William Bernhardt - Final Round

Conner stared at him. “You’re a veritable arsenal, aren’t you?”

“Like my daddy used to say, A smart man comes prepared.”

“Yeah? Well, here’s something my daddy used to say: You’re about to be in a hell of a lot of trouble, son.”

“Give me the tape recorder, Conner.”

“What else have you got? A flame thrower in your socks? Maybe a bazooka in your boxers?”

“Give me the tape recorder, Conner. Now!”

“I really don’t want to do that, Harley.”

“And I really don’t want to blow your brains out, Conner!” His voice was thin and strained. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. “But I’ve already killed three people. One more won’t make much difference!”

“Harley, let’s talk about-”

“Give it to me! Now!”

“Be reasonable-”

“Now!” Harley’s arm wavered up and down. His trigger finger twitched. “I said, now !”

Conner crouched down and laid the tape recorder on the tile floor. He gave it a gentle kick. The tiny recorder slid between them, stopping about two feet in front of Harley, who picked it up and dropped it into his coat pocket.

“Thank you,” Harley said, wiping his brow. “I don’t like to leave loose ends.”

Conner pursed his lips. “And what about me, Harley?”

“I don’t suppose you’d just give me your word not to tell anyone what you know?”

Conner didn’t answer.

“No. I didn’t think so.” He raised the gun eye level. “I suppose I should make this look like a suicide. ‘The golf club killer, racked with guilt, ends his killing spree by taking his own life.’ ”

He held the gun out at arms’ length and squinted, aiming carefully, zeroing in on Conner’s right temple…

“Freeze, asshole.”

Harley’s head whipped around. “Wha-?”

Lieutenant O’Brien was perched in one of the windows, behind and above him. “Drop the gun. Pronto.”

Harley pivoted slightly.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Harley. I’ve got you dead to rights. Now drop it!”

Harley opened his fist. The revolver dropped to the floor with a clatter.

“Now give it a kick. A good one.”

Harley complied. The gun went flying across the locker room, well out of sight.

“Now put the tape recorder on the bench.”

Harley did it.

O’Brien jumped down from the window ledge, careful to keep her gun trained on Harley. “Mr. Tuttle, you are officially under arrest.”

Harley recovered his mask of innocence. “You’re making a big mistake.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Conner Cross is the killer! He’s been trying to frame me. He’s desperate to divert suspicion to someone else.”

“Save the performance for the trial, Harley. I’ve been in that window listening for the past ten minutes.” She pressed her gun into the small of his back. “Now march. I’ve got a jail cell with your name on it.”

“All right. I’ll go. No need to get rough.” His body slumped. “Shouldn’t you get the knife? It’s your best evidence.”

Her eyes diverted for barely a fraction of a second, but it was all Harley needed. In the blink of an eye, he whirled around, ducking in case she fired the gun, and bashed his elbow back into her face. O’Brien went reeling backward, blood spurting from her nose, her head smashing into a row of lockers. Before she had a chance to react, Harley lunged forward, twisted her wrist, and wrested the gun away from her.

Conner sprang forward, but before he could reach Harley, the murderer had locked his arm around O’Brien’s throat and pointed the gun at her head. “Back off!” he shouted.

Conner froze in his tracks.

Harley pressed the gun hard against O’Brien’s right temple. “I mean it! I’ll blow her head to kingdom come!”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Harley. Killing her won’t help you.”

“Killing both of you will,” he muttered.

Conner turned his attention to O’Brien. “Are you all right?”

O’Brien’s eyelids fluttered. Blood still oozed from her nose, which looked as if it might be broken. Dark circles were forming around her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said, not very convincingly.

“Enough chatter!” Harley barked. “Move!” He tried to edge toward the door, holding O’Brien’s body in front of him like a shield. But O’Brien seemed barely conscious, dead weight. Each step was harder than the one before.

Conner watched carefully, waiting for an opportunity to do something without putting O’Brien at risk.

Harley made it to the exit. He released his grip on O’Brien’s throat and she fell in a crumpled heap at his feet. He cocked the gun again, then pointed it toward her head. “This is where you get off, sweetheart.”

Conner sprang across the room. Even as he did it, he knew there was a good chance Harley would readjust his aim and drill him before he arrived. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to stand still while this madman killed another one of his friends.

Harley twisted the gun around, but Conner slapped it aside just in time. The bullet flew up and to his right, impacting on one of the lockers. Conner hit Harley again, and the gun dropped to the floor.

“You-stupid- idiot !” Harley reared back his fist and took a shot at Conner’s chin. Conner ducked, and the blow missed him. Harley lost his balance and fell forward, giving Conner a perfect shot at his gut, which he took. Harley clutched his stomach, gasping for air.

Desperate, Harley reared his foot back and kicked O’Brien in the ribs, hard. A sharp cry spilled forth from her lips.

“Stop!” Conner knelt beside her.

Harley saw his opportunity and took it. He turned tail and bolted out the door.

Conner cradled O’Brien in his arms, slightly elevating her head. “Nikki! Talk to me. Are you all right?”

Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. “I’ll be fine,” she said. She wiped some of the blood from her face. “I just didn’t want that creep to drag me clear across the golf course.”

Conner brushed her hair from her face; some of it had gotten caught in the coagulated blood. “I was so worried-”

“Later,” she said. To his surprise, she pushed herself upright. “Let’s get that bastard before he disappears and becomes someone else.”

With Conner’s help, O’Brien rose to her feet. She collected her gun and made her way out the door. She seemed a bit unsteady, but she was holding together.

“There!” Conner said, pointing. Harley was making tracks across the first fairway. He already had a substantial lead on them. He probably planned to cut through the rough, then find his way to another one of those sewer access tunnels, Conner mused. He could slip off the grounds and disappear before they had a chance to call in backup.

O’Brien raised her gun and fired, without success. “Damn. He’s out of range. And if he gets off the grounds, our chances of finding him are about nil.”

Together, they started running. Conner led the way, but O’Brien held her own. Still, he knew it was hopeless. Harley had too great a lead on them. They’d never catch him like this.

O’Brien fired another shot, but it had no more effect than the first time. He was too far away.

Still racing, they crossed the driving range. Conner saw some clubs resting beside a bucket of balls. A crazy idea flitted through his brain.

“You keep running,” he told O’Brien. He stopped, grabbed the longest range club in the bag, tipped over the bucket of balls, and concentrated. Well, he thought, Fitz says I could hit a dime at two hundred yards. Let’s see if he’s right.

He swung, sending the first ball over O’Brien’s head and landing about ten feet in front of Harley, who saw it, paused momentarily-then kept on running.