Rift (8 page)

“Against who? Your grandma?”

He doesn't say anything at first. Perhaps he remembers the disaster at Barton Creek when neither of us broke eighty. We played like fools.

I step forward and prepare to tee off. The hole is 185 yards away, and any good golfer can hit the green nearly every time. The challenge is to land it close like Tom just did. Easy enough in a mundane setting like this, but add a little pressure—like grandstands, corporate tents, thousands of spectators—and suddenly golf becomes a whole new game. A game where Tiger Woods is king and at best you're a jester.

The thing with Tom is that he doesn't want a regular job. It's not enough that he makes seventy thousand dollars a year selling cars at the local Honda dealership. He wants the money to be glamorous. And I can respect that. What I can't understand is why he has forgone a serious relationship and abandoned the idea of having a family to pursue his dream. I would do anything to have children, and he chooses not to.

When I swing the club, I realize right away that it's all wrong. The ball pulls left, drops into tall grass beside the green, and disappears.

“Terrible shot,” I say and shake my head.

“You can get up and down from there,” Tom offers.

We walk back to the cart and drive toward the green. Wind sweeps across my face. I close my eyes. Golf just doesn't excite me the way it once did.

“What's the problem, Cam? You've been in the dumps since you got here. Is everything okay at home?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“We're doing as well as any couple after fifteen years of marriage.”

“Then what is it? This is your celebratory golf game. You
transmitted
yesterday, man. You're supposed to be having fun.”

Instead of answering him, I grab my wedge and putter and head for my ball. How am I supposed to enjoy playing golf today when all I can think about is my encounter with Crystal? Was she right? Could the transmission really have screwed me up?

From the rough I chip the ball, and it rolls to within a few feet of the pin.

“Good shot!” Tom says. “I knew you could save par from there.”

Why can Tom smile so easily? How can he go through each day and not ask the questions that for me never cease? Doesn't it bother him that life seems to be nothing more than a series of random events between birth and death? I suppose it doesn't. Tom has never let go of his dream to be a professional golfer, and maybe that's the secret. His finest days are always in the future.

“Maybe you don't want to talk about what's bothering you,” he says and then smoothly makes the putt. “That's okay. But you've got to leave it off the course if we're going to have fun. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

The next hole is a long par five, 540 yards or so. A small rock outcropping separates us from the fairway ahead, something that could prove dangerous for a person of questionable skill. A low tee shot, after all, could hit the rocks and create an unpredictable and dangerous ricochet. For golfers of our caliber, however, it's not really a concern.

Tom hits first, and his shot lands ahead of a giant boulder in the middle of the fairway. Just about perfect. Now it's my turn, and this time I take an extra moment to concentrate on my swing. I can score almost as well as Tom if I pay close attention to my game. Just a slow, smooth backswing and—

Something happens as I start back down. I don't know what causes it, but my feet sway and my hands wobble. Not a lot—it's really just a tiny loss of coordination—but in golf the slightest error can be catastrophic. I hit the top third of the ball, driving it low and to the left. There is a
smack
! as the ball caroms off a rock and heads back our way. It narrowly misses Tom and slams into the cart.

For a moment I just stand there, afraid to look back at Tom. I can't believe I just did that.

“Holy shit, Cam,” he says finally. “When did you play last?”

“Two weeks ago. Shot a seventy at Wedgewood. Tied my course record.”

“You must be tired. We were up pretty late last night. Or maybe it's transmission lag.”

Transmission lag. You don't get lag when you cross only one time zone. And tired or not, I
never
hit shots like that.

“I don't know what happened. I'm going to count that as out-of-bounds and hit another one.”

When I line up again, Tom hides behind the cart. What a confidence booster. I stand there for several seconds, smell rain on the freshening wind, and imagine the next ricochet slamming into my forehead. Knocking me unconscious.

I bring the club back and cringe, but this time my shot flies straight. I'm in the fairway.

“Much better,” Tom says. “We all hit bad shots every now and then.”

I nod my head but say nothing. All I can think about is my conversation yesterday with Crystal.

So how do you feel now? Did it screw you up at all? Some of the animal test subjects came through pretty fucked up.

Like how? I wonder.

We drive to our tee shots. Tom hits first and knocks a three-wood onto the green.

“Good shot,” I exclaim. “You're on for eagle.”

“Bring on the U.S. Open,” he says.

I address my shot next, and already the golf demons are playing with my mind.
You're gonna screw up again. You nearly took Tom's head off a minute ago. Do you even remember how to hit the ball?
Sure enough, I lose control of my swing, and the ball scoots across the ground.

“Shit! I'm playing like a goddamn beginner.”

“What's the matter with your balance? You're moving all over the—”

“I don't know what's wrong!”

“This is stupid. I know you're worried about what that stripper said yesterday.”

I start walking toward my ball with my three-wood in hand. I don't care if it's the wrong club. I'll hit it anyway.

“Cameron!”

I strike the ball perfectly this time and a wind gust carries it thirty yards over the green. I should've used a different club.

Tom drives up beside me. “What the hell was that?”

“A good shot. Didn't you see it?”

I start walking toward the green. I'm not the most upbeat person in the world, but I generally don't get very angry. In fact, I can't remember the last time I was this mad. Maybe it's the weather. The air feels electric.

Tom rolls along beside me. “Get in the cart, Cameron.”

“Forget it. I don't deserve to ride.”

“We're holding up the group behind us.”

I turn around and look back down the fairway. A cart is already waiting on us.

“I'll go tell them to slow down.”

“They're not moving that fast, Cameron. We're going kind of slow.”

“Because of me, right?”

“Well, if you'd ride in the cart . . .”

I'm still staring at the cart behind us. My anger now has something else on which to focus. I feel like storming back there, confronting them. God knows I'm angry enough. And—

One of the men just got out of the cart. The other, the guy on the passenger side, is still sitting there. And damned if he doesn't look like—

“Hey,” I say.

“What?”

“That guy back there. In the cart. I saw him at The Wildcat last night.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yes. He's got that goatee. I remember the goatee.”

“Cameron,” Tom insists, “there are fifty thousand men in Phoenix who have goatees.”

“I remember this guy. He came outside after us and looked around the parking lot. Crystal said there was a man staring at me last night. She thought he might have been someone from NeuroStor.”

“Come on, Cam. That girl was just fucking around. Why would someone from NeuroStor be watching you?”

Something in Tom's eyes tells me his question was rhetorical, but I answer it anyway.

“To see if I came through messed up.”

“Oh, shit. That's insane. They already did their tests.”

“So? You see how I'm playing golf today. I haven't done anything like this in twenty years.”

“You're just upset,” he says, almost pleading. “And tired.”

“You think that's it? What about yesterday, at the transmission station? I fell and hit my head like a clown. And that was after you thought I'd come out all crazy, speaking in tongues or walking in circles.”

Tom's eyebrows shrink toward each other. He seems distressed. Did I just speak what is on his mind? Does he think I'm nuts? Does he not think I'm the Cameron Fisher who stepped into the portal in Houston?

“We should leave,” he says.

“What?”

Still with that concerned look in his eyes. “We have to get the hell out of here.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Because you're being followed. Get in the cart, Cameron.”

At the very least we need to clear the fairway so the group behind us can hit their shots. I get in the cart as instructed, and Tom takes off toward the green.

“Tom,” I tell him. “My boss, Rodrigo Batista, he's not exactly the most trusting guy in the world. It wouldn't be surprising to know he's having me followed. I'm one of his prize volunteers, after all.”

“You're in danger.”

We reach the green. My ball is on the other side, and I watch for it as I wait for Tom to slow down. But he doesn't. He keeps driving as if we have completed the hole.

“Where the hell are you going?” I demand. “We're not leaving. I came out here to play golf, and even if I'm playing like shit, I'm not going to let Batista ruin our time together.”

“And I'm not going to let you get caught,” Tom says, distractedly, almost as if he is talking to someone else.

The distance between the green of this hole and the tee of the next one is considerable. Thirty or forty seconds pass as the golf cart's whining engine pushes us down the concrete path. I'm trying to forget what happened to my golf swing, hoping that my lack of coordination was simply a mental lapse, that Crystal's fears have no basis whatsoever in reality. And here Tom is making it worse.

We reach the next hole, where the group ahead of us is teeing off. One of the foursome glares at us, and Tom stops. We can't drive by during someone's swing.

“Hey,” I whisper to Tom.

“What?”

“Isn't that Troy Aikman?”

“Cameron,” he hisses. “Will you stop fucking around? We shouldn't be waiting here. They're probably on their way right now.”

“Look,” I say. “Tell me it's not him.”

But Tom's eyes are instead trained on the path behind us. Because of the topography, the rolling, sandy terrain, he can only see about a hundred yards or so in that direction. I pray that the man with the goatee doesn't appear back there. Because if he does, Tom will no doubt drive forward, past these men in front of us, which will not only be an insulting breach of golf etiquette but also confirmation that I am indeed being followed. And while I said I wasn't surprised by that—because really, I'm not—it makes me wonder just how confident Batista is in the accuracy of his machine.

The man who may or may not be Troy Aikman is the last to hit, and Tom looks up as he addresses his ball. At the same time a cart appears on the path behind us. The passenger is without question the man with the goatee. Then Tom turns, sees them approaching, and I quickly remove the cart's ignition key. So when he slams his foot on the accelerator, nothing happens.

“What the fuck?” he cries.

The golfer on the tee is just beginning his backswing. He stops and glares at us again.

“Excuse me,” he says. “Do you mind?”

“Cameron, the cart won't go. Why won't the fucking cart go?”

“I'm sorry,” I say to the man on the tee. I'm pretty sure it's Troy, but it's kind of hard to see considering the early morning clouds.

Tom grabs my arm. “Where did the key go?”

“I took it.”

“Why?”

“Ex
cuse
me,” the golfer says again. “I'd like to go ahead and hit if you don't mind.”

The cart behind us is thirty yards away.

“Cameron, give me the key.”

“Stop it, Tom. I don't want to run. They're too close for us to run now, anyway.”

Tom is unconvinced. I cannot understand why he's so worried about Batista's surveillance.

“Listen,” I whisper. “They're right behind us now. Let this guy hit before he comes over here and swats us with his driver.”

“It's not him I'm concerned about.”

The golfer hits. His shot is low but long and straight. He glares at us again as he walks back to his cart, and then the entire foursome drives away.

And now our pursuers have arrived.

I jump out of the cart at once, and Tom reluctantly does the same. This is my first close look at the man who might be a NeuroStor spy. His goatee and obsidian eyes are joined by a tall, imposing frame. The other fellow is even more muscular, but stands shorter and appears to be cursed with some sort of pigmentation problem. His skin is sallow and pink, his hair a shade of blond that resembles white. The two men step out of the cart as we approach.

“We're playing a little slow today,” I explain.

“That's okay,” the blond man says. “We're in no rush.”

“Still,” Tom says. “We're going to take our time today and enjoy the round. Why don't you play through?”

Now the goatee man answers. His voice is more direct. “Don't worry about us. We'll slow down so we don't bother you.”

I am trying to think of what to say next when another cart swings around the hill. It's a course marshal.

“We got people who want to play golf around here,” he says, stopping beside our two carts. He is an older gentleman, and his accent is southern. “You boys gonna tee off or just stand there all day?”