By reason of insanity

18

The minutes ticked by for Catherine O'Rourke on day two of her involuntary confinement. How can someone ever serve a ten-year sentence? How does anybody do this for life?

The blows to her dignity and sanity came from all directions. She had barely slept the previous night. Three times a deputy had come around and shone a flashlight in Cat's eyes as part of the shift counts. At 4:30 a.m., a deputy had come by to rouse the prisoners from sleep, and the screeching voice of another deputy came over the loudspeaker, barking out names and commands for the day. When Cat used the toilet, an inmate from the cell across the hall stood and watched.

Cat shot her a disapproving look that only made the woman sneer. "You'd better get used to it, Barbie," the woman said.

The nickname was a carryover from Cat's first day in the slammer. Most of the inmates were housed in two-story "pods"-groups of fourteen cells that opened into a common area containing bolted-down metal tables and benches as well as a wall-mounted television set. Prisoners like Cat, who were serving time in solitary, stayed in a separate wing composed of single cells on each side of the hall. A few other prisoners, however, occasionally passed through the hallway in front of Cat's cell. One of them, a woman with a buzz cut, had said, "Look, it's the brunette Barbie. Hey, Barbie, you're gonna be my baby doll." The inmates within earshot had laughed, and the name, like everything else in prison, had spread like wildfire.

Cat felt the book she was reading slip from her hand and realized she had been dozing. For most of her second day, she had remained sprawled out on her cot, reading a James Patterson thriller, one of several books Marc Boland had provided. Now she closed the book and placed her head on the pillow, facing the wall. The inmates' shouts from the pods or other cells on her hall became a distant hum as Cat dozed in and out, completely exhausted. In a strange way, she was almost too tired to sleep, her body wired to run or fight or somehow survive this awful experience.

That's when he entered her cell.

She saw him reflected on the cinder block wall, which had turned into a mirror. She clutched the pillow tightly, keeping her eyes nearly closed, not daring to breathe. Maybe he would go away if he thought Catherine was sleeping.

Catherine didn't recognize the man, though the sight of him paralyzed her with fear. He was tall, maybe six-two or six-three, and solidly built, as if he spent half his life in the gym. He wore baggy jeans and no shirt. An African-American man with close-cropped hair, a three-day stubble, a broad nose, and molten eyes. Tattoo ink covered the upper half of his body.

He stood on the opposite side of the cell, leering at Catherine as she slept. She wanted to cry out but feared the deputies would be too slow to respond, too late to save her. Instead, she held her breath, deathly still, waiting for her visitor to make the first move.

Instead of attacking, he turned toward a corner of the cell, as if he heard something. The leer disappeared, replaced by a look of sadness, and a single tear trickled from the man's left eye as he slowly faded from view.

Now a woman stood in the corner of the cell. Behind her, a hooded figure in a white robe floated closer, quiet and serene until the woman started shaking spasmodically and then, with a violent rush, the hooded figure jabbed a needle into the woman's neck. Catherine gasped and turned on her cot as the woman slumped to the floor, the needle jutting from her neck.

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 evildoers will never be remembered.

Prepare a place of slaughter for the sons because of the iniquities of their fathers.