Five minutes later, the engines of Class Action started, and then Marc Boland began unmooring the boat from the dock.
Questions raced through Jamarcus's head. Why had Billy Long been sneaking around the boat? What had happened to make the man hustle inside the pilothouse, gun drawn? Where were these three going at this time of night?
And a final question, one that haunted him most of alclass="underline" could Catherine O'Rourke really be innocent, her visions the result of some supernatural gift?
To his astonishment, Jamarcus heard some faint shouting from below deck. Somebody-Quinn?-yelling for help, calling for the police. Somebody was facing imminent harm-a legal justification for boarding the boat. Jamarcus knew he would probably regret it later, but as Class Action began pulling away from the dock, he crouched low, jogged to the starboard side away from Marc Boland's line of sight, and jumped on board.
As they cruised out to the Chesapeake Bay, Jamarcus squatted on the outside deck, peering through the windows to the main pilothouse. As he watched Boland pilot the boat, Jamarcus flashed back to the phone call with Catherine. In her vision, she had seen Quinn Newberg sitting in a makeshift electric chair. Could that be what was happening below deck?
Jamarcus had to be careful here. He was an officer of the law. He was piling one assumption on top of another. What did he really have?
He slipped around to the back of the boat and quietly entered the salon area through the sliding door. He pulled out his gun and moved quickly to the steps at the front of the salon leading to the pilothouse, being careful to stay out of sight. Billy Long had just come up from below deck.
"He's all yours," Billy said to Bo, taking Bo's place in the pilot's seat.
"I'm going to be a real gentleman about it," Bo said. "Give him a last meal and everything."
"Your call," Long said gruffly. "He's no different than the others."
The exchange confirmed Jamarcus's worst fears, but it also bought him a little time. They were planning to give Quinn a last meal.
Jamarcus listened for any disturbances below and, hearing none, found the location of the fuse box. He waited until Class Action hit the big waters of the Chesapeake Bay. Then, as Billy Long hunched over a chart, Jamarcus crept up behind the captain's chair, said a quick prayer, and knocked Billy out cold with the butt of his gun.
Jamarcus had no idea how to pilot a yacht, so he decided not to touch any of the controls. He checked for Billy's pulse, found one, and scrambled to the fuse box. He cut off the lights below deck and headed for the stairs. He let silence answer Marc Boland's calls to Billy.
Jamarcus slipped into the master suite just as Boland peered out the door of the smaller suite. Jamarcus let his eyes adjust to the darkness for a moment, then heard a scuffle from the adjoining room.
Gun drawn, he rounded the corner.
104
Staring down the barrel of Marc Boland's gun, Quinn heard the shot and flinched but never felt the impact. Simultaneous with the shot, he saw Boland's right shoulder lurch forward and heard the man scream in pain, the gun dropping from his hand. It took Quinn a second to register what had just happened; then he scrambled to pick up the weapon as Boland hunched over, holding his shoulder.
In the doorway, Jamarcus Webb stood like a Spartan warrior, silhouetted in the dim remnants of light from the main deck. "Drop the gun!" he yelled at Quinn. "Hands on your head."
"I'm not your man!" Quinn protested.
"Hands on your head!" Jamarcus demanded, taking one step inside the room, then another.
Boland was now leaning against the wall, still holding his right shoulder, his face wracked with pain. They could sort this out later, Quinn reasoned. For now, Jamarcus was just playing it safe. But before he dropped the pistol, Quinn saw a small shift in the faint light from the doorway behind Jamarcus. It could mean only one thing.
"Duck!" Quinn yelled. Jamarcus ducked left and spun, all in one motion, squeezing off a shot as he did so. Quinn fired as well, at the same instant that Billy Long flashed into sight around the corner of the doorframe, his own gun blazing. One of the shots snapped Billy's head backward, and he crumpled lifeless against the hallway wall. Even in the virtual darkness, Quinn could see blood trickling down the man's face from a dark hole on the right side of his forehead.
Quinn dropped his gun and placed his handcuffed hands on his head.
Jamarcus rose to his full height, holding his gun with both hands, keeping it trained on Marc Boland. He kicked the gun that Quinn had dropped into a corner. "You know how to drive this boat?" Jamarcus asked Quinn.
"I know how to put it in neutral and call for help on the radio," Quinn said.
"That'll work."
Before Quinn headed above deck, Jamarcus freed Quinn from the handcuffs and leg irons, then cuffed Marc Boland and checked on Billy Long. He felt for a pulse, then looked at Quinn and shook his head.
"Nice shot," said Quinn.
Jamarcus smiled grimly. "That quarter-sized hole in his temple ain't my caliber. I was just trying to wing him. Nice shot yourself, Counselor."
"I was aiming for his heart," Quinn said.
"Sometimes," said Jamarcus, "it's better to be lucky than good."
105
The night became a blur of activity. The arrest of Marc Boland, Quinn's treatment at the hospital for bruised ribs and a gash that required eight stitches, hours of police questioning, and Quinn's negotiations with two prosecuting attorneys-Boyd Gates and Carla Duncan-on opposite sides of the country. Quinn didn't make it back to the Hilton until nearly four in the morning. He took some pain pills and asked for a wake-up call at six so he could stop by the jail on the way to court and explain everything to Catherine.
He woke up hurting all over and noticed the sunlight streaming through a slit in the curtains. He vaguely remembered answering a wake-up call and allowing himself a few more minutes of sleep. He glanced at the clock-8:05!
He blinked. The digital readout didn't change.
Court started in less than an hour.
Quinn sat straight up in bed and almost passed out. Sharp pain stabbed in his ribs, and a dull aching pain pulsed on his cheek, accentuated by the stitches and swelling that would probably make him look like a boxer in a losing cause. The rotator cuff had its own throbbing rhythm of agony, more intense than it had ever been before.
He climbed gingerly out of bed and flicked on the television. Commentators were speculating about the arrest of Marc Boland, who was to be arraigned later that morning, and a press conference Chief Compton had scheduled for 10 a.m. There was additional speculation about the shooting death of a private investigator named William Long, a former law enforcement officer who might have been assisting the defense team on the Catherine O'Rourke case. Police had confirmed the cause of death as a gunshot wound but were saying little else.
Quinn rubbed on some deodorant, splashed on the aftershave, brushed his teeth, and wet his hair. His ribs ached as he raised his left arm to comb it. He pulled on the same suit he had worn two days ago.
Over the past week, his hotel suite had become a combination war room and bachelor pad, clothes and documents strewn everywhere. Housekeeping cleaned every day, but the maids were no match for Quinn's ability to clutter things up.
He threw a few things into his briefcase and headed out the door. On the way to the courthouse, he dialed the airlines and secured a first-class ticket.
Quinn fought his way through the media circus, greeted the security guards, and remained closed-lipped as he entered the courtroom. He made it to his counsel table at two minutes before nine, just in time to iron out a few last-minute details with Boyd Gates.