A movie played in her head, a surreal image of a vehicle disintegrating in slow motion. Shiny pieces of steel floated in the sunlight—a side mirror, driver’s side door torn into multiple pieces, the windshield, the hood of the car, first flipping up then scattering into pieces. Along with the sections of the vehicle were more recognizable parts, human parts. A hand, parts of an arm, fabric that might have been a shirt, pieces of skull with hair attached. She tried to turn away but she was transfixed by the horror. Just like a transformer movie, everything started to reverse as the body parts slowly reassembled. First the body parts twisted in flight, fabric gradually attached to the human it had previously clothed. Then the car slowly reassembled—the roof, windshield, car door, side mirrors. Sam was watching everything from behind a window, and the driver in the car smiled at her, waved. And she waved back.
Sam no longer woke with a start when she had these dreams. Her eyelids snapped open and she stared at the ceiling wondering why it was becoming more consistent and why now. Doctor Talbot at Sara Binyon’s, a posh retreat for people who needed a place to relax and re-tune their psyches, had been helpful during her stay after the Preston Hilliard case. For the first few months of her pregnancy with Dillon the dreams had disappeared. Then they started again, but this time with the transformer special effects. If she were still a cop it would have been mandatory that she see the department shrink. She rolled back and closed her eyes but sleep wouldn’t come. The clock above the headboard said it was after eight in the morning. Saturday. Of course Jake was up early. He had a golf date.
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Lamon Robinson hauled his massive frame out of the golf cart and studied the foursome in the middle of the fairway in front of them. “May as well hold up. We’re not going anywhere.” He pulled an apple out of a paper bag and took a large bite. He had a linebacker-sized body and a tight-hugging Afro. His voice had a deep resonance, one that people have said reminded them of Barry White.
Ed Scofield, the desk sergeant at the Sixth Precinct, climbed out of the passenger side with a can of bug spray. “Damn mosquitos. Isn’t it about time for them to hibernate or something?”
Jake Mitchell and Frank Travis sat in the golf cart next to them. Frank ripped off a piece of a power bar while Jake took a long pull from a water bottle. “Should have gotten two more egg McMuffins,” Frank said as he scrutinized the power bar. “This is a poor excuse for breakfast.”
The annual Gun and Hose Scramble was usually held at the Three Oaks Golf Course, but this year they were holding it at the new Lake Bluff Country Club thanks to the pull of newly elected Mayor Jeff Schuler. He was a close friend of the owner and wanted to make the golf outing between the police and fire departments an annual event.
“Listen guys.” Frank stroked the soul patch below his lip. “I noticed yesterday that Justin has a kinda wiggle when he walks. You don’t think I should be worried, do you?” He tossed the wrapper from the power bar into the garbage. “Do most four-year-old boys wiggle? I don’t think I wiggled.”
Three heads turned in Frank’s direction. Jake’s eyes bore a hole through his partner. “You wiggle now,” Robinson said. “Besides, it is what it is. Let him be who he’s supposed to be.”
Ed hitched up his pants and gave Frank’s comment a shrug. “Look at them pansy-ass lime green balls you use. And you wonder about your son?”
“They were on sale in the pro shop,” Frank protested. “Besides, they are yellow, not green.”
“Whatever.” Ed sprayed his arms with the bug spray. “Take your son to Home Depot. That will man him up.”
Now heads turned toward Ed who rarely laughed at his own dry humor but within seconds they were all cackling. Ed was tall and rail thin with a concave chest. As desk sergeant, he was the gatekeeper to the fourth floor at the Sixth Precinct.
They sported matching powder blue shirts and dark blue sweaters with the image of a gun embroidered on the left side of the sweater. Gun and Hose Scramble was embroidered above the gun. Their counterparts, the firemen, had white shirts and red sweaters with the same embroidery except theirs had a fire hose instead of a gun.
“Okay, who’s up?” Robinson checked the score card. “Frank. Get us some good distance. We need a birdie if we plan to beat those firefighters. And you can wiggle all you want, just don’t do an Ed Norton and take five minutes to prepare.”
“Damn, Captain, all these orders. Do this, don’t do that.” But Frank was smiling. He took two practice swings, then lined up his shot. “Okay, right down the middle.” He shuffled his feet, waved the club back and forth, eyed the fairway one last time, then swung.
“Whoa, what a shot.” Ed shielded his eyes from the sun.
“Stay up. No, don’t hook. Damn.” Frank leaned his body to the right as though the movement alone could control the ball. He grimaced as the ball took a sharp turn and sailed into the trees on the left side of the fairway.
“I’ll show you how it’s done.” Robinson grabbed a driver with a head the size of a grapefruit. He didn’t bother with a practice swing. The air whooshed as the ball went sailing. The four stood in stunned silence as the ball sailed over the trees on the right hand side. “Looks like I have the longest drive so far.”
“Yeah, too bad it’s two fairways over.” Ed pulled out a three wood, tossed a ball on the tee box, not bothering to tee it up. “Don’t know how you guys can hit them drivers with those large heads. Mine’s been in time out for five years.” He made a quick swing and popped the ball down the middle of the fairway. “Not far but at least it’s in the middle.”
“You’re awful quiet today, Jake.” Robinson tossed his driver back into the golf bag.
“Dillon has another tooth coming in. Kept us up all night. Abby is usually able to quiet him down but he wanted me. I finally waited until Abby wasn’t looking and rubbed some whiskey on his gums.”
“Told you that would work,” Frank said.
Jake wished he had a cup of black coffee about now. He settled a Chicago Bears baseball cap on his head, then pulled a driver from his golf bag. They couldn’t ask for better weather for a golf outing. It was in the high sixties the first week of October. Shirt and sweater weather. Jake placed the ball and tee in the ground, lined up his shot, then took a measured backswing and let the club fly.
“Wow, down the middle,” Ed yelled. “That’s how it’s done.” The words no sooner left his lips then the ball took a crazy bounce and ended up in a sand trap. “Oops. Guess we all get to play in the beach.”
“No. That trap has a big lip on it. Might be hard to get on the green from there.”
“I agree with Jake,” Robinson said. “Jake has great distance but Ed’s ball isn’t in any trouble. We can get on in two from where Ed’s ball is parked.”
“I’m going to look for my ball. The damn things cost over twenty bucks a dozen.” Frank grabbed an iron and headed toward the woods. “Take the cart, Jake. I’ll walk and meet you.” In a scramble, the players pick the best of the four hits, then everyone plays their next shot from the same spot. For four years in a row the police department had won. Last year the fire department squeezed past.
Only the front nine of the course had been opened since the beginning of the season while a crew worked on finishing the bunkers and bridges over the ponds on the back nine. It had been completed in time for the Gun and Hose Scramble.
The two golf carts rumbled to a stop near Ed’s ball. “Love the GPS they have on these carts. Look at this.” Robinson pointed at the monitor hanging from the roof of the cart on the driver’s side. “It even shows where the carts are in front of you plus the yardage.”
“Aren’t you going to go retrieve your ball?” Ed climbed out of the cart and looked toward the adjoining fairway.
“Nah. Not worth it. I’ll just drop another ball.”
“Hate it when they have a shotgun start,” Ed whined. “We had to start on the back nine. It’s like walking up the stairs backwards. My game is off.”
“Is that the excuse you’re going to use today?”
“Yeah, I’m sticking with it.” Ed stood back and studied the yardage to the green. “What are you using, Captain? Think my five wood will get me there?”
“I was going to use my hybrid. You show us the way.” Robinson dropped a tee near Ed’s ball to mark the spot.
“I’ll go with my five wood.” Ed took two practice swings, eyed the green, then swung the club. The ball made a line drive toward the target, stopping just short of the green. “That’s one way to get it there.”
Jake turned in the direction of the woods. “Where the hell did Frank go? He should know better than to spend more than two minutes looking for his ball.” Jake looked back at the tee area to see if they were holding up the next group. Frank emerged from the woods, breaking into a trot. “Did you find your ball?”
“Yes and no.” Frank ran a hand over his shaved head and gave a sheepish grin. “It kinda rolled into this…” He rolled his hand as though he wanted someone else to finish his thought.
“Into what?” Robinson barked.
“Oh shit.” Jake grimaced. Having been Frank’s partner for over eight years, he half-expected the next phrase out of Frank’s mouth.
“Well…it rolled into the hand of…”
“For crissake, Frank,” Robinson yelled. “Don’t tell me you stumbled onto another body.” He held up one mitt-sized hand like a stop sign. “Don’t even say it.”
Scofield pulled off his hat and swiped at his forehead. “Does this mean we aren’t going to get to finish?”