William Bernhardt - Final Round

How had it come to this? he silently pondered. How had buddying up with John led to investigating his murder a million years later? How had falling in love with golf led to delivering a bag full of money at the Masters? How had falling in love with Jodie led-?

He stopped himself short. There was no point in going there. No cheese down that tunnel. It was all over. All over and done-

His thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched noise buzzing just beside his ear, followed by a crackle of thunder.

He whirled around. What- ?

He reached up and touched his left ear. His hand came back with blood on it.

Someone had taken a shot at him.

All at once, Conner’s brain sputtered into action. He dove forward, seconds before another shot fired somewhere north of him. He took cover behind a hedge, then scrambled close to the front of the building.

A moment later, he heard footsteps moving rapidly away from him.

Conner bit down on his lip. There was almost nothing stupider than chasing someone who was trying to shoot him. But if he didn’t-

He might never find out who it was.

He didn’t have time for protracted analysis. He pushed himself around the corner of the clubhouse and ran in the general direction where he’d heard the shots and the footsteps.

There was something moving over there, toward the cabins. He could just barely see the outline of a figure moving fast. Conner steered himself toward it, bracing himself for the next crash of thunder.

Conner took a hard left around the first cabin and continued barreling forward, panting and wheezing. He had almost forgotten how much exercise he’d already had tonight, until his aching thighs reminded him. He felt winded before he’d crossed the first hundred feet; he broke out in a cold sweat long before that. But he forced himself to keep moving.

The shadowy figure was well ahead, but Conner was gaining on him. Come on, Cross, he told himself. Pedal to the metal. Don’t let this creep get away. He was still telling himself that when something big and solid slammed into his face.

Conner hit the ground hard. His head hit the grass; fireworks went off before his eyes.

What the hell-? His hands groped for the glistening steel object that had knocked him over.

A golf club. The SOB had thrown a golf club at him!

Conner pulled himself together and started running, ignoring the intense throbbing he now felt in his head. If there were any chance he could catch this creep, he wasn’t going to let it slip away.

He’d passed three more cabins when he spotted the silhouette. Hah!-the fool had made the mistake of stopping, checking to see if the coast was clear. He was history now.

Conner poured on the speed. Hell, a few more nights like this, and he’d be ready for the triathlon.

The figure ahead saw him coming and started sprinting, but it was too late. Conner tackled him like a pro quarterback, wrapping himself around the man’s legs and bringing him down with a thud.

Conner sat on top of the squirming man, then rolled him over onto his back to see who it was.

“Ace? Ace Silverstone? Why did you do it?”

“Conner Cross!” the other man fired back. “Why the hell are you sitting on me?”

Conner kept a firm arm on Ace’s throat. “You were trying to kill me!”

“You’re even crazier than I thought.”

“You were firing a gun.”

“I’ve always suspected you had some mental problems, Cross, but you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

“Don’t feed me that. I saw you. I heard the shots.”

“I heard those shots, too. That’s why I came outside. What was going on?”

Conner stared at the man’s wide, seemingly innocent eyes. Was it possible he’d made a mistake? If it had been Ace, where was the gun? He began frisking him.

“This your idea of a good time, Cross?”

Conner patted him down all over, but he didn’t find a weapon. “What did you do with the gun?”

“What gun? I’ve never had a gun. What are you babbling about?”

“Someone took a couple of shots at me. I’ve been chasing him all the way from the clubhouse.”

“Well, it wasn’t me. Assuming this isn’t all some bizarre psychosis created by your paranoid brain. May I get up now?”

Conner hesitated. Was it true? Had the killer slipped away after he’d been decked by the golf club? “How long have you been outside?”

“Barely a minute. If that long. Since I heard the first shot.”

“If you just came outside, why are you sweating?”

“I’ve been exercising. You should try it sometime, Cross. You are an athlete, in theory, anyway.” He pushed up with his hands. “Now get off me, you oaf.”

Reluctantly, Conner rose, releasing Ace. It was just possible, he supposed. The killer could’ve escaped. Ace could’ve gotten caught in the crossfire.

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t file a complaint with the PGA,” Ace said, brushing himself off.

“Don’t bother. The PGA loves me. Today, anyway.”

“You ought to consider getting some counseling, Conner,” Ace said, as he hastily made his way back to the cabin. “You really do have a screw loose. Maybe several.”

Ace went inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

Conner wanted to kick himself. Once again, he’d had a chance to catch the killer. And once again, he’d somehow managed to screw it up. How much longer could this go on?

He pointed himself north, toward his own cabin. It’d been a hell of a night, and he needed rest. He was playing in a tournament tomorrow, after all. The last day of the Masters. The Big Enchilada. If he could keep his head together, could keep on playing like he had today, it was just possible he could be heading back to Watonga in a spiffy green jacket.

But somehow, he couldn’t get his brain to focus on the tournament. No matter how hard he tried, his mind kept wandering back to the same thought.

The killer was still at large.

And it seemed his current target was Conner Cross.

The next morning, Conner lathered himself up as he sang at the top of his lungs: “Some enchanted evening… you will meet a stranger…” Funny, he thought, how much better your singing voice sounds in the shower than in real life.

A good night’s sleep had washed away the fatigue and frustration of the night before. This morning, he was determined to focus his energies on the tournament. It was the last day of the Masters-and he was in fourth place. It was possible… just barely possible…

He stepped out of the shower, still high as a kite. He took the towel handed to him and began to dry off, humming a happy tune. He could envision the entire victory scene-the ball drops into the hole on the eighteenth, a stunning hole-in-one, the crowd grows wild, screaming and throwing confetti on the course, the other pros scoop him up and hoist him aloft, pouring champagne over his head. “For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good-”

Wait a minute. He took the towel handed to him-by whom?

Lieutenant O’Brien stood by the bathroom door, her arms folded, visibly unimpressed. “Are you about done, or should I call for a backup band?”

In a panicked flurry, Conner whipped the towel around his waist. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“I knocked. No one answered.”

“I was in the shower!”

“I gathered that.”

Conner grappled with the towel, trying to secure it. “You don’t have any business being in my cabin! Much less my bathroom!”

“Excuse me. Didn’t you tell me I could”-she tried to simulate his seductive voice-“drop by anytime?”

“Yes, but I meant-”

“Get your clothes on, cowboy. We’ve got work to do.”