32.

In the dim emergency lighting the starter tapped randomly on the computer keyboard in front of him, apparently to verify that the power loss was real. “Guess this means I’ll get off early,” he said. “Better lock up.” He turned away.

“Wait!” Kirsten said. “What about Truczik?”

He turned back. “What about him?”

“What did he do after you gave him the message?”

“Well … let’s see. I made change for him so he could call. I remember thinking, ‘How many people can there be who don’t have a cell phone?’ Not many, do you think?” He looked like he expected an answer.

“No, not many.” Her mind was racing. “What was the phone number?”

His face went blank. “Jeez. I think it was this area code, y’know? But I got no idea what the number was. I was so darn—”

“I understand,” she said. “How long ago was this?”

“Jeez. An hour and a half ago? Maybe a little more. I know he came back and asked could he borrow one of the complimentary umbrellas. You know, we have these big blue-and-white-striped umbrellas for—”

“Right,” she said. “Then what?”

“Well, then he left. That’s it. Look, I gotta—” He stopped. “It was kinda funny, though, because … he went out that way.” He pointed to his right, toward a sliding glass door that was open and led out to a covered walkway. Beyond that, rain poured down on grass and distant trees.

“Why was that funny?” she asked.

“I mean, I was busy with a million other things at the time, so I didn’t really think about it. But that’s the way to the course, you know? He’d have to go all the way around the building to get to the parking lot. Why would he wanna walk all that way?”

“I don’t know,” Kirsten said. “Maybe he took a golf cart.”

“That doesn’t—” He stopped. “Anyway, he didn’t. The cart jockey already took all the keys.” He was obviously wishing she’d leave. “I better lock up.”

“Okay. But hey, think I could borrow one of those umbrellas? I know you’re closing up, but I’ll return it, really.” She smiled and made a cross-my-heart gesture.

“Uh, sure.” He took a long, slim, tightly wrapped umbrella from a box near the door. “You look honest.” Anything to get rid of her.

“Thanks.” She took it and peered out the open door. It was still raining. “I’ll just go this way. Thanks again.”

“No problem,” he said, and slid the door closed behind her.

She stood in the covered walkway and stared out at the golf course. The wind and rain seemed to be letting up a little, and the thunder and lightning were definitely moving eastward. Someone had dropped a used scorecard on one of the wooden benches that lined the walkway and she picked it up. An unhappy golfer had penciled “SHIT” across the scores in large dark letters. On the reverse side was a stylized map of the course, showing the holes and the yardage for each one, and indicating where there were sand traps and bridges and rain shelters.

The longer she waited, the darker it was going to get. She unsnapped the little tab and swirled the umbrella around to open it, then stepped out into the rain.

*   *   *

She knew it made no sense for one person to try to comb an entire golf course in the light of day, much less in the rain with night falling. Plus, this course seemed to have more wooded areas than the ones she’d seen on TV. But what else could she do? Call someone? Even if they thought she made sense, which they wouldn’t, there was no way they’d organize a search tonight.

It seemed strange that Truczik would have gone out in the rain just because “Kirsten” told him to. But then she remembered that in the meeting in Michael’s room, although he’d been negative to begin with, he was the first one to suggest to the others that she might be of help to them. He’d seemed to want to believe in her. “We have to trust someone,” he’d said.

Even so, if he actually did go out to meet this other “Kirsten,” where would they meet? He wouldn’t have agreed to go very far, not in that storm. She consulted the map and decided to check out at least the one shelter closest to the clubhouse before it was truly dark.

She left the first tee and headed down the fairway. If she turned right when she got about halfway to the green, and cut through some trees and what looked to be deep grass, she would end up on the fifteenth fairway. On the other side of that, although she couldn’t see it from where she was, there should be a shelter. The wind was down to almost nothing now, and the umbrella kept her pretty dry. From the knees down, though, her white cotton pants were soaked, and her shoes would probably never be wearable again.

About a hundred and fifty yards out she turned to head through the rough, which turned out to be more than simply deep grass, but weeds and undergrowth beneath the trees, hiding a shallow ravine. She went down, across a narrow creek of flowing rain water and up the other side, and then headed across the fifteenth fairway toward the shelter.

It was raining just softly now and, surprisingly, a few stray shafts of low-lying sunlight were streaming from the west, behind her. Up ahead the shelter looked like a rustic lean-to, with the open side away from her, facing east—the least likely direction for wind and rain to come from.

She was twenty yards away when a dog suddenly trotted out from behind the little building. It stopped, rain streaming down its matted gray flanks, and turned its head and stared at her. In the slanting sunlight its eyes shone bright yellow, and Kirsten stood perfectly still and stared back. The animal was slope-shouldered and its head hung low to the ground; it was too wild-looking to be somebody’s pet. It wasn’t large, and it made no move toward her, but its wildness alone held a menace that frightened her. In response she took a firm step forward. The animal jerked its head and turned aside. It was joined by a clone of itself and the two of them moved quickly away, trotting side by side, and melted like gray ghosts into the woods. Coyotes, she decided, although she’d never seen one before.

She let out her breath and moved forward again. According to the scorecard map the fifteenth hole ran along the edge of the golf course property, with a strip of woods between the fairway and a boundary fence. What was beyond that the map didn’t say.

She would check out the shelter—there couldn’t be anyone there or the coyotes wouldn’t have gone near it—then go back and circle around the clubhouse to the parking lot, and drive to Villa St. George. Truczik was probably back there right now, drinking somebody else’s liquor and looking forward to supper.

She went around to the open side of the shelter, yelling, “Hey, hey, hey!” in case she was wrong and there were more canines hiding out from the rain. She stepped inside onto a dry concrete slab and pulled the umbrella closed. It was a little darker in here under the roof, but light enough to see that the shelter was empty.

She felt relief flood through her whole body, and her breath came out in a deep sigh. She realized, though, that she should hurry back to her car before it was too dark to see anything, and then to the retreat house to make sure Truczik was—

A dog growled somewhere. Not far off. But maybe not a dog, maybe a coyote. And then she heard it again. Low, throaty growling. Back among the trees, toward the golf course boundary. She dropped the umbrella and pushed her way forward through the wet, clinging undergrowth, and in just a few yards broke out of the trees and into the open.

There was a barbed-wire fence, and then a gravel road, and beyond that more trees. The two coyotes were trotting away along the fence line. One turned its head to glance back at her, and it had a rag or a piece of cloth in its mouth. Then they both picked up speed and were gone. She turned to head back toward the shelter. Which was when she saw Aloysius Truczik.

He was sitting upright with his back against a large tree, eyes wide open, as though amazed to see her.