“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.
Chapter 15
He 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 s
wallow.
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.
Chapter 16
David Steadman lays Emily Cho on her bed. He returns to the living room and cleans up the spilled drink, thoroughly washes the glass and sets it to dry on the kitchen counter. He hears Emily’s cellphone ring, finds it and turns it off.
He returns to the bedroom with the briefcase and removes the sheath of knives and places them near the tub in the bathroom. He removes her sandals, unbuttons her shorts and hooks his fingers under the waistband of her panties, slides both gently down her legs. He pulls her top up over her head and frees her arms of the material. He reaches behind her and unhooks her bra, releasing her breasts. Her eyes flutter a couple of times but she does not wake.
David arranges Emily across the bed. She really is quite pretty; her body is supple and her skin is soft. The contours of the green will be spectacular. He leans close to her, breathing in her scent. He feels his arousal and suppresses the sensation by keeping himself busy.
He enters the bathroom and runs the water in the tub until it’s warm. Back in the bedroom, he places the sandals in the closet, finds the clothes hamper and deposits the clothing he removed from her.
His face is showing only concentrated intent. David picks her up, carries her to the bathroom, and gently places her in the tub with her head by the drain. He kneels beside the tub, softly slapping her cheeks until her eyes open. Just as they focus on his face, he cuts her throat. Seconds later, Emily Cho ceases to exist.
David sets up the green exactly as he imagines it should be, the head sitting upright in the clear glass vase on an adjacent table and blood weeping over the top. The neck fits perfectly, the head is balanced perfectly. The face has turned gray and the eyes are staring blankly at the green of the par 3 second hole.
He is sitting on the couch in front of the coffee table. He has removed the standings for the Kia Classic from the Times. He blocks out the letters of the names until there are four A’s, two D’s, six E’s, one G, one H, two I’s, one L, two N’s, two P’s, 2 R’s, three S’s, and two T’s. He has circled one A, one E, two D’s, one I, and one T.
When he finishes, he lets the article flutter to the floor.
He hasn’t had time to get a Carlsbad scorecard so he uses a lipstick to write on the chest: par 3; 3;1; 2 up.
The house is too old to have a patio door and they didn’t bring in the golf clubs, so he finds a crack in the floor that will hold a tee. It will have to do as the tee box for the third hole. Using Emily’s blood, he marks a golf ball with a 3. When the blood dries he rolls the ball on the floor; it settles in a corner behind a chair. The breasts flank the tee a few feet on each side.
He stands, surveying the room. Everything is meticulously arranged: the green, the witness, the next tee, and the word scramble. He bends over and flips the pennant with his finger; it flutters as if touched by a breeze. The appendages are in the tub and the jar is in a pouch in his briefcase, where he has returned the killing accessories. He has brought a plastic bag and collects the gloves and plastic coveralls and includes them with the other items in the briefcase.
It is dark. He decides to leave the two lights on that he needed for the display. He looks over his shoulder once more, satisfied that it is a splendid second hole and a hole in one.
He picks up Emily’s car keys and walks toward the door. He reaches for the doorknob and steps over the threshold, moving with the door as it opens.
“Who are you?”
He looks up. A brunette about Emily’s size is walking toward the door. His mind goes blank for a moment.
“I’m…I’m Steve Slocum, a friend of Emily’s. Who are you?” He sounds overly authoritative.
“We were supposed to meet for dinner. I called but she didn’t answer.”
She is closing in on him, encroaching on his space; his mind is spinning.
“We went to the Kia Classic today and she wasn’t feeling well so I brought her home. She’s resting,” he says.
She is crowding him now. “Excuse me, I want to see her. Hey, Em, it’s me!” She is trying to get past him.
His instincts take over and his confidence returns. “Come on in.” He backs into the living room. The intruder gets a brief glance of the room, stares up at him with a quizzical look and manages to take one more step. He grabs her from behind, reaches around her left shoulder and pulls it to the right, his left hand simultaneously on her chin as he jerks her head to the left.
Her neck makes a sharp crack and he has a momentary vision of his grandfather killing cats. Her body goes limp in his arms and he lets it slide to the floor.
He is disappointed at this turn of events and his back sags as he pushes the door shut. He’s clenching his jaw in anger and he can feel a sharp pain in his forearm. The intruder has scratched him deeply and his arm is oozing blood from two of the gouges.
He must tend to his wounds before he gets blood on anything. He rushes to the kitchen and puts his arm under the cold water. The blood quickly washes away, but now he sees that the scratches are vivid and deep. She used her right hand and scratched from the top of his forearm down almost to his wrist.
With this new agitation comes a moment of panic when he realizes she may not have been alone. He composes himself and dismisses the thought, knowing someone would have come to the door had she not come back to the car.
The bleeding has stopped and he returns to the living room, not panicking but off balance. She has seen him, she can identify him…wait, that doesn’t matter now.
Her presence in the living room spoils the entire hole. He must move the body; he wants her out of the scene. Damn! He hates interference! He carries her to the second bathroom and is about to drop her on the floor…too messy. He lowers the body into the bathtub, face up, feet near the drain. His arm stings and he sees he is bleeding again. Panic strikes another time, what about DNA from under her fingernails?
“Dammit,” he shouts out loud.
He returns to the front door for his briefcase and returning to the bathroom, flips the light on with his elbow, places the case on the toilet seat and opens it. He puts on a fresh pair of latex gloves and opens his knife sheath. He positions himself over the tub, kneeling on the bathmat and picks up her right arm. He manipulates her wrist until he finds the wrist joint, rests the arm on the stomach and with an artful deftness he chops off her hand with the cleaver.
Her arm drops back to her side and blood begins oozing from the stump. The hand is well-manicured and delicate. He holds it in his left hand, wound upright, and moves to the sink. He rinses the hand, his own hands and the cleaver, leaving the hand lying in the sink with the water running.
He dries his gloved hands and the cleaver, replaces the cleaver in the sheath and moves the case off the toilet.
He drops the hand into the bowl and flushes. It is an old toilet, the hand sinks to the bottom, and as the water continues to swirl it finally disappears. He is waiting for the tank to fill, and is about to remove his gloves, when suddenly he stops. Why shouldn’t
he take the nipples?
He doesn’t have another jar so he goes to the kitchen and finds a re-sealable plastic bag.
He flushes the toilet again and reaching into the sheath, removes the paring knife that was not used on the second hole. He stands over the tub. The paring knife glides through the breast tissue; he wipes away the blood that oozes as he peels and excises the nipple.
He is fascinated by the unusually intricate pattern in blood left on the tub. He drops the trophies into the bag, seals it and carefully places it in a corner of his briefcase. He rinses the knife and his gloved hands, flushes the toilet one more time and begins to pack up.
The killer hesitates…she had seen him. He imagines his reflection still in her eyes. Still holding the knife, he slips the blade into the corner of one eye against the nose and pries the eyeball out, cutting the muscles and optic nerve. Tossing it into the toilet, he turns and cuts the other eye out, throws that in the toilet and flushes.
He cleans up, returns the knife to the sheath and shuts the briefcase. Before leaving the bathroom he flushes the toilet once more, washes his hands with soap from the sink, takes the briefcase, turns out the light and closes the door.
David paces the hallway, his face crimson with fury. The intrusion had nothing to do with the second hole! He checks his arm and it is still bleeding. There is a smear on it; he must have transferred some of his blood to another surface. He doesn’t have time to look for it, but knows he will be consumed with recurring bouts of paranoia as the match continues.
Briefcase in hand, he once again walks to the front door, picks up the Kia keys and steps out. It is completely dark now. David Steadman locks the door to Emily Cho’s house, gets into the car and sets the briefcase on the seat beside him.
Chapter 17
David returns to the Aviara Golf Course, sees many cars still in the parking lot; he can imagine people playing cards and drinking long into the night, just as his father would. He parks the car in Emily’s assigned space and wipes all surfaces and cleans each of the keys. He leaves the keys in the ignition, takes his briefcase and walks across the lot to his own vehicle.
Match Play Page 7
