Match Play (7 page)

I
t is
Saturday, mid-afternoon, March 23 at Aviara Golf Club when the man selects the second hole, a par 3; he will play the hole tomorrow. He has followed the careers of many golfers in
Certain Swing Magazine;
he knew when he saw her that she would produce a compelling conclusion to the second hole. He has chosen Emily Cho, age thirty-one.

The long morning has made him weary and he searches for a hotel by the beach. Money is not an issue; he is wealthy by any standards. He finds a high end, very well-maintained hotel with four floors. He requests top floor with a view and is quite satisfied when he enters the room. He makes note of the location of the refrigerator and microwave. He opens the balcony door and immediately the ocean breeze wafts in and surrounds him with the warmth of the sun.

He returns to the car, unloads his luggage, and while there, retrieves more cash from the spare tire well. The wrapped packet of bills is in order, with the presidents facing upright and to the left. His hand bumps the Glock 30S and he is reminded that California gun laws are very strict. He must make sure it is not discovered should he be stopped for any reason.

Back in his room, the man removes his cap and stands on the balcony and peers out at the ocean. His shoulder length, wavy blond hair is tossed by the ocean breeze. His blue eyes glisten in the light reflecting off the ocean. His height is slightly less than six feet, and he has a handsome face, light-complexion and smooth skin, that appears younger than his years. He is lean and well-toned and carries himself with a confident demeanor. His hands are well-defined, with narrow and elegant palms and long and graceful fingers; he has the hands of a pianist.

He twirls a strand of hair as he plans which courses he will play over the next few days. When he played the first hole in Phoenix, he had time to find his victim and stalk her for two days before playing the hole. Now he feels pressured for time and decides if the opportunity to play the second hole presents itself, he will be less cautious. He is more practiced, more prepared.

He expects that Joan will be at Aviara on Sunday morning interviewing the players. He ties his hair and fits it under his cap. He will check with the concierge for restaurant recommendations and for the location of the nearest market.

He chooses a bistro just one block away, with a small market next door. The hostess sits him by the window with a view of the ocean. The hostess is the right age and he wonders if she plays golf. He is equally impressed with his waitress, contemplating if she also plays golf. In his compulsion to always be prepared, it is imperative that he has a secondary in mind.

He enjoys his dinner of grilled sea bass and steamed vegetables along with two glasses of a California Pinot Grigio, one of his favorites.

He stops at the market and picks up a few things from the deli; lunch meat, fine cheese, sourdough bread, condiments and two bottles of wine. He drifts down the aisles, finds potato chips and fancy cookies and sees the sign for baby products. He picks the small jars; two applesauce and two apricot. Next is the cosmetic aisle and the man adds toothpaste to his hand basket.

He walks slowly back to the hotel, noting his car in the parking lot. He approves of the inconspicuous spot he chose. His purchases fit neatly into the refrigerator, all but one, a jar of applesauce which he eats while flipping through television channels. Not finding anything of interest, he showers and goes to bed.

He smells the ocean in his room; the light curtains are billowing and he can hear the soothing sounds of waves crashing on the beach. As he starts to fall asleep he imagines himself a predator slipping through water, seeking, cognizant of every detail, ready to strike his prey.

Aviara Golf Club, Carlsbad, California, Sunday, March 24
The Second Hole

H
e stands
outside the players’ tent and waits. He knows Emily Cho is inside; he has been following her for the past hour. She missed the cut on Friday, not scoring below two over par and will not play the final round today. He knows she likes to stay for the entire tournament when she misses the cut. She’s been characterized as a good sport, an enthusiastic spectator and an exemplary golfer.

After what seems an eternity to him, she finally emerges from the tent in time to watch the first group tee off. He stations himself in her proximity, but not so close as to be noticed. His blonde hair is stuffed inside his golf hat, pulled low. He is wearing dark sunglasses. His clothing resembles what is worn by the majority of the spectators and he feels inconspicuous.

He and Emily wait patiently while several groups tee off; they applaud when the players are announced.

He is not interested in anyone except Emily, the second hole in the match.

The leaders tee off and the crowd begins to move, everyone making decisions about which group they will follow. Emily falls in with the crowd around Natalie Kerr and Paula Cole. He wonders if they are all friends. The two golfers get off to a good start, but he is fixated on Emily and moves a little closer every time the crowd moves.

They reach the third hole, a par 3.

This is the par 3 he has chosen for the match, and it is time for the man to initiate the game. While the players are getting ready to putt, he moves up beside Emily and applauds as the player closest to the hole marks her ball.

Emily flashes her eyes at him and smiles, and then turns back to the play. The first thing he says will be crucial to his success.

“You’re Emily Cho, aren’t you? You’re a very good player, I’m sorry you missed the cut.”

Emily smiles, nods and turns back to the play.

The man presses on. “My sister writes for
Certain Swing Magazine
in Chicago. She’s written a couple of articles about you.”

“Oh! Is she Joan Steadman? I like her personally and I admire her work. Even with your sunglasses on, you two look a lot alike.” Emily is looking up at him, her head tilted.

“Yes, Joan is my twin. She admires you as well.” He stops talking when the players begin to putt. Once done and they start to walk to the next hole, Emily follows. The man walks along beside her; he can’t be perceived as forward, however he must seal the deal right now.

“You’re twins? What’s that like? I’ve heard about clairvoyance and shared feelings.” Emily Cho seems very interested.

He does not want to talk about Joan and changes the subject. “How many times have you won on the LPGA?”

“Thirteen,” she says as she looks around. “I wish there was a refreshment tent around here.”

“Wow, that’s terrific! You aren’t superstitious are you?” He adds, “There’s a tent adjacent to the next green. I’d like to buy you a drink, if that’s ok?”

“I’d love a Diet Coke. You’ll be horrified at how expensive they are…and no, I’m not superstitious,” she says with a subtle wink.

They reach the next green and he hurries to the concession tent. The line is too long and has to fight his mounting anxiety. He hopes to get the drinks and return before he loses track of her. Finally, he receives his order and then subtly drops enough lorazepam in Emily’s cup to relax her. He swirls the drink to dissolve the drug and with long-legged strides returns to the green. He moves in beside her and offers the drink.

“Oh, thanks. I’m so thirsty.” She takes a long drink through the straw. “What is your name by the way?”

“David,” he says.

She looks at him quizzically, waiting for the rest.

“Steadman, David Steadman,” he responds, revealing his real name for the first time on this trip.

“Oh, of course…same last name as Joan,” she says grinning sheepishly.

They walk up to the fourth tee, a par 5, and watch as the players tee off. Each player makes a good drive and they move with the spectators down the fairway.

He notices a slight change in Emily’s stride and presumes the lorazepam has started to take effect. Emily is drinking her soda and chattering by the time they reach the fifth hole. He likes her; she is attractive, with a compact athletic figure and an endearing personality. It is necessary to keep her placid for the next fifteen holes. He hopes to entice her to switch to beer.

By the tenth hole, Emily is noticeably relaxed. On the twelfth tee she runs into some friends and greets them. They have a brief conversation and the friends move on; he is sure they notice she is impaired. He had time to move away just enough to seem unengaged.

As they walk to the thirteenth tee, he pulls her aside and stops at a concession tent and buys two beers. She declines when he offers one.

“Oh, go ahead, it will refresh you,” he insists as he drops two more pills into her cup.

After some slight resistance, she accepts the beer.

They walk away from the sixteenth green to find a restroom and when Emily emerges she stumbles forward and grabs his arm for balance.“I’m tired and don’t think I can finish the last two holes. Maybe we can go to the clubhouse?”

Although David has been planning this moment all day, he snaps his fingers as if he just got a great idea. “Would you like to get an early dinner somewhere? My treat!”

Glassy-eyed, Emily looks up at him and smiles. “I’d like that.”

“Do you mind if we take your car? I’m not familiar with this area; you can probably suggest a good place to dine.”

“Sure, fine. My car is over there,” she says, slurring slightly and waving her hand with a vague motion toward the player’s parking lot.

They stop at the Navigator and he changes his shoes and drops off his hat, opens the tailgate and says, “I should get my briefcase, my phone is in there. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Hey! You have long hair. It’s almost down to your shoulders,” she says too loud.

“Okay, now where is your car?” he asks with a note of impatience. He has to make sure no one sees them together.

Walking to the player’s lot, she says, “It’s a dark blue Kia, complimentary, down near the end of the lot about two rows over.”

They reach the car and he asks for the keys. She digs in her bag, finds the keys and her wallet falls out. She is unsteady and leans on her car; he’s afraid she might be sick but she breathes deeply and composes herself. He takes the keys, presses the unlock button on the key ring, picks up the wallet and walks around to the trunk. He places his briefcase beside her golf clubs and joins her beside the car.

She sits sideways on the driver’s seat and fumbles while changing shoes. David opens her wallet and reads her driver’s license. Her home address is in San Diego; hopefully her GPS is working or he might have trouble finding her home.

When he tries to return her wallet and keys, he sees her shoes on her lap; she appears to have passed out. He takes the shoes and tosses them in the back seat, gently shakes her awake and says, “Let me help you over to the passenger seat and I’ll drive. You seem very tired. We should get something to eat soon…any suggestions?”

She answers with a foggy slur, “Let’s drive to San Diego…there are a lot of cool restaurants and I want something special.” She apologizes for being so sleepy. “I shouldn’t have had that beer.”

David hands her wallet back and keeps the keys. He starts the car and heads toward the exit.

H
e knows
to go west and then south on the I-5. They continue driving south on the coast toward San Diego. He is absorbed in self-doubt, questioning himself how to play the next shot. Should he drug her again at dinner, allow some time for effect and then move to the green after? Is he rushing things? Is this opportunity worth playing? He is engrossed in his thoughts when he is interrupted by a shout from Emily.

“Get off here! Get off here!” She is pointing and yelling.

He is not in the right lane to exit but her urgency causes him to swerve in front of an adjacent car and take the exit. When they are on the ramp, he slows and looks at her. She is succumbing to the influence of the drugs.

“What was that about? I don’t see any restaurants!” He thinks she is perhaps confused.

“No, I know. This is the exit to my house. I want to change clothes before we go to dinner. You don’t mind do you?” She looks at him half smiling, half pleading.

David is disoriented by this request, things are happening too fast. Thoughts are tumbling around in his head. He spots a small store on a corner with a newspaper kiosk in front. He pulls over by the papers and puts the car in park.

“I’ll get a newspaper; I can read it while you’re changing.”

“I get the
Times
,” she says.

“All right. Where to next?” He gestures at the street as he looks to her for direction.

“Stay on this street until you get to Beach and then turn right. It’s about two more blocks to Tenth.”

He likes this neighborhood; it is full of bungalows from the 1920s and 1930s. Some are wood, some Spanish-style with stucco. Emily sits up as they enter the third block, tells him to turn right at the next corner.

“That’s it right there, the one with the arched doorway and all the windows,” she points.

He pulls up in front as she fumbles with the car door. She grabs her wallet but he keeps her keys.

“Let me get my briefcase from the trunk. Do you want your clubs in the house?” he asks.

“No, I’ll transfer them to my car when I turn this one in to the dealer.”

He takes her arm as they walk to the front door. She selects a key from the key ring, hands it to him and he unlocks the door. The inside of the house appears small at first glance; it is well-lit, stylish and colorful, a charming Spanish bungalow with arched windows and doors, hardwood floors, well-chosen area rugs and cleanlined furniture.

He quickly scans the room and spots the
LA Times
on an end table. A small bookshelf holds golf trophies. Emily sits on the couch, oblivious to his snooping.

“You look like you need something cool to drink. Where’s the kitchen?”

She points at a doorway and says, “Thanks. I’d like some orange juice.”

He pours the orange juice while adding one more relaxant. David hums a tune while he gives the juice a little stir, adds some ice, and returns to the living room. The room seems a little warm for his comfort. Emily is almost asleep. He shakes the glass near her face and she opens her eyes and gives him a sleepy smile.

“Thanks,” she says as she holds the glass to her face and winces at the cold, then slowly takes a large swallow.

His entire being is on edge in anticipation of the conclusion of the second hole. He can feel her in his body. Her essence consumes him. He can feel himself all around her.

Suddenly, the glass falls to the floor. Emily is unconscious. The waiting is over.

He places his briefcase on a side table, opens it and puts on latex gloves. He begins a search of the house and is surprised to discover that it is larger than he imagined. There are three bedrooms with a master bath. He closes all the blinds and curtains and works his way back to the living room.

From his briefcase, he gets a pair of plastic coveralls and a shower cap. The coveralls are made specifically for his needs to shield his clothing; he slips them on and tucks his hair into the shower cap.

He stands and studies Emily Cho. No one, not even his father, can criticize his play. His shot to the second green has been flawless. He has taken the risk, now it is time for the reward. This has been an effortless hole. He leans over, picks her up, and walks down the hall.