Match Play (8 page)

D
avid 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.

D
avid 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.

It takes about thirty minutes to get back to his hotel. He pulls his windbreaker from the pocket of his golf bag to cover his arm. Taking only his briefcase, he makes the journey to his room.

He puts the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, drops everything and goes straight to the refrigerator and chooses a jar of apricots. He opens a packet of sanitary wipes, cleanses his hands first, then the jar. He snaps the cap open and begins to eat, staring out at the breaking waves.

He can still feel the pulse of the match and the second murder rushing through him, and the discomfort when he moves his right arm. He finishes the apricots, removes the labels from the jar and washes it in the sink.

He fills the jar with alcohol, opens the plastic bag from the briefcase and dumps the trophies from the intruder into the liquid. A trail of pink spreads behind them as they swirl around the jar.

He can’t help feeling triumphant. He has won again, and with ease.

He lies back onto the bed, calm spreads over him, fatigue overcomes him. He can hear the ocean as he lies there, holding a jar in each hand, gently squeezing them.



David awakens sometime after midnight and puts the jars in the refrigerator and places his briefcase on the table. He removes the sheath of knives and begins the ritual of cleaning and sanitizing them; he sharpens the ones he used for the second hole
.

Removing his clothes he is relieved his arm is not bleeding, although it stings more than before. There are blood spots on his shirt. He will dispose of it and the gloves and coveralls.

When he showers, washing his arm relieves the sting. He applies first aid cream and is confident it will soon heal. He lies down. He must make plans. Things have changed so abruptly. The Kraft Nabisco Championship does not start until Thursday, April 4, and he has already played the second hole. He made an ace; a hole in one. Emily was thirty-one, a par 3, 3;1.

He is certain now he can stop in Chicago.

The rhythm of the waves soothes him and he closes his eyes hoping tonight will not be one of terror dreams.

North of San Diego, California, Monday, March 25

B
ill Spencer,
golf pro at Aviara Golf Club, parks his pickup in his usual spot adjacent to the cart shed. It is six-fifteen a.m., foggy and chilly. In another hour the sun will burn through the marine layer. He jumps out of the pickup, slams the door and walks toward the clubhouse.

Ambling across the parking lot, he notes a Kia with dealer plates that must be one from the players’ fleet. He enters the clubhouse and looks up the tee times to see when the pros will be finished but does not recognize any names. He gets involved in his routine duties and soon forgets about the car in the lot.



David Steadman walks into the restaurant at eight-ten a.m., picks up a paper and surveys the room before choosing a seat. Sitting at a booth he begins to casually glance through the paper. He is working his way through the current news sections as the waitress arrives with his breakfast of Eggs Benedict. To his surprise the eggs are cooked nearly perfect and the Hollandaise sauce appears to be palatable. He cleanses his hands and begins to eat.

He continues to flip and scan pages as he eats. Very little in the news interests him; he waves at the waitress and asks for more coffee. His meal is finished and he studies the pages one more time. He sees nothing about his match in either Arizona or California, and he feels momentary disappointment that his game has not been discovered.

Saving the sports section for last, he checks the final round scores for the Kia Classic and reads an article about the upcoming Dinah Shore Kraft Nabisco Championship at Rancho Mirage. He will leave for Palm Springs on Wednesday and is very anxious to watch a practice round, but knows he will have to wait another week until the pros arrive.

His brow is furrowed as memories of the previous day are vague yet vivid at the same time. His psyche is recreating the details but without any context beyond the match. He cannot remember what Emily Cho looked like; the intruder retains more of an identity, but only because she interfered.

He pays his check and walks out the door into a perfect California morning at the beach. The fog has burned away; the air is getting warmer by the minute, the sun is shining brightly.

Walking back to the hotel he decides to extend his stay another two days to play golf at a couple of the courses in the area. He stops at the front desk and makes the arrangements, pays for the room in advance and deposits more cash for incidentals. David takes the elevator to his room to retrieve his briefcase. He washes his hands, scans the room to make sure everything is in order and returns to his vehicle.

He moves the Glock to the side compartment in the back of the Navigator; he knows there’s a high probability it will be discovered during an intensive search, but there is no reason to expect one. David is a conscientious driver, a law-abiding citizen.

He decides to play one of the courses at Torrey Pines and gets on the I-5 rather than the PCH. If he cannot get on the course there, his alternate plan is to play La Costa.

He reaches Torrey Pines around eleven and finds it extremely crowded; he will go on to La Costa. He finds La Costa to be pretty much wide open and goes to the driving range. He hits the balls exceptionally well; he only hits about half the balls and returns to the clubhouse and the putting green. He starts with his putts from a three-foot circle around the hole and works his way out. He is putting from about ten feet when the pro shop calls his name: Steve Johnson.

David knows it is not prudent to use the same name he used in Phoenix at the first hole, but sometimes he enjoys risk.

He picks up his equipment and checks in. The course looks well-maintained, and he is surprised when he notes the scorecard indicates the slope is 137. He pays the fees of $210.00, gets the receipt, and is pointed in the direction of the starter.

The attendant tells him, “I’m sending you out with a trio of regulars. They play skins for twenty dollars a hole, but they don’t mind if you go along. Their fourth couldn’t make it today.”

“Thanks, I’ll enjoy watching.” He is wearing sunglasses and a cap with his hair hidden inside.

He reaches the starter and sees that his group is all men in their late thirties or early forties, about his age. They are standing behind the tee box, flipping a tee in the air to determine who will hit first. He approaches the men just as the tee lands, pointing in his direction.

David puts on a congenial smile. “Hello, I’m Steve Johnson. The pro shop put me out with you gents. I hope you don’t mind? Looks like I hit first,” he says, nodding to the tee.

In unison they smile and welcome him. They continue to flip the tee until the teeing order is determined and then encourage him to go ahead and tee off.

“We’re playing skins,” one of them offers. “Our usual fourth didn’t make it today. Perhaps you’d like to join us? It’s only twenty dollars a hole.”

David is hesitant to hustle them. “Well, since I’m intruding, it’s the least I can do; sure, twenty dollars a hole, why not?”

“It’s the usual rules, ties carry over,” another man specified.

“Okay, sure.” David walks up to the tee with his 3 wood. The hole is a short par 4, only 394 yards. He hits a screaming low draw that lands on the left side of the fairway just past the fairway bunkers. He doesn’t make any fuss over it, and neither do his playing companions.

After watching the three men hit, he knows he is in for an interesting round of golf. They all have drives equal or better than his and one even hit a 1 iron. He straps his bag to the second cart, one driven by the player with the 1 iron. His name is Brad, he has invented some sort of unique software and has his own company. They exchange the usual information as they drive away and, of course, David lies.