William Bernhardt - Final Round

“Meaning what exactly?”

“I think I’ve made myself clear. I want to bag this creep. So follow my instructions and don’t screw it up. Got it?”

As soon as he could tear himself away from Liponsky’s fiery glare, Conner took O’Brien aside. “I’m not sure I like this Special Agent Liponsky.”

She nodded. “That’s because you have a problem with women in positions of authority.”

“No, that’s because I think she’d tear my heart out and eat it if it allowed her to catch this killer.”

O’Brien smiled wryly. “I’ll try to keep her talons in check.”

“Don’t forget to wear your Kevlar.”

The group reassembled. Liponsky pushed a small black palm-sized device into Conner’s hands. “Keep this in your pocket. No matter what happens. Don’t let the killer see it.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a PDA.”

Conner blinked. “A Public Display of Affection?”

“A Personal Digital Assistant.” Liponsky paused. There was no light of recognition in Conner’s eyes. “Think of it as a souped-up pager. A signal device. It works via satellite, so even if the killer manages to disrupt phone transmissions or ties up the line, you can still get through.”

Conner stared at the tiny plastic box with its myriad buttons. “Looks complicated.”

“It isn’t. Here’s all you need to know. As soon as you’ve made the drop, push the red button.”

“Red button. I can do that.” He looked up. “As soon as I see the killer.”

“Wrong. Pay attention. You may never see the killer. As soon as you’ve deposited the bag wherever it is he wants it, you push the button. That’ll be our signal to close the cordon-to make sure no one gets out.”

“All right. Red button. Got it.”

“Keep it in your pocket the whole time. If the killer is watching, he doesn’t need to know you’ve signaled.”

“If-“ Conner looked up abruptly. “You mean you think the killer could be watching?”

“It’s possible.”

“You mean-“ He turned his head skyward. “Even now?”

“It’s possible.”

“How?”

Liponsky shrugged. “How should I know? Maybe he’s up one of those trees. Maybe he’s planted video cameras. Maybe he’s in a hotel hot tub laughing his head off at our expense. I can’t know.” Her voice dropped. “But I have to be ready for all contingencies.”

Liponsky pushed the black bag filled with loot into Conner’s hands. “Here’s the McGuffin. Take good care of it.” She raised an eyebrow. “And by the way, I feel compelled to say that if you’re having some cockamamie thoughts about taking off and keeping the cash yourself-forget it.”

“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?”