William Bernhardt - Final Round

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?”

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?”

“Can’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.