William Bernhardt - Final Round

“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.”

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?”

“Maybe the killer spotted your team and made himself scarce,” O’Brien suggested.

“No way. These are some of the best-trained agents in the business. They know how to be invisible. Particularly on a nearly pitch-dark golf course in the dead of night.”

Fifteen minutes had passed since Conner had made the drop, and the bag was still on top of the seat, just where Conner had left it. Despite all his elaborate preparations, the killer didn’t seem to be in any hurry to collect his prize.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Conner said. “The time to grab the bag was immediately-before I had a chance to call in the reinforcements. Why would he do this if he doesn’t want the cash? Besides, he told me he did. He said he needed the money.”

“He’s just being cautious,” Liponsky whispered. “Making sure the coast is clear before he makes his move. As soon as he’s sure no one’s watching, he’ll go for it. That’s why we have to stay quiet-and stay out of sight.”

“Fine,” Conner said, folding his arms. She was the professional; they’d play it her way. But for some reason, he wasn’t convinced. A glance at O’Brien told him she wasn’t particularly convinced either.

Fifteen more slow, tedious minutes passed. Conner wondered if all stakeouts were this exciting. Sitting in the dark, doing nothing. Not exactly a thrill-packed adventure. He wasn’t even angry at the creep anymore. He just wanted this night to be over.

On cop shows, stakeouts never lasted more than a minute or two before the culprit appeared. It seemed reality was something else again. Conner supposed it hadn’t actually been that long. In truth, he’d only been waiting a little over half an hour, but he was ready to call it a day and run to the clubhouse for a sandwich. Maybe a margarita to wash it down. From their position near the eighteenth, Conner could see the clubhouse. He could even smell the food-or so he imagined. It was just too tempting to resist.

“Look,” he said quietly, “not that this isn’t the most exciting time I’ve ever had with my clothes on, but I think I’m going to call it a night.”

“Shh,” Liponsky whispered. She was peering through infrared binoculars.

“No, seriously, I can’t take it any longer.” Conner started to push up to his feet.

Liponsky grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him back down. “I think I see someone.”

Conner froze. Could it be? Finally-?

Liponsky whispered into her mouthpiece, which transmitted to the earpieces each of the agents was wearing. “See ’im? Yeah, me too. On my signal.”

A few moments passed. Conner began to perceive a tall silhouette weaving its way across the fairway. It was hard to be certain, but-

Yes! The silhouette took a sudden veer to the left. It was definitely moving toward the golf cart.

“That’s it,” Liponsky whispered breathlessly. “One… two… three… move !”

All at once, a dozen figures appeared out of nowhere, surging forward, forming an increasingly tight circle around the mysterious figure.

The man stopped suddenly. He’d spotted them. But he didn’t turn away, didn’t run. He just stood still, as if staring in disbelief.