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.The hooded figure, face obscured, reached both hands up toward the window.Instantly a baby appeared in the outstretched hands, an African-American child with puffy cheeks and dark, curly locks of hair.The baby cooed and stretched and wiggled a little in the tender hands of the hooded one.The person drew the baby in and cuddled him, rocking the little boy back and forth for a few seconds.Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the hooded figure bent down and extracted the needle from the woman's neck."No!" Catherine yelled.She jumped toward the hooded figure but it was too late.With the speed of a striking cobra, the figure inserted the needle into the baby's arm.The child wiggled and the needle wedged out, spraying noxious chemicals all over the room.Catherine reached for the hooded figure but came up empty, the poison stinging her eyes.Frantically, she turned on the water from the sink and splashed it on her face."Don't do this!" she shouted."Stop!"The sound of her own voice echoed in the cell, startling her awake, as she stood in frozen horror, looking for the visitors who had just moments ago seemed so real.Her face was wet, the water in the rinse basin running.Her breath was short; her heart pummeled her chest.She turned off the water and sat down on the cot, shaking from the horror of what she had witnessed."What's the matter, Barbie?" the inmate across the hall asked.A deputy came by to check out her cell."What's with the shouting?"Shaken, Cat looked at the deputy, barely able to bring the woman into focus."Just a nightmare," she said."Happens a lot," said the deputy.She turned and walked away.And that's when Cat saw it--with her eyes wide open, in the broad daylight of her cell, unmistakable and as real as the cot Cat sat on.Handwriting on the wall.Bloodred.The offspring of evildoerswill never be remembered.Prepare a place of slaughter for the sonsbecause of the iniquities of their fathers.19Catherine wrestled all afternoon with the implications of her second vision in less than twenty-four hours.As a logical person, she realized that all the classic ingredients for nightmares had converged on her life at once.She assumed that the content for the dreams had been derived, at least in part, by the capital punishment debate between Quinn Newberg and Marc Boland at the law school.Quinn's graphic depictions of botched executions had played a prominent role in both dream sequences.On top of that, she had been reading an intense thriller when she fell asleep and had been an emotional wreck these last few days.Jail was a frightening place, and in her case, the fear was compounded by occasional whispers from her own conscience about possibly impeding the investigation into the Carver kidnappings.She had seen the pictures of those beautiful twin babies.Just thinking about the way they might have died made her sick to her stomach.Even apart from all these stimuli, Catherine was pretty sure she would have experienced nightmares just from being confined to this cell.While she didn't believe in ghosts and hauntings, she did acknowledge that some places tended to cause nightmares.Take the woods, for example.Camping out and listening to night creatures as she fell asleep was a guaranteed ticket to a dreamland horror show.One more reason to hate camping.But still, she had to face some hard truths about these visions.They were far more powerful than normal nightmares.The deal with the sink and splashing herself with water was bizarre.Frankly, she wondered if she might be losing it.And, if she was, who could blame her? Who wouldn't go a little psycho in here?The thing that puzzled her most was the biblical language she recognized in the handwriting on the wall.Perhaps this element came from the bizarre rantings of Harold Pryor.But she doubted it.Though she didn't recall exactly what the reverend had said the night of the debate, the words in the visions seemed somehow different.More disturbing.More sinister.She sensed that the words themselves might somehow be important, so she pulled out her journal to jot them down.The first vision, twenty-four hours ago--how had that gone exactly? She thought hard, closing her eyes so she could visualize the bloodred writing dripping toward the rinse basin.The sins of the fathers will be visited on the third and fourth generation.That was the gist of it, the best she could do for now.Today's words were still fresh.She jotted them in her journal also, confident that she had remembered them pretty much word for word.The offspring of evildoers will never be remembered.Prepare a place of slaughter for the sons because of the iniquities of their fathers.* * *Late that afternoon, a deputy came to Catherine's cell and unlocked the door."Don't forget your toothbrush, O'Rourke," she said."You're going home."Just like that? The whole thing seemed rather anticlimactic, but Catherine wasn't complaining.She gathered her books, journal, toiletries, and pen.All of her possessions reduced to this.She took a last glance around the small cell--she sure wouldn't miss this place--and followed the guard to the processing desk.She endured one last pat down--as if she might be trying to smuggle something dangerous out of the jail--changed clothes, signed an inventory for her personal belongings, and felt a rush of gratitude when she saw Marc Boland waiting for her.She gave her attorney a spontaneous hug."Chalk one up for the First Amendment," he said.He handed her a three-page document."The clerk of the Virginia Supreme Court faxed this to my office about a half hour ago.I wanted to deliver it personally.""I am so glad I fired Jacobs and hired you," Catherine said, folding the order and placing it inside her journal."How can I ever thank you?"Bo didn't try to mask his excitement as a big smile lit up his schoolboy face."It's all part of Boland Legal Services.Slaying dragons, winning Supreme Court arguments, saving damsels in distress.""I think I'm going to get sick," said the desk clerk."We were just leaving," Bo said.20Quinn 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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]