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?”

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?”

24

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.”