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?"