Final Round

by William Bernhardt

  “Me?” He stared at O’Brien. “What have you told her about me?”

  “Everything.”

  “Well, that explains it.” He opened the bag, just to establish in his mind that the money was still there.

  It was. A million dollars in cash. Amazing.

  O’Brien checked her watch. “Almost time. We’d better scram.”

  Liponsky nodded. “Right. We have to stay out of sight.”

  O’Brien laid her hand on Conner’s shoulder. “Good luck, slick.”

  Liponsky laid her hand on his other shoulder. “Don’t screw it up.”

  Twenty minutes later, Conner remained all by himself at the fifteenth hole, leaning against the flag. It was painfully dark out here, and painfully quiet as well. He would’ve given a great deal for some company-as long as it didn’t involve getting whacked on the head with a golf club.

  Inevitably, his mind reeled backward through the sights and sounds of the last few days. He remembered that stupid food fight at the champions’ dinner. A harmless bit of revelry. Who would ever have thought that would be the last time he’d see John alive? He couldn’t imagine a world that didn’t have John McCree in it.

  And he didn’t particularly want to, either.

  That train of thought led him in no time at all to Jodie. Sweet Jodie. His first love. An aching in his heart that never quite subsided.

  He closed his eyes tight, wincing at the memory of that last sight of her, floating in the fountain, a thin tissue of blood issuing from her throat. God-who could have done such a thing? And why? Who could possibly be so cruel? It was like tearing the wings off a butterfly. Taking such a beautiful creature and-

  His reverie was abruptly interrupted by a harsh beeping noise. He had drifted so far away, it took him a few moments just to register what the sound was.

  The cell phone. The one Liponsky had given him. In his pocket.

  The killer.

  Conner pulled the phone out of his pocket and pushed the Talk button. “Hello.”

  The voice that came back at him was harsh and metallic. It echoed, like someone was putting their lips too close to an electronic bullhorn. Obviously, the killer was using a voice disguiser. “Hello, Conner. Having a good think?”

  Conner looked all around him-the course, the trees, the green. He didn’t see anything. No signs of movement; no signs of life. Was he out there? “Who is this?”

  “Your worst nightmare. Ready for a quick jog?”

  “I gave up exercise years ago. Just before I took it up.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. I want you to run, Conner. I want you to run like the devil himself is chasing you. I want you to be on the third green in five minutes.”

  “The third green? Do you know how far away that is?”

  “Of course. That’s why I chose it.”

  “Forget it. I’m not doing it.”

  “If you’re not on the third green in five minutes, someone else will die. Someone you know personally. Maybe closely.”

  “You son-of-a-”

  “Watch the language, Conner. On your mark-”

  “Just explain to me why-”

  “Get set-”

  “But first, tell me-”

  “Go! Try not to leave a divot on the green. Five minutes and counting.”

  Conner snapped the phone shut, shoved it in his pocket, and ran. Thank goodness he was wearing his sneakers. If he could make it to the third green in five minutes, it would be nothing less than a miracle.

  He bolted across the fairway, criss-crossing in a southwesterly direction. Fortunately, he’d been playing this course since Monday, so he had a pretty good idea how to shortcut to the third. But five minutes? Was the lunatic serious about killing someone else, or was that just a threat he hauled out so Conner would play his sick little game? Conner couldn’t be sure-but he couldn’t take the chance, either. If running would save someone’s life, then run he would.

  Conner raced up a steep slope near the tee-off for the seventh, bounded over a short fence lining the cart trail, and kept on running. He didn’t know what he was running for or running to, but he was determined to make it. Huffing and puffing, he careened across another fairway, then raced up toward the flag for the third hole. He collapsed on the ground, then checked his watch.

  Seconds to spare.

  The cell phone buzzed again.

  “Congratulations, Conner,” the scrambled voice said. “You’ve outdone yourself. Really. I’m genuinely impressed.”

  “You have no idea how happy that makes me,” Conner gasped.

  “I can see I’m going to have to make this more challenging for you.”

  “That’s really not necessary-”

  “I want you at the eleventh tee-off in five minutes. No, make it four.”

  “Look, you sorry sack of-”

  “If you don’t make it, Monica Cartwright dies.”

  “Monica-“ Conner paused, his mind racing. “Who’s she?”

  “She’s the woman you picked up in the bar and slept with Monday night, you heel. Didn’t you even ask her name?”

  “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

  “Would you prefer I choose someone you know better?”

  Conner gritted his teeth together. “No.”

  “Fine. On your mark, get set, go!”

  Conner flew. He raced back the way he had come, this time jogging left on the seventh fairway, making a beeline for the start of the eleventh. He crossed a water trap with a flying leap… and almost made it. His sneakers came down in the water, wet up to his knees. Didn’t matter. He didn’t have time to stop, much less complain.

  He had to keep running. His throat felt dry; sweat was flying off his brow. He felt a painful stitch in his side, but he forced himself to keep going. He could see the end in sight. The tee-off was just around the corner.

  Conner pulled up to the tee-off, gasping for all he was worth. He was drinking in air in huge gulps, feeling as if he might faint at any moment. But he had made it, damn it, with time to spare. He’d made it-

  His eyes wandered to the sign posted at the top of the tee-off spot. The big sign with a red twelve painted on it.

  Twelve? His heart sank.

  He’d taken a wrong turn.

  Without stopping to think, Conner flew backwards through the twelfth fairway. How much time did he have left? He couldn’t be sure; he’d forgotten to check his watch before he left. But it couldn’t be much.

  His chest pounding, his feet aching, the stitch in his side ready to split, Conner finally loped to the eleventh tee-off. He collapsed on the ground, face first. He had no energy left. Not even enough to stand.

  The cell phone beeped. “Yes?” he gasped.

  “Not bad, Conner. Not bad at all.”

  Conner swore silently. Could the creep really see him? Or was this just a charade to make him think so?

  “Look,” Conner said forcefully, “I’m tired of playing games. Tell me where you are and I’ll bring you your damn money.”

  “Sorry, old boy. That’s not the way we’re going to play it.”

  “I’m tired of running around!”

  “A pity. Because you see-we’ve only just begun.”

  “Forget it. I’m not doing it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Conner. Though not as sorry as Monica Cartwright will be.”

  “Listen to me. You can’t-”

  “I can and I will. I haven’t killed anyone for almost twenty-four hours. I’m overdue.”

  Clenching his jaw, Conner forced himself to his feet. “Fine, you sorry son-of-a-bitch. Where do we go now?”

  24

  Lieutenant O’Brien hunched over Agent Liponsky’s shoulder, watching her work. Liponsky had headphones on, plugged into the cellular scanner.

  “Are you getting anything?”

  Liponsky shook her head. “Not much. Scattered words. It was coming in clear at first, then it dissipated.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Ca
n’t be certain. Conner is moving a lot. Maybe they both are. That makes it harder to catch the signal. It’s also possible the killer is using a frequency scrambler.”

  “Where would he get one?”

  “Are you kidding? Pawn shops, Internet, wherever. This is the United States. You can buy anything you want. Pick up a couple of Uzis while you’re at it. Hell, next week you’ll probably be able to get them at Wal-Mart.”

  “Surely this creep isn’t smart enough to use a frequency scrambler.”

  “Don’t be so sure. He hasn’t made any mistakes so far. And he’s the one who decided to communicate by cell phone, remember. It’s not as if this happened by accident. And it’s not as if he wouldn’t know the FBI would be involved at this point.”

  O’Brien frowned. “You know where Conner is?”

  “Yeah. He doesn’t know it, but that PDA is emitting a constant signal. We know his position at all times.”

  “Is that wise? What if the killer picks up the signal?”

  “He won’t. And this way, my team can follow Cross from a distance. As soon as he signals that he’s made the drop, they can surround the area instantly. The killer will have no chance to escape.”

  O’Brien shook her head. “Still seems risky to me.”

  “Relax, Lieutenant. We’re professionals. We know what we’re doing.”

  “Easy to say.”

  Liponsky observed the note of concern in O’Brien’s voice. “Look, Cross knew there was an element of risk.”

  “An element of risk? Is that what you call it? He’s putting his life on the line out there! And you’re screwing around, assuming the killer won’t know you’re breaking his rules. Sure, Conner knew there was risk. But he didn’t know you were going to be giving the guy an excuse to blow him away.”

  “Lieutenant, it might be best if you waited somewhere else. I promise I’ll keep you posted.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Please, Lieutenant. Don’t make me pull rank.”

  “You’ll have to pull a lot more than that to budge me.”

  “Don’t fight me on this, Lieutenant. If you won’t go of your own volition, I’ll have to remove you.”

  O’Brien arched an eyebrow, her feet planted firmly in place. “You and what army?”

  After the tee-off for the eleventh, Conner was ordered to the pin of the fourth green in six minutes, the cart trail between the first and the second in five, and the north rough of the eighteenth in three. Each time, he was certain he had nothing left; he couldn’t possibly move any faster. And each time he managed to get back on his feet and force his sneakers into action.

  He collapsed under a spreading magnolia in the designated rough, his throat dry, wheezing, gasping for air like he couldn’t recall ever doing in his life. Why was that sick bastard on the other end of the line doing this? What was the point? Just to get his jollies? Or was there something more, something Conner hadn’t begun to imagine yet?

  He wondered where his backup was now. They couldn’t possibly be keeping track of all this hustle-bustle across the course. Maybe that was the point. All Liponsky and O’Brien could do was wait for his signal and try to surround the area quickly. There was no telling whether they’d make it in time to catch the creep. Much less in time to prevent him from drilling Conner, just for the fun of it.

  Conner wasn’t surprised when he heard the phone in his pocket beep. He flipped it open and shouted: “Look, you sick son-of-a-bitch! I’m tired of your stupid games!”

  “Temper, temper,” the electronic voice said. “There’s a two hundred and fifty dollar penalty for harsh language.”

  “The PGA can go screw itself. And so can you.”

  “Do I detect a note of irritation? Aren’t you enjoying our little game?”

  “No, I’m not. And I’m not going to do it anymore.”

  “Really. Then I’m afraid I’ll have to deal with your sweetheart Monica.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll have to pour your money into the fucking water trap, you asshole! How would you like that?”

  The metallic ringing subsided. The line was silent for several seconds.

  “That would be a mistake, Conner. I need that money.”

  “For what? Another trip to Fiji?”

  There was a pronounced pause on the other end of the line. It had been a long shot, but it seemed to have hit home. “I need the money,” the voice repeated.

  “Then come and get it, you bastard!”

  “Calm down, Conner. Calm down. Perhaps it is time to get on with it. Do you know which direction is north?”

  “At the moment, I don’t even know which direction is up.”

  “Sorry. After the way you’ve been playing this week, I thought you’d know the roughs like the back of your hand.”

  “Why don’t you go-”

  “Toward the tee-off, Conner. Get up and walk toward the tee-off.”

  “Then what?”

  “Just do it. And don’t disconnect the line. Let’s chat awhile.”

  “Oh, goody.” Conner pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dirt and debris off his pants. He didn’t get the half of it, and when it came right down to it, he supposed it didn’t matter much, either.

  “All right, Conner. Keep walking till you’re about halfway down the fairway.”

  “I already am.” Why didn’t Mr. Murder know that? Did that mean he couldn’t see Conner? That he’d been bluffing all along? Or that he could see Conner before, but now he’d gone somewhere he couldn’t? Conner couldn’t make any sense of it; it made his head hurt, just trying.

  “Fine. Veer west at the post. That would be to your left. Do you remember which is your left hand, Conner? That’s the one you keep too stiff when you swing.”

  Conner gritted his teeth and prayed to heaven he got ten seconds alone with this creep before the cops showed up. “I’m turning.”

  “Good. Keep walking. You’ll go about a hundred feet.”

  “Fine. Should I pace this off?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” The metallic voice faded for about twenty seconds. “See anything unusual?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” Staring straight ahead, Conner saw a white golf cart-parked in the middle of the rough. “What’s that thing doing out here? The cart track isn’t even nearby.”

  “I made special arrangements for you, Conner.”

  “What now-you want me to drive the cart backwards down the freeway?”

  “Nothing nearly so elaborate. Just put the money on the seat and disappear.”

  Conner stopped a few paces from the cart. “You mean-leave the money? Here?”

  “What do you know-you’re brighter than you look.”

  “But I thought I was going to give it to you.”

  “And you will, Conner. You will. Drop it on the cart.”

  Damn. What was this fiend planning? He hated to let go of the loot until he knew where the man was. “I don’t feel good about this. What if someone else gets it?”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. A vagrant, maybe.”

  “At the Augusta National? Put the money on the damn seat!”

  Conner did as he was told.

  “Now scram.”

  “What-that’s it?”

  “You heard me. Clear out. Fast.”

  “But I thought-”

  “If you’re anywhere near here in one minute, the deal’s off. And Monica’s dead.” The line disconnected.

  Damn! He didn’t have any choice. Conner slipped his hand in his pocket and pushed the red button on the PDA. Then he started running.

  “We got his signal!” Liponsky shouted.

  O’Brien pressed close to the viewscreen. “Where is he?”

  “On the eighteenth hole. Just south of here.” She stared at her screen for a moment. “The signal’s moving. He probably dropped the cash and ran.” She flipped a switch and spoke into her microphone. “All right, boys and girls-move. Double time.”r />
  Somewhere in the darkness of the Augusta National golf course, a team of twelve FBI agents began closing in.

  “I want a cordon around the eighteenth in place in thirty seconds,” Liponsky shouted. “Start big, then close. Whatever you do, don’t let anyone escape. Got it? I don’t want any screw-ups. I want this killer caught!”

  She removed the headphones, then turned to O’Brien. “Well, Lieutenant? Shall we go see what we’ve bagged?”

  Conner was still running fast when he saw Liponsky and O’Brien approaching from the opposite direction. O’Brien stepped forward, taking Conner by the arms. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Exhausted, but unharmed. My leg muscles are aching.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Well, a shiatsu massage followed by a full-body oil rubdown might do the trick. Or if you’d like, we can skip the massage.”

  O’Brien shoved him away. “Pervert.”

  “Well, you did ask.”

  Liponsky stepped between them. “Did you see the killer?”

  “Sorry, no. Just heard him. And he was using some kind of voice disguiser.”

  Liponsky grimaced. “That’s what I thought. Doesn’t matter. We’ll grab him when he comes for the mil.”

  “Good,” Conner said. “Mind if I hang around?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Conner’s eyes turned back toward the eighteenth. “I have a message to deliver.”

  O’Brien arched an eyebrow. “With your lips? Or your fist?”

  Conner looked away. “No comment.”

  The FBI cordon remained out of sight but kept a tight lock around the golf cart sitting in the west rough off the eighteenth fairway. The team had settled into place mere seconds after Conner sent the signal. They were certain no one could have gotten in or out. Moreover, they could see that the black money bag was still resting on the seat of the cart.

  “He has to come sometime,” Liponsky said, peering through high-powered infrared binoculars. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”