By reason of insanity

66

Two nights later, after Quinn and Sierra visited Annie, Quinn felt the urge to hit the town. He loved Sierra, but being a surrogate father was smothering him. He needed a little space, a few hours in the city.

Sierra said she would be fine. "I'm thirteen, Uncle Quinn. A lot of my friends are babysitting."

Quinn left the condo and headed down the interior moving sidewalks of the complex, toward the MGM Grand. In truth, he wanted to go gamble and unwind from a stressful day. As a bonus, he could net a few thousand bucks if the fates were with him, which of course they hadn't been for about six months. But he knew an hour at the high-stakes table would turn into two and then three. If it went well, he could be there until midmorning, and if it went bad, he'd stay even longer trying to get back to where he started.

Instead, he decided to walk down the sidewalk of the Vegas strip, lost in a river of tourists and thrill seekers and young singles on the hunt-cameras flashing and skin showing and huge neon signs pulsating. Some people relaxed at the ocean or a mountain retreat; Quinn relaxed in the midst of a Vegas mob. The teeming electricity of the city would calm his nerves.

When he arrived at the front of the Grand, he shuffled along with the flow of foot traffic, lost in his thoughts and the overwhelming challenges facing him that seemed as relentless as the Vegas heat.

Catherine's case presented the most straightforward problem: how to win. She was, in all likelihood, the Avenger of Blood. At first, Quinn had had his doubts, but the theory recently pieced together by Rosemarie Mancini made sense.

Catherine's personality had probably fractured during her undergrad experience at William and Mary, creating the Avenger and lodging it in her subconscious. When it surfaced several years later, it carried with it the references to the blood avengers from Catherine's comparative religion class. Rosemarie believed that the Avenger personality became active when Catherine started following Annie Newberg's case-a sexually abused female seeking revenge against her husband and almost getting away with it. This was why, in Dr. Mancini's opinion, Catherine had been so intent on having Quinn defend her. In Catherine's subconscious, she viewed Quinn as the defender of the blood avengers-those female furies who exacted blood vengeance against abusers and rapists and their legal accomplices.

On the surface, Catherine seemed to be a paragon of sanity, a cynical young reporter who relied on logic, street smarts, and a raw beauty she didn't seem to know she possessed. Yet she must be tormented by a buried hurt so painful that, when it surfaced, it completely took over, thirsty for vengeance on real and imagined perpetrators. Quinn suspected that the rape described by Catherine was only one of many. Perhaps there were numerous incidents of rape or abuse-trauma so painful that Cat had repressed it from her own memory.

Quinn would need to get inside her head and win her trust. Somehow he would have to discover the hidden pain that even Rosemarie couldn't seem to access. In a way, the possibility intrigued him. Something about Catherine O'Rourke drew Quinn. Now that he had a green light to handle her case, he wanted to spend time with her, even if only inside the walls of a sterile prison interview room, trying to break down the barriers that separated her from others and even from herself.

Annie's case was more complex. Annie was his client, but Sierra kept forcing herself to the front of Quinn's mind. Quinn and Annie had been through so much, including childhood scars that could never heal. But for Sierra, there was still hope. The biggest challenge on that front was Claude Tanner, a father who had shirked all responsibilities until he smelled money. Quinn had already assigned Billy Long, his Virginia Beach investigator, to dig up dirt on Claude Tanner. Hopefully Billy would find something good.

As Quinn walked, an unsettled feeling interrupted his thoughts. Something was out of place; he felt as if he was being watched, a deer innocently passing beneath a hunter's tree stand. He glanced left and right, over his shoulder. There. Two men in sunglasses and ball caps, hands in their pockets. How did I know they were there?

He picked up his pace on the crowded sidewalk and squeezed past people. He turned to check again, and the men were still there, the same distance behind him as before, pushing their way through the crowds.

Just ahead, the sidewalk was under construction, forcing the foot traffic to squeeze into a long tunnel with a plywood ceiling and wooden rails on each side. The pedestrians slowed to a stop, but Quinn elbowed his way ahead, drawing complaints and return shoves. One more glance over the shoulder and he started running, pushing his way through as fast as possible.

He squeezed out of the crowd at the other end, getting hip-checked by a stocky man who had turned to see Quinn coming. Quinn lost his balance but recovered and broke into a full-out run. He glanced behind him again, and the thugs were still coming, zigzagging around people like two linebackers bearing down on a thin and vulnerable wide receiver.

The sidewalk widened as Quinn entered the heart of downtown Vegas. Bally's was on the right, Bellagio across the street. Directly ahead was an enormous escalator, jammed with people, that rose to an elevated walkway crossing Las Vegas Boulevard. If Quinn had any advantage on his two pursuers, it might be speed and endurance. They would overpower him in a second if they caught him, but…

Quinn veered right and headed straight toward the escalator, shouting for people to get out of the way as his legs churned upward two steps at a time, climbing as fast as he could. The two thugs jumped on half a minute later and started climbing as well, surprising Quinn with their stamina.

At the top, Quinn frantically glanced left and right, trying to map out an escape route. He sprinted across the sidewalk overpass toward the New York-New York casino. "Call the police!" he shouted. "Stop those guys behind me!"

Just before he reached the other side of the overpass, he saw some women pushing their baby strollers out of an elevator. A few elderly couples climbed on the elevator, and the doors started to close. Quinn sprinted faster, spurred on by a quick glance over his shoulder.

"Hold that elevator!" he yelled, but the senior citizens pretended not to notice. Just before the doors closed, Quinn lunged and stuck his hand between them. They popped open, and Quinn quickly darted through them.

He started frantically pushing the Door Close button. "C'mon, c'mon…"

The thugs were sprinting toward them, and the others on the elevator backed into the corners, their eyes wide.

The doors locked closed a split second before Quinn's pursuers arrived.

Quinn looked around the elevator, now headed down to the street level. "Paparazzi," he gasped, shaking his head. "They never leave me alone."

The door opened, and Quinn bolted out, knowing that his pursuers were probably sprinting furiously down the long and crowded escalator that would bring them to street level as well. He raced through the doors of the New York-New York casino, wound through the casino floor and up an escalator, then ducked into the Coyote Ugly club.

Once inside, he stumbled to a dark corner of the club and bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

Who were those guys? He assumed they'd been sent by Hofstetter. What surprised Quinn was their audacity. They had chased him down a crowded city sidewalk with half of Las Vegas watching them. For what purpose? If they really wanted to harm him, why not just accost him in some parking garage?

He thought about going to the police, but then he thought about Sierra. Quinn would have a hard enough time maintaining custody as it was. If he reported these men, Hofstetter would probably counter by reporting Quinn's illegal gambling exploits.

Quinn could probably beat those accusations, but he didn't need more legal complexities right now. He needed to maintain custody of Sierra.

Quinn caught his breath and then, glancing this way and that, worked his way up to the bar and ordered a drink. He took his drink back to a spot in the shadows next to a wall, watching as the undulating bodies crammed together on the dance floor. He finished the drink and checked around one more time.

On his way to the door, he felt somebody jam something that felt like a gun barrel into the small of his back.

"It's got a silencer," a man whispered. "I wouldn't recommend any sudden moves."

Another man approached from the opposite side and threw a meaty arm around Quinn as if he were an old buddy. "Let's go for a little walk," he said.