liars can control all three physiological functions at the same time. I think it might help clear things up if you took one."
"Am I some kind of suspect?" Catherine asked.
"Should you be?" asked Gates.
"Of course not. Am I?"
"No," Gates said. He took another drink, keeping his eyes on Catherine the entire time. "I would have given you a Miranda warning if you were a suspect. I'm just trying to rule out possibilities here."
"Let's assume your source didn't talk to you about the case," Jamarcus said, breaking his silence. "Can you tell us anything about what the man in the robe looked like?"
"No. I didn't really see his face."
"Are you sure it was a man?" Jamarcus asked.
Catherine thought he was trying to keep the focus away from her source. "No. I can't say."
"Have you ever had these types of visions before?" the chief asked.
"Not like this. No."
"Have you had any other visions like this," Jamarcus asked, "either before or since?"
Catherine thought about her dream last night. I wish you hadn't asked me that question. Was her dream another vision? It felt entirely different, but it featured the same hooded figure. "No," she said. Plus, it's none of your business. A vision about a kidnapping was one thing. A dream involving her own victimization was quite another.
"Are you sure?" said Gates, as if he already had the lie detector hooked up.
Catherine stared him down. "I'm sure."
On the way home, Catherine decided it had been a mistake to agree to meet with the men. In addition to asking her to take a polygraph, Gates had asked her about alibis for the nights of the kidnappings. Unfortunately, she had been alone both nights.
When she was nearly home, Jamarcus called and tried to put her mind at ease. "They had to give you a hard time," he said. "You stung their pride when you beat that contempt citation at the Virginia Supreme Court. Plus, they had to be sure you weren't just rubbing their noses in it."
"Why would I do that?"
"They can't figure that out. It's why they tend to believe you."
"They have a funny way of showing it."
"Don't be surprised if they ask you to come back," Jamarcus said. "They may want you to work with a behavioral psychologist who's in charge of profiling our bad guy. If we catch this guy, you could have your own television show."
"Spare me," Catherine said. But she did feel a little better after Jamarcus's call. Later that afternoon, she headed to the beach and played volleyball with some friends. It was the first time in nearly a week that she was able to take her mind off the Avenger of Blood.


25
When Quinn finally strolled into the office at 9:30 Monday morning, Melanie pounced. Though Quinn's young assistant could be annoying at times, he still considered her one of the three smartest persons in the sixty-lawyer firm of Robinson, Charles, and Espinoza, behind only Robert Espinoza and Quinn himself, not necessarily in that order. Though Melanie had dropped out of college to get married, she still possessed twice the street smarts of most lawyers in the firm, their diplomas from the big-name California law schools notwithstanding.
"You're up to twenty-six unreturned phone calls," Melanie announced as Quinn tried to slide past her desk. She handed him the telephone slips. "The top four are potential new clients. Eleven media calls are next. On the bottom are calls from other lawyers and bill collectors."
Quinn grabbed the pink slips, his schedule for the day, and a printout that showed the billed and collected numbers for the firm's attorneys. On top of everything else, he knew his unanswered e-mails could easily be in the hundreds.
"And Mr. Espinoza said he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived," Melanie said. "He asked me to call him."
"About what?" Quinn asked, though he already knew. Managing partners cared about two things: billable hours and collections. With Annie's case dominating his year, Quinn had done just fine on billable hours. Collections were another matter. If Quinn lost his sister's case, she would be ineligible as a beneficiary of her husband's estate, including his life insurance proceeds. If Annie had been any other client, Quinn would have resigned by now.
Quinn took his seat and started working through his e-mails. He had fired off at least ten responses by the time Espinoza came in and closed the door. The sixty-year-old attorney with salt-and-pepper hair, an angular face, and a long pointed nose took a seat on the other side of Quinn's desk.
"You know why I'm here?"
Quinn shrugged. "This?" He tossed the firm's latest billing and collections report on his desk. "You know I'll hit my numbers again as soon as Annie's case is over. She's my sister, Robert. I can't just leave her hanging."
"I'm not asking you to drop the case, Quinn. But I am worried about the rest of your files. You used to do a lot of white-collar stuff. I've been watching the new file list lately. It's a lot of insanity plea work." He said it with disdain, as if Quinn had a lineup of clients in straitjackets right outside his office door. "Can these folks even pay?"
Quinn shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't like lying to his managing partner. "I'll make it work somehow. Work a few more hours. Only accept rich crazy folks." He tried the famous Newberg grin, but it didn't seem infectious this morning. Maybe he should rely on his track record--six strong years as an associate and two even stronger years as a partner. "Have I ever missed my numbers for an entire year, Robert?"
"No. And that's what's got me worried now." Espinoza crossed his legs, obviously trying to keep it casual. "Quinn, I think what you're doing is great work. Somebody's got to take these cases. But the other partners are grousing. Your comp is tied to your white-collar work. Plus, they're worried about the reputation of the firm."
At this, Quinn laughed. "That white-collar work, as you describe it, is about 90 percent mob work. Interesting how nobody cared much about the reputation of the firm as long as the bills got paid."
Espinoza frowned. "You remember Dennis Rodman in the NBA?"
"Sure."
"Well, nobody cared about how many tattoos he had or whether he was into cross-dressing as long as he got his rebounds. But you know what happened when he stopped getting his rebounds, Quinn?"
"They turned him into a point guard?"
"Not quite. He became trade bait." Espinoza stood. "So here's what I need you to do. Beat the heck out of Carla Duncan. Get a unanimous not guilty verdict for your sister. But make your numbers, Quinn. I want you around this firm a long time. But your partners aren't willing to subsidize someone to represent the mentally insane, no matter how famous you become."
Quinn had a thousand retorts but knew how the game was played. Espinoza was managing partner. Espinoza got the last word. To this point, Quinn had only been worried about paying his experts and the consultants in Annie's case. But now his own partners were grousing about the firm's unpaid legal bills, most of which were comprised of Quinn's own work. They would never fire Quinn, not with the name recognition he had brought to the firm. But Espinoza had delivered his message. Getting famous was no substitute for his partners getting rich.
When Espinoza left, Quinn leafed through his reports and found the totals for Annie's case. The legal bills alone, not counting consultants and experts, totaled more than three hundred thousand. Not a single dime of the attorneys' fees had been paid.


26
On Tuesday morning, Catherine had second thoughts about meeting with the criminal profiler, even though she had called Jamarcus on Monday and told him she would. Officially, this was still a kidnapping investigation, though the entire public now assumed the infants had already been murdered. On Monday, police had released the content of both notes, stunning the public just like the notes had stunned Catherine, who now felt like she had met Hannibal Lecter face-to-face in her prison cell.
At 8:30 on Tuesday, two hours prior to the scheduled meeting, she decided to bite the bullet and call Marc Boland. She hated the thought of forking over an additional three hundred an hour just to get some advice on whether she should call off the meeting, but she was growing increasingly uncomfortable. This was her life. And this meeting could now be part of a serial murder investigation.
Unfortunately, Bo was on his way to a court appearance, but his assistant promised to reach him on his cell phone. He didn't return the call until 10:15, and Catherine was already on her way down General Booth Boulevard, heading to the commonwealth attorney's office.
She told Bo everything about the two visions in the cell and her meeting with the chief of police, Gates, and Jamarcus Webb on Sunday.
"They wanted you to take a lie detector test?" Bo asked incredulously.
"Yes."
She heard Bo grunt his disapproval. "And they asked about alibis?"
"Yes."
"And now they want you to spend an hour or two with their criminal profile expert to allegedly tap into your psychic ability to channel this criminal?"
"Well, they didn't phrase it that way. They wanted me to describe these visions to this profiler and see if it might help him."
"And you bought this?" Bo asked. "You really think they're after your expertise?"
The question made Catherine feel stupid, as well as a little defensive. "Bo, I saw two visions, including handwriting on a wall that tracked almost word for word the notes this Avenger of Blood sent to his victims."
"My point exactly," Bo responded. "Which means they believe one of two things: either your confidential source told you what those notes said or you are somehow involved in the kidnappings."
"That's ridiculous," Catherine said. And doubly ridiculous that I'm paying you three hundred bucks an hour to suggest it.
"Why didn't you call me before you met with them the first time, Catherine? If you pull out now, it'll look like you're trying to hide something."
Catherine hesitated but then decided she was tired of lying just so she wouldn't hurt people's feelings. "I couldn't afford to call you, Bo. I'm a reporter. I don't know how I'm going to pay you for what you've already done."
"This one's on me," Bo said, his voice going soft.
"Bo . . ." Catherine appreciated the gesture but hated being a charity case.
"I just want to make sure you don't get caught in the middle of this," Bo said. "There's a ton of pressure on the cops right now to make an arrest. If they can't get their man, they'll be looking for a good scapegoat. Let's not give them a reason to make it you."
This entire conversation frightened Catherine. Until now, she had been assuming the best, hoping this would all go away. Maybe she could even help them find the kidnapper. At worst, she might send them on a wild-goose chase. But now she was a suspect?
"Should I call off the meeting?" Catherine asked.
"No," Bo counseled. "You should let me call off the meeting. I'll tell them you wanted to help but I wouldn't let you. If they need to know specific facts, they can communicate through me. That's what lawyers are for--we like being the bad guys."
"Thanks." Catherine felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "But you're not going to do this for free."
"We'll talk about that later," said Bo. And before Catherine could protest, he was off the line.
Ten minutes later he called back. "You're off the hook," he said. "I didn't make any friends, but it's the right call."
Catherine felt like she could breathe again. "Thanks," she managed.
"No problem. But this isn't going away. We need to meet in my office."
The urgency in his voice worried Catherine. "What's up?"
"This is a ploy to get you to rat out your source," Bo said. "They build a flimsy case against you as a suspect, then force you to divulge your source so you can explain how you came across this information."
"But I told you; I didn't get this information from my source."
"All the more reason we need to talk. And not on a cell phone."



27
Paul Donaldson found the envelope in his mailbox. It contained no postmark but was addressed to him and marked "personal." When he opened it, he found a cryptic note composed of words cut out from various magazines. "Your lover is having an affair. If you want to know more, meet me in the back corner of the Hooters parking lot on West Broad Street at 11 p.m. Bring five hundred dollars and no weapons. Learn the name of the mystery man! Come alone."
The envelope also contained two pictures. The photos were dark and grainy, but Donaldson could tell that the woman was Rachel and that she was draped all over another man. Both pictures were taken from behind the man, so the back of the skinny runt's head was all Donaldson could see.
He studied the pictures carefully to see if this could possibly be airbrushed or whatever it was they did to doctor pictures these days. He analyzed the details for a few minutes, trying to figure out what bar the pictures had been taken in.
He fumed at the thought of Rachel's unfaithfulness, his rage so full that his hand literally began to shake. After everything he had done for her--how could she betray him? humiliate him in public like this? He had been faithful. He had bought her things. Kept her in clothes. Fed her drug habits. He had sacrificed so much to keep her happy.
Now this?
How could he have let himself fall for a woman this deceptive? As he stood there considering the treachery, his humiliation and anger turned into a blinding rage. He conjured up thoughts of spectacular revenge. He would cut off this man's head, then leave it on Rachel's side of the bed, Godfather-style. He would kill them both together so they could burn in hell with each other forever. He wanted to make an example of her, to somehow make her hurt even more than she had hurt him.
But he was just dreaming. None of that was really possible. He had beaten the system once. This time he would have to be careful, more subtle. He would find out the identity of Rachel's lover and kill the man. In an out-of-the-way place, he would show Rachel the man's dead corpse and watch her reaction. And after she begged him to forgive her, Donaldson would kill Rachel too.
He would dispose of the bodies far away from Richmond, Virginia. And he would be careful to leave no evidence.
First he needed the lover's name. Next he would have to kill the person who took these photos. He couldn't risk the possibility that this photographer would have a fit of conscience after finding out that Rachel and her lover had disappeared. The photographer might go to the police.
Donaldson walked from his mailbox to his car and slid the envelope under the driver's seat. Before he left, he would sheath his knife in his favorite pair of boots and tuck a gun in his waistband. He would down a few brews--not enough to slow him down, just enough to lower his inhibitions a notch or two. He would show up at Hooters a few minutes after eleven, nine hours from now.
He hadn't asked for this fight, but he wasn't going to run from it. Nobody made a fool of Paul Donaldson and lived to tell about it.
Marc Boland was all business, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, when Catherine showed up at his office that afternoon. He offered Catherine a glass of water with ice and poured himself one as well, then sat across from her at a round table in the corner of his office. As they talked, he took notes on a yellow legal pad and gently asked probing questions in his soft Southern drawl.
Catherine told him the story of the visions. He asked the usual questions about whether she could make out any features on the hooded figure, and she gave the usual answers assuring him that she could not. He asked detailed questions about her whereabouts on the days and nights surrounding the abduction of the Carver twins and Rayshad Milburn. He frowned as he realized she had no alibis that would hold water.
After nearly forty-five minutes, Bo studied his legal pad for an inordinate length of time, looked up, and lowered his eyebrows. "I believe every word you've told me, Catherine, but we've got to prepare for the commonwealth's attorney's approach to these same facts. To do that, I'll have to ask a few questions that will make you uncomfortable. Remember, our conversations are absolutely protected by the attorney-client privilege. Okay?"
Bo was already making Catherine uncomfortable, but she nodded anyway. "Sure."
"The morning after these two kidnappings, did you feel unusually tired? Was anything out of place? Like, for example, were your clothes or shoes dirty or soiled? Did you notice any blood anyplace? Were you cut or scratched in any way?"
Catherine should have been accustomed to these types of insinuations, but the questions still bothered her. "I don't remember anything unusual," she said tentatively. She thought about Sunday morning and the level of fatigue she had experienced. She had chalked that up to her hyperemotional prison experience. "I mean, I certainly don't remember any blood on my hands or muddy sneakers or anything like that."
"I'm no expert in psychology," Bo said, "but there are cases of multiple personality disorder where a person is actually taken over by a second or third personality, and the various personalities don't even know that the other personalities exist. Most often, multiple personality disorder is caused by extensive childhood abuse or trauma." Bo took a swig of water and placed his pen on the table. "If there's anything like that in your background, Catherine, I really need to know about it."
Silently, Catherine weighed her options. She stared down at her water, trying to summon the strength to talk about the rape. Why couldn't she put this behind her? It had been eight years ago. Was it really necessary to reopen it all?
"Catherine?" Bo prompted softly. He looked at her expectantly, as if he already knew.
Finally she looked up at him. She had only talked about this with one other man, a boyfriend who hadn't worked out. But she found sympathy in Bo's eyes.
"It was a frat party," she said, starting slowly. "The guy's name was Kenny Towns. I had dated him a few months earlier. . . ."
She told Bo all the details she could remember. The three or four drinks she'd had that night. Flirting with Kenny. How he'd coaxed her into the bedroom only to have her pull away in the middle of some passionate kissing. "I can't do this," she had said to him. "Not now. Not like this."
Kenny was agitated, telling Cat she had no right to get him all worked up and just stop. She left the room angry.
Later that night, Kenny came over and apologized. They went outside for a drink on the patio. Cat would never forget what happened next. After a few minutes and half a drink, she felt like she had chugged a whole bottle of tequila. The wooziness, the slurring of her words. To Cat, it was like watching herself lose control, as if she had stepped outside her own body, observing with detached fascination as an incredibly drunk Catherine lost all of her inhibitions and coordination. She tried to stand, but Kenny had to help stabilize her. She remembered wrapping her arms around Kenny to keep from falling. She remembered staggering back to the bedroom with him.
She regained consciousness the next morning, lying on a couch in the fraternity house lobby, the taste of vomit in her mouth.
Cat stopped and looked at Marc Boland, tears rimming her eyes. "You don't need the details," she said. "I was raped. Maybe more than once. I started asking questions of some of Kenny's fraternity brothers and some of the girls at the party. I got a bunch of vague answers. One girl said that Kenny took me back into the bedroom and that later some of the other guys came in too. The next day, I did some research on date rape drugs and found out a bunch of stuff about GHB. The problem is that it only shows up in a urine test and you generally have to take that test within twelve hours.
"One of Kenny's friends was the son of the prosecuting attorney for that county," Catherine said softly, the emotions of the rape making her voice raw. "Some of the other guys said they would testify against me if I claimed I was raped. Some of them said I was really drunk that night and came on to them, which I didn't. It made me realize that maybe they had raped me too and were worried about whether I had preserved the evidence against them. A few promised to testify I had had sex with them at other times, which wasn't true either."
She stared out the window, her eyes clouding with tears. "I decided to just let it go. A few weeks later, the depression settled in. I went to a few counseling sessions. Got a prescription. But mostly, I just avoided that part of campus and tried to pretend it never happened."
Catherine wiped away a few tears with the back of her hand. Bo stood up, walked over to his desk, and brought a box of tissues to the table.
"I still have nightmares sometimes," Catherine said, pulling out a tissue and drying her eyes. "But it was a one-time event. Eight years ago." She smiled gamely. "I don't think it turned me into a serial killer."
"You're a victim, not a psychopath." Bo said it with real conviction, just the words Catherine needed. "I used to be a prosecutor. Guys like Kenny deserve to be locked up for life."
He paused, and Catherine looked into the boyish eyes. She saw an intensity there she hadn't seen before.
"Everybody deserves a defense under our system of justice. But I personally don't represent sex offenders."
"I heard that about you," Catherine responded. "I guess it's one of the things that drew me to you as a lawyer."
Bo asked a few more questions and then suggested a break. When they reconvened, he went into lawyer mode and gave her the don't-talk-to-anybody-about-anything-related-to-this-case spiel. He straightened his legal pad and put his pen down. "There's something else you ought to consider. I would never advise a client to destroy potential evidence, Catherine, and in your case, there is no evidence to destroy." He paused, as if to make sure Catherine caught his next point. "But if the authorities do try to pin this on you, they will swoop into your home with a search warrant and confiscate everything in sight. Computers, journals, shoes, gloves . . . everything. I've seen even innocent clients burned by random statements in an e-mail or instant message or on an Internet site they accessed. And with you actually covering the various exploits of the Avenger, and possibly doing research to supplement your reporting, there's no telling what's on your hard drive."
Bo shifted and took another sip of water. "Right now, there's no outstanding warrant or subpoena that would keep you from disposing of any personal property, and I'm not saying you should. But I think you might be interested to know about one client who thought he had deleted all kinds of incriminating documents from his hard drive. He even took a hammer to his computer and shattered it into a dozen pieces. Darned if the feds didn't reconstruct every keystroke this genius had made over the prior thirty days." Bo smiled to himself. "We pled him out on that one."
"I understand," Catherine said.
"And one last thing."
"Okay."
"I need to know the name of your confidential source."
"Why?"
"For your own protection," Bo answered. No blinking; no hesitation; all business. "I need to call your source and tell him or her to make this go away. Your source needs to know that we want to protect him or her but that I'll burn the source if I have to. Your source needs to have every motivation to help us out."
"I can't reveal my sources, Bo."
Bo set his jaw and stared back at Catherine. He apparently wasn't used to clients with their own opinions. "You've been noble, Catherine, but don't be stubborn. This isn't contempt of court we're talking about here, a few days in the slammer. This is child abduction and possibly murder."
Catherine sat speechless for a moment, trying to sort out her conflicting duties and emotions.
"I'm trying to help you," Bo said. "Freedom of the press is a nice concept. But you're my client, not the press." He leaned toward her. "Let me do my job."
"I'll call you tomorrow," Catherine said, her tone indicating the issue wasn't open for further debate.
Later that afternoon, Catherine began the process of backing up all the documents and e-mails she wanted to keep. It would take her a day or two, and then she would drive over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, stopping to dump her computer into the vast expanses of the bay.
For the first time in her life, Catherine felt like a common criminal.



28
The Avenger of Blood arrived early at the Hooters parking lot and drove around the building twice, checking for any signs that Paul Donaldson had acted out of character and involved the police. He apparently had not. Human beings, especially no-class felons like Paul Donaldson, were so predictable.
The Avenger parked in the far back corner of the lot and faced the car toward the building so that the Avenger's face was obscured by shadows. The Avenger pulled on a ski mask, hunkered down, and waited--jittery and anxious--blowing warming breaths into fists that had grown cold with anticipation. At 11:10, the Avenger nearly left but decided to give Donaldson five more minutes. A few minutes later, Donaldson's beat-up Volvo pulled into the spot next to the Avenger.
Donaldson got out of his car, checked in both directions, and approached the Avenger's vehicle. Donaldson had pulled his long, blond hair into a ponytail, accentuating his receding hairline. He had a thin beard of blond peach fuzz growing on the end of his chin and wore a tight black T-shirt and loose jeans, his impressive biceps bulging as he attempted to swagger.
The Avenger rolled the driver's-side window down a few inches. "Get in."
Without speaking, Donaldson walked to the other side of the vehicle and climbed into the passenger's seat. He stared at the Avenger for a moment, concern darkening his face. "What's the deal with the ski mask?" he asked.
"The pictures are not here," the Avenger said, answering an entirely different question. "We've got to drive a few minutes to get them."
"Why don't we start with you taking off the mask?" Donaldson asked.
The Avenger watched Donaldson's right hand slip down toward his boot, probably reaching for a knife. Quickly, smoothly, the Avenger pulled the Taser from the left side of the driver's seat and shot the barbs into Donaldson's stomach. Donaldson cried out and tried to defend himself but succumbed as the current did its work, contorting him with pain.
Five seconds, ten seconds--a full thirty seconds at high voltage until Donaldson nearly stopped moving, his previously convulsing body now limp. The Avenger then stuck a needle into Donaldson's vein and inserted a dose of methohexital. The fast-acting anesthetic was nearly three times as potent as sodium thiopental, the anesthetic administered to inmates during lethal injection. With Donaldson unconscious, the Avenger put the car into gear, checked every mirror, and pulled out of the parking lot.
The trial of Paul Donaldson lasted an hour. During the proceedings, Donaldson was bound to a large wooden chair with handcuffs and leather straps. The chair itself was anchored to the floor with eight large bolts.
Donaldson was cross-examined and confronted with the overwhelming evidence against him. For the first half hour, Donaldson tried to defend himself but eventually became abusive and foul-mouthed, spitting threats back at his accuser. Eventually, having heard enough, Donaldson's accuser donned a black judicial robe and pronounced the verdict: guilty for the rape and murder of Sherri McNamara. The sentence: death by electrocution.
The Avenger gagged Donaldson and pulled out an electric razor to create two bald spots, one on each side of Donaldson's head. At first, Donaldson jerked his head back and forth, determined not to let the Avenger shave the long, golden locks that he loved so much. But when Donaldson's jerking caused the teeth on the end of the razor to create a gash in the skin, he settled down and let the Avenger finish the task. Next, the Avenger bent over and shaved the back of one of Donaldson's calves.
While blood dripped down Donaldson's face from the head gash, the Avenger hooked up three copper electrodes--two to the skull and one to the calf. Not certain whether the amount of current from the makeshift electric chair would actually kill Donaldson, the Avenger pulled out a gun as well. The Avenger had read the botched execution stories about burning flesh and convulsing prisoners. Now the Avenger had a front-row seat. The electricity would flow for ten minutes whether Donaldson died or not--the same amount of time that it took him to rape and murder Sherri McNamara.
"Any final words?"
Donaldson screamed into the gag, his bloodshot eyes wide with fright.
Unsmiling, the Avenger flipped the switch.
Fifteen minutes later, using snap-on plastic gloves, the Avenger picked up a lock of Donaldson's hair and placed it in an envelope along with a message. The envelope was addressed to the editor of the Richmond Times-Dispatch, Donaldson's hometown newspaper.
The message was simple and direct, constructed using words clipped from a variety of magazines. It read:
In those days they shall
say no more, the fathers
have eaten a sour grape,
and the children's
teeth are set on edge.
But every one shall die
for his own iniquity:
every man that eateth the
sour grape, his own teeth
shall be set on edge.
Paul Donaldson died for his own sins.
Sincerely,
The Avenger of Blood



29
Catherine jerked awake, startled by her own scream from the nightmare that would not go away. Kenny Towns had haunted her dreams again, coming after her, freezing her limbs with fear. His frat brothers had been there too, wearing their despicable Greek masks. But tonight, as Kenny had taunted her, laughing fiendishly, he had begun to bleed from a gash in his scalp. When he touched the gash and checked the blood on his fingers, his eyes went wide with fear. The blood flowed faster, covering his face and choking his laugh. He started shaking his head, like a dog, blood flying everywhere. It splattered Catherine, and she screamed.
It was one of those nightmares so real that Catherine found herself checking for blood on her face, hands, and clothes. Her heart pounded against her chest as she thought about the gruesome images. She forced herself to focus on other things, eventually chasing the images away with a long, hot shower.
On her way to work that morning, she called Jamarcus.
"Just a minute," he said. A few seconds later, the background noise had disappeared. Jamarcus whispered into the phone. "Why are you using your cell phone to call me?"
"My attorney wants your name," Catherine replied. "He says that Gates might try to pin these kidnappings on me if I don't give up my source."
"That's ridiculous," Jamarcus whispered. There was real urgency in his voice, close to panic. "I told you--they believe you. But you aren't helping matters by hiring an attorney and refusing to work with us."
Catherine sighed. Was she being paranoid? "I'm not going to give you up," she promised.
"I knew you wouldn't," Jamarcus replied. Yet Catherine heard the relief in his voice--the man hadn't been certain. "There's no reason to."
"I agree," said Catherine. "At least not yet."
Jamarcus hesitated, apparently absorbing the implications of Catherine's carefully selected words. "Any more visions?" he asked.
"No," said Catherine decisively. "No more visions."
Though he had been trying cases against Carla Duncan for the last eight years, Quinn had never set foot in her office before. The austere decor did not surprise him. She had hung a diploma and bar certificate on the wall and propped some pictures of children and grandchildren on her credenza. That was it. Carla Duncan was not a showy woman.
She sat behind her desk, looking grave and somewhat sympathetic. "Thanks for coming in," she said. "I thought it would be better to discuss this in person."
Quinn crossed his legs. "No problem."
"I'm ready to deal," Carla said, skipping the preliminaries. The words ignited a small flicker of hope. Driving over, Quinn had speculated this might be the reason Carla wanted to meet. And Carla knew by now the deal would have to be good or Quinn would reject it out of hand.
She placed her forearms on her desk and leaned toward Quinn. "I know you might find this hard to believe, but I do sympathize with your client . . . your sister. It's been no fun prosecuting this case, Quinn. I'm doing my job, but I can't help despising the victim."
It was almost like a confession. What did she want--forgiveness? She wasn't forced to pursue this prosecution; they both knew that. And in Quinn's opinion, she had pursued the case with the zeal of a true believer. He intentionally let the silence grow uncomfortable.
"In my opinion," Carla continued, "it's time to put this case behind us. You know I can't just slap your sister on the wrist and make her promise not to shoot her next husband. But I do realize she's got a daughter to take care of. Justice in this case is a murky concept. Your sister doesn't need to spend most of her adult life behind bars."
"What are you suggesting?"
"Manslaughter. I'll recommend six to ten." Carla waited a beat, her intense green eyes conveying the fact that this offer was nonnegotiable. "If she behaves and gets counseling, you can apply for parole after three years, and I won't oppose it."
The offer was better than Quinn expected, though he didn't let on. If Carla had suggested a slap on the wrist, Quinn would have argued for a love tap.
"Sierra is thirteen," Quinn said. "That's an age when she really needs her mom. By the time she's sixteen, she'll be a different girl. I can't ask Annie to just walk away from her chance to be a mother during these critical teenage years."
"Perhaps she should have thought about that before she pulled the trigger," Carla countered. "Look, Quinn, I've got my own kids. Grandkids. I'm putting a very generous offer on the table and one for which I'll probably receive a lot of criticism." She sighed and leaned back in her chair. "If you force the issue, I'll try this case again. Next time, I'll get a conviction. What will that do for Sierra?"
"Guilty but mentally ill," Quinn countered. "She gets four years with all but twelve months suspended. Three years of probation and psychiatric counseling."
Carla snorted. "This isn't a DUI, Quinn. In good conscience, I've just given you my best offer. I'm not looking for a counter. Think of it as Deal or No Deal."
Quinn nodded. "Had to ask." He stood, thanked Carla, and shook her hand. "I'll get back to you."
"The end of the week," Carla said. "I'll give you until 5 p.m. Friday."



30
Managing partner Robert Espinoza plopped down in the client chair in front of Quinn's desk. Quinn quit typing and turned around, regarding the man with idle curiosity.
Melanie stood in the doorway. "Can I get you anything?" she asked. What she really meant, from the look on her face, was I couldn't stop him and didn't have time to warn you--he barged right in.
"We're fine," Quinn said. "Don't worry about it."
Melanie left, and Quinn turned to Espinoza. "Twice in one week," Quinn said. "Pretty soon you won't have to ask for directions."
"You're a funny guy," Espinoza replied, unsmiling. "You might want to save it for someone with a sense of humor."
"Good point." Quinn leaned back in his chair.
"It's a good offer, Quinn. You ought to take it."
Quinn gave his managing partner a sideways look and picked up a pen to keep his hands occupied. Not many people unnerved him like Espinoza. "How'd you find out?"
The question brought a thin smile. "We all have our sources, Quinn. Manslaughter. Six to ten. She's out in three. I would have bumped off a few ex-wives myself if I could have been assured of that deal. Cheaper than divorce."
"She's my sister, Robert. I don't find it funny."
Espinoza's face returned to its normal scowl, wrinkles of concern pulling at the corners of his narrow eyes. "I'm not trying to be funny, Quinn. She might be your sister, but she's also your client. She shot her husband in cold blood. It's a good deal. In fact, it's a great deal." Espinoza paused and seemed to be studying Quinn's very thoughts, trying to decipher whether this was all sinking in. "We need you back on some of these white-collar cases," he said. "Don't play games with your sister's life. Take the deal."
Quinn bristled at the tone, more of a command than a suggestion. "I'll be talking with Annie tonight." His voice had the sharp edge he had perfected for cross-examination. "I'll be sure to let her know you think it's a blue light special."
Espinoza scooted to the edge of his seat. "You're too close to this, Quinn. I'm just trying to give you an unbiased perspective from somebody who really does care." He stared at Quinn for a moment and then stood. "It's the deal of the century, buddy. Your sister would be well-served to take it."
Quinn called Bobby Jackson on his way to the Rogue, one of the newest casinos on the south end of the strip. It featured a lush and bustling tropical paradise decor, accentuated by dozens of fountains, sculptures, and flora. Many tourists were drawn by its bad-boy aura, complete with pirate themes and edgy burlesque shows. But Quinn liked it for other reasons. The high-stakes room always had plenty of action involving fresh money from inexperienced gamblers. And Richard Hofstetter Sr. was part owner of the Rogue, bringing Quinn an extra surge of satisfaction at the idea of making a little money at one of Hofstetter's joints.
This wouldn't be the first time Quinn and Bobby had worked together at the Rogue. The last time they'd been here, a few of the floor security guards had paid a little closer attention to their table than Quinn had liked. Bobby was nervous about coming back, but Quinn talked him into it. Quinn's friends sometimes accused him of having a death wish, which might explain why he had chosen this casino out of dozens of others that could have worked just as well.
Maybe he did have a death wish, Quinn supposed. But he was tired of taking heat from his firm's managing partner just because Annie couldn't pay her legal bills. A few more nights of "moonlighting," and he could at least slip her enough to make a decent down payment.
As Quinn meandered past the blackjack tables, a block of a man wearing a blue blazer moved in just behind his left shoulder.
"Hotel security," the man said, keeping his voice low and discreet. "I'll need you to come with me."
Quinn turned to look at the man and, out of his peripheral vision, saw another guard taking up a position about ten feet away.
"Something wrong?" Quinn asked.
"We can talk in Mr. Hofstetter's office," the man said gruffly. He put a hand on Quinn's elbow, directing Quinn toward the nearest wall. "There's a concealed door straight ahead, built into that wall."
Quinn shook his elbow free and walked a step ahead of the guard. "You ought to introduce Mr. Hofstetter to this thing called a cell phone," he said.
"He prefers to meet in person."
They took a hallway to an elevator and were joined by a second guard, equal in girth and attitude to the first. Both guards had gun-size bulges in their blazers.
The elevator traveled up sixty-eight floors to the executive suites, where a third gentleman ushered them down a hall with rich hardwood floors and expensive-looking paintings. Hofstetter's office was located at the end of the hall, taking up acres of prime Vegas real estate, a mammoth tribute to the fact that boatloads of money could not buy taste. Persian rugs and antiques were scattered about haphazardly, combining with floor-to-ceiling windows and the sleek black lines of Hofstetter's furniture to give the room a schizophrenic feel. Or maybe Quinn was just projecting his own jitters on his surroundings.
Hofstetter stood behind his desk. "Have a seat."
"I think I'll stand," Quinn said. He was flanked on each side by one of the bulky security guards.
Hofstetter shrugged. "Suit yourself." He paused and seemed to be searching for his thoughts. "You know why you're here?"
"Because you and your boys want to get sued for harassment?" Quinn sensed the guards stiffening, like assault dogs waiting for a command. Adrenaline pumped through Quinn's entire body, fear staking its claim. But he wouldn't show fear to Hofstetter.
"It's okay," Hofstetter said to the guards, though his nose flared in anger. He walked out from behind his desk, grabbed a remote, and pushed a few buttons. A screen dropped down from the ceiling to Quinn's right. Hofstetter pushed a few more buttons, and Quinn's poker table from the last time he'd gambled at the Rogue appeared on the screen, viewed through an angle behind and above Quinn.
Using an edited series of excerpts and a red laser pointer, Hofstetter pointed out the signals Quinn and Bobby Jackson had used, as well as the hands on which they had bid up other players at the table and scammed their money. He followed it with a video of the meeting between Quinn and Bobby Jackson at the hotel bar, complete with a stop-action shot of money changing hands.
"You have the audacity to come into my casino and cheat my customers?" Hofstetter said, his face flushed with anger. "After all you've put my family through?"
Quinn watched warily as Hofstetter flicked off the video and returned to his station behind the desk. The man's anger burned deep, barely under control. Quinn suddenly realized nobody knew he was even here. If Hofstetter gave the order, how far would his henchmen go?
Do not show weakness.
Quinn forced a smile. "That's it? You're going to take your little slide show where? To the gaming authority and try to have me blackballed? To the DA and try to have me arrested? 'Hey, Carla, this guy bid up the pot a couple of times when this other guy at the same table blinked and then afterward, they shared a drink and settled up some bets.'" Quinn shook his head. "Good luck."
"You're a punk," Hofstetter spit back. "A moron. You think I'd take that to the authorities? They'd laugh in my face." Hofstetter sat down in his chair, a smug look on his face that worried Quinn. "I'm not stupid."
Quinn waited. "So what's your point?"
"My point, golden boy, is that you ought to be more careful about the folks you play poker with . . . especially if you're going to steal their money. I've done a little research." Hofstetter opened a manila folder. "Among your victims in the past few months are two gentlemen with local mob connections, one gangster, and another man who has a plain old nasty temper."
Hofstetter looked up at Quinn with a devious smile. He tossed a picture of a battered and bloodied face toward Quinn's side of the desk. "This is another guy who had the bad sense to cheat some of these men. We've got tapes ready to go to every one of the gentlemen you cheated who have any criminal connections whatsoever."
"Unless?"
"We both know your sister is guilty of murder," Hofstetter replied. "You're guilty of worse. Defaming my son and our family." He stopped, his jaw tight, his right hand balled into a fist.
"I'm aware that there's a deal on the table right now that can put this all behind us," he continued, rage riding hard on each syllable. "I don't like it, but at least it ends this ordeal. My family doesn't need to go through another trial, forced to watch you strut around the courtroom with your sanctimonious lies. Take the deal, Mr. Newberg. If you don't, these other card players will be the least of your worries."
Quinn, normally quick on his feet, found himself at a loss for words. At the moment, he just wanted to get out of the man's office unharmed. He could evaluate his options later.
"I've got a job to do," he responded. "We'll take the deal if it's in the best interest of my client."
"Get out of here," Hofstetter fumed. "And if I ever see you in my casino again--ever--your sister will need to get herself a new lawyer."
The guards led Quinn down the hall and into the elevator, pushing the button for the lobby. Halfway down, a guard reached out a stubby finger and pushed the stop button. Another quickly opened the panel and killed the lights.
"What's going on?" Quinn demanded.
He smelled one of them, directly in his face. Then came the answer. A kidney punch from the back. Quinn grunted in pain. One of the guards squeezed the base of Quinn's neck, exploiting a nerve that generated excruciating pain. Quinn tried to grab the guard's thick forearms and pry them off but it was hopeless.
"Next time," the man whispered, inches from Quinn's face, "show a little respect."
Just before Quinn passed out, the guard released his grip, and Quinn slumped to the floor. Somebody flipped a switch, and the elevator started down again, still in the dark. When the door opened at the bottom, the two guards forced Quinn to stand and pushed him down the hall and out an exit door. He stood there for a moment, leaning against the building, trying to catch his breath and regain his lucidity.
The nerve endings in his neck felt like they were on fire, while a knifelike pain jabbed into his kidney. As his mind cleared, he decided against calling the police. He had no cuts or bruises. The cops might write up a report, but the prosecutor would probably argue there was a lack of evidence. Though Quinn could sue Hofstetter and his goons in civil court, he really just wanted to put this whole affair behind him, rather than get in the middle of a two-year legal suit that might result in minimal damages.
In all honesty, he was tired of this case, maybe even losing his nerve. Things would be so much easier if Annie just took the deal. Quinn had already carved out his reputation as an insanity plea expert--he didn't need a second trial for that. And Espinoza would be grateful because Quinn could get back to making some serious money.
On the other hand, there was Sierra. Three years without a mother would be an eternity for a teenager. And regardless of whether he took the deal, Quinn knew that Hofstetter wasn't really going away. The old man wouldn't do anything serious right away--Quinn's greatest protector was the publicity surrounding his sister's lawsuit. If anything happened to him now, people would suspect Hofstetter. But eventually, when Quinn least expected it, Hofstetter would strike. The sad truth was that Quinn was already a marked man. Taking the deal wouldn't change that.
Quinn took a few deep breaths and headed for the parking lot. His stubborn side wanted to head back into the high stakes table at the Rogue and make a killing. But he had been around enough to know that gambling while angry was a bad idea.
He flexed his neck and tried to massage away the pain. Bobby Jackson was on his own tonight. For Quinn, it might be a good time for a rare night off.