course. I pointed her to a back section that was reached by passing through a narrow drive between some trees and told her to park at the far end of the lot, then be ready to run. Randy had expected us to park in the front lot, so the move bought us a couple of seconds. That was enough for her to slam the car into park and for both of us to leap from the car, leaving the doors open, to sprint through the light fog across the adjacent field and toward a hilly stand of trees.
“Stay low and follow me,” I said over my shoulder, clutching the bag to my chest as I ran. I hit the trees first, Trudy a couple of seconds later. Squinting through the fog, I could see that Randy was out now, running across the field, Mark close behind. The two other guys were out of their cars, each with a handgun at the ready, looking around as if scouting for cops.
“Listen,” I said, pulling Trudy close. “You remember hole 6, the one with the rickety bridge over the gully?” She nodded. “Run straight for that and hide under that bridge. Pull some branches up alongside yourself if you can. Just stay out of sight until I come for you. OK?”
“What are you going to do?” she said, her voice breaking.
“Get us out of this.” I took a couple of steps in the opposite direction, then turned to see if she would go. She looked across the field, saw Randy coming, then turned and ran. My direction was uphill, toward the course’s back holes that sprouted like overgrown metallic mushrooms in small clearings among the trees. I didn’t really have a plan, hoping that I could somehow lure Randy in and knock him out with a rock or tree branch, and perhaps lose the Mexicans in the process. It was a dumb plan, I realized. They weren’t just going to go away, and after following our car for 15 minutes, they’d have people watching for us all up and down the interstate, meaning we’d have to ditch the only thing of value we owned.
My feet slipped as I scampered up a muddy path carved into the side of the hill over the years by hundreds of skater sneakers and crashed through some bushes in an attempt to make my route less obvious. As I climbed, I rose out of the fog. Thorns clawed at my coat and face, raising long welts that seeped beads of blood along my cheeks. I reached the 12th hole, the most secluded on the course, in a small clearing surrounded by rocks and trees, and hid behind a large boulder marked by the scrawled wisdom, names and epithets of dozens of players.
I peeked around the side of the rock and saw Randy through the haze about fifty yards away, his hand above his eyes to cut the glare of the sun as it broke through the haze. He unzipped his coat and moved his hand to the butt of a gun in a holster on his belt. A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature slid up my spine.
“Jack, this is it,” he yelled. “Pretty smart to hide someplace you know like the back of your hand. Or it would be if I didn’t know it just as well.”
He kept walking, growing nearer with every step. Mark came into view, his head and then the rest of his body seeming to lift out of the fog a moment later. “I’m guessing you’re behind that boulder on 12. Pretty decent spot. But again, you don’t really have a way out, do you?”
I realized he was right. This was the back of the course, and unless I was willing to trek through thicker brush and trees, making a tremendous amount of noise in the process, I’d need to go back past them to get away.
“Look, let’s sort this out before my friends show up,” Randy said. “I have something to tell -- ”
Just then we heard something else crash through the brush, then a cry. It was Trudy.
“We have the girl,” I heard. “If we are able to leave with the drugs and the money, she doesn’t need to die.”
Randy started to scan the surrounding brush, and then his gaze locked on a spot about twenty yards away. He hadn’t stopped walking, and was now in front of the rock. “Jack, get out
“Stay low and follow me,” I said over my shoulder, clutching the bag to my chest as I ran. I hit the trees first, Trudy a couple of seconds later. Squinting through the fog, I could see that Randy was out now, running across the field, Mark close behind. The two other guys were out of their cars, each with a handgun at the ready, looking around as if scouting for cops.
“Listen,” I said, pulling Trudy close. “You remember hole 6, the one with the rickety bridge over the gully?” She nodded. “Run straight for that and hide under that bridge. Pull some branches up alongside yourself if you can. Just stay out of sight until I come for you. OK?”
“What are you going to do?” she said, her voice breaking.
“Get us out of this.” I took a couple of steps in the opposite direction, then turned to see if she would go. She looked across the field, saw Randy coming, then turned and ran. My direction was uphill, toward the course’s back holes that sprouted like overgrown metallic mushrooms in small clearings among the trees. I didn’t really have a plan, hoping that I could somehow lure Randy in and knock him out with a rock or tree branch, and perhaps lose the Mexicans in the process. It was a dumb plan, I realized. They weren’t just going to go away, and after following our car for 15 minutes, they’d have people watching for us all up and down the interstate, meaning we’d have to ditch the only thing of value we owned.
My feet slipped as I scampered up a muddy path carved into the side of the hill over the years by hundreds of skater sneakers and crashed through some bushes in an attempt to make my route less obvious. As I climbed, I rose out of the fog. Thorns clawed at my coat and face, raising long welts that seeped beads of blood along my cheeks. I reached the 12th hole, the most secluded on the course, in a small clearing surrounded by rocks and trees, and hid behind a large boulder marked by the scrawled wisdom, names and epithets of dozens of players.
I peeked around the side of the rock and saw Randy through the haze about fifty yards away, his hand above his eyes to cut the glare of the sun as it broke through the haze. He unzipped his coat and moved his hand to the butt of a gun in a holster on his belt. A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature slid up my spine.
“Jack, this is it,” he yelled. “Pretty smart to hide someplace you know like the back of your hand. Or it would be if I didn’t know it just as well.”
He kept walking, growing nearer with every step. Mark came into view, his head and then the rest of his body seeming to lift out of the fog a moment later. “I’m guessing you’re behind that boulder on 12. Pretty decent spot. But again, you don’t really have a way out, do you?”
I realized he was right. This was the back of the course, and unless I was willing to trek through thicker brush and trees, making a tremendous amount of noise in the process, I’d need to go back past them to get away.
“Look, let’s sort this out before my friends show up,” Randy said. “I have something to tell -- ”
Just then we heard something else crash through the brush, then a cry. It was Trudy.
“We have the girl,” I heard. “If we are able to leave with the drugs and the money, she doesn’t need to die.”
Randy started to scan the surrounding brush, and then his gaze locked on a spot about twenty yards away. He hadn’t stopped walking, and was now in front of the rock. “Jack, get out
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