“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.

“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.”