fell, the sounds of nature surrounded the shed. The soft rustle of the leaves in the gentle wind and the chirping crickets provided a quiet symphony of nature. He found it soothing, but there was always the fear of the bad dream. It did not come and he was asleep in minutes.
After midnight, something disturbed him, something familiar. As his mind awoke, he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or reconnecting with the real world. Noise penetrated the tin walls like a flashback. He nearly panicked, expecting to wake in the middle of another nightmare, but he wasn’t asleep. Gunfire!
In the dark, he stepped into running shoes and slipped outside. The moonlight was intense, but it still took a moment to adjust his vision. On the hill, surrounded by brush, he was unsure where the sound came from. Then there was another shot and he had the bearing. It came from the fairway below, toward the clubhouse. More shots cracked at a deliberate rate. It was a small caliber weapon, probably a handgun, not a rifle. He moved quietly through the brush to get a clear view of the expanse below. Crouching, he saw someone two hundred yards away, midway across the sixteenth fairway between him and the clubhouse. The man was running away from the road toward the trees separating the sixteenth and seventeen fairways. He was losing equilibrium. Two men were running behind him. A few yards from the trees, the runner fell, unable to crawl. The gunmen reached him in seconds, shooting several more times.
Peter could not make out details in the moonlight, except the shooters were wearing business suits. Wind made the only sound he could hear. The shooters searched the victim and seemed to remove his wallet, then tossed it back. They then walked casually across the fairway to the road.
Peter moved down the slope, staying behind brush until reaching the bottom then ran to the trees leading toward the victim. From experience, he knew that the man was dead or nearly dead. He moved carefully along the tree line, watching the road. He wasn’t worried about being shot at this range and could outrun anyone unfamiliar with the course. When he reached the victim, he could not tell how many times he was hit. His contorted posture affirmed that he was looking at a corpse, but Peter felt his neck anyway. No pulse. He moved back into concealment for several seconds, watching for motion by the road.
The parallel fairway was behind the trees, undulating toward the clubhouse. He needed to use the payphone. Running to the clubhouse, he checked the parking lot. His Ford Explorer was the only car in sight. There were no vehicles in the shadows. Houses were built along the river farther down the road, but none had windows facing the club. The cottages were oriented toward the river. A few had entry lights on, but it was unlikely that anyone would be up this early in the morning. The killers were gone.
He used his access code at the rear of the clubhouse, passing by the pro shop and locker rooms. he had no coins with him, but figured emergency calls would work anyway. Dialing, he was relieved to hear it ringing. A voice answered, “Nine one one, what is your emergency?”
“There’s been a murder.”
“Is anyone in immediate danger? What is your name? Where are you?”
“I only want to report that a man has been shot to death at the Cary Country Club and his body is on the sixteenth fairway opposite the Fox River frontage road, about 500 feet from the clubhouse.” He hung up.
Heading back to his shed, he took a circuitous route using the trees and service trails for cover. It took five minutes to reach the shed.
From the hilltop, he saw police lights moving cautiously along the service road. Sirens blared as four more police cars arrived. They spent several minutes driving back and forth, slowly assessing the scene. Flashlights panned the area.
Hours later, as the first amber rays of daylight began breaking to the east, Peter was pondering his options when a police officer began coming up the path toward him, “Sir, can I talk to you?”
“Yes ma’am, what’s going on down there?”
“There’s been a murder, a shooting, which happened a few hours ago on the golf course, did you see anything?”
“I’m a pretty heavy sleeper, but something woke me up. It could have been a gun.” It was a lame statement.
As she got closer, the Cary Police shoulder patch was readable. “Were you sleeping in the shed?”
“Kind of, they let me stay here while I’m working at the club.”
“You live in a storage shed?”
“I don’t need much, it’s peaceful and the price is right.”
Officer “Ruiz” pulled a notepad from her shirt pocket. “You say you heard gunshots during the night?”
“That’s probably right.”
“What time?”
“I don’t have a clock.”
Finally he said, “Look, let me start over.” She concurred.
He told her everything he’d seen and about his actions. He admitted having made the emergency phone call, but assured her that the man was beyond help. he’d checked the victim’s vital signs.
She recorded his name and asked to see some identification. She needed some way to contact him for further investigation. Peter had an expired Pennsylvania driver’s license and a DD Form 214 discharge from the army. He explained that his license had been valid for thirty days after discharge, but that he’d failed to get it renewed. Soldiers were exempt from renewal when deployed in a war zone.
Ruiz called another officer to the shed. She seemed unsure about how to proceed. State Patrolman “Rodgers” came up the hill. It looked like every agency in the state was at the scene. Ruiz met Rodgers ten paces down the trail, and appeared to be asking his advice.
Coming up the hill, Rodgers asked, “Sir, you have no address and have been living in a tool shed?” Peter reiterated most of the story given to Ruiz. He ended by saying, “Look sir, Officer Ruiz has my information, and it won’t change.” Like Ruiz, Rodgers was hesitant about what to do next. He asked Peter to come with them down the hill.
Casino Man
Many hours earlier, Eric Curran had never felt more exuberant in his life. He could not imagine needing cocaine again. Wealth did that. Although it was nearly midnight when he landed at O’Hare, he was ready for the Monday trip to the office. He spent two days in Atlantic City gambling for stakes he’d only watched on cable television, and won! His new fortune had actually grown over the weekend through some uncanny luck. he’d always felt that he could beat the odds if he had enough money at play; it wasn’t really luck, was it? His career was booming, and he was now enjoying his free time with his favorite pastime. As the plane taxied toward the terminal gate, he released the seatbelt and called the limousine service to pick him up.
Chicago has several limousine companies operating at both airports. The cost of luxury transport is about the same as parking for two days. Dozens of limousine services compete, and it’s common for passengers to have accounts with their favorite services. The agencies were careful to assure timely convenience, without fare hassles or need to ask for directions. Eric lived in Cary, and used H&S limo service, which had always been reliable. H&S monitored flight schedules and had a car waiting when people arrived. He was arriving at terminal one, on United Express and had learned to make his call to H&S when exiting the plane, so that the car was waiting at the curb outside the terminal when he got there. He would be home in about an hour. Life was good.
One thing curious about H&S was that the drivers were all Russian. Often times, there were Cyrillic newspapers in the front seat. The tobacco odor was offensive, but the service was otherwise flawless. He found his car and driver at the outer parking island reserved for taxis.
Within minutes, he was dozing in the back seat. He’d rested on the plane and could sleep on the ride home. In the morning, he would catch the early express train and be in the office by 8:00, with no lingering effects of his weekend foray. Dreams came easily now that he was financially secure. Eric was concerned about appearances at work; and, as S.V.P./C.O.O. for MLC International, he’d more presti
ge than most men his age. The job did not interfere with his life outside of work. His father had built the business over thirty years and never taken a real vacation. The only drawback to his nepotistic role at the company was that his father kept his salary equivalent to the other managers. He would never really enjoy the value of the company until he inherited it.
His job gave him advantages of lifestyle. He enjoyed his small riverfront house, a cottage really, with his ski boat and recently-acquired Yamaha Jet Ski. He owned a showroom-condition 1997 Porsche Carrera-4 that never left the garage in winter, and a 2001 Chevy Blazer for routine driving. He generally drove the Blazer to work or took the train. He enjoyed the toys. Next year, he planned to join the country club and learn to play golf. He was within walking distance, living only a quarter mile past Cary Country Club at the end of the frontage road.
During the ride home, he dreamed of Cindy. Eric enjoyed the casinos for more than just gambling. Sex was available as a commodity if you could afford it. Between gambling venues, he could go to the casino lounge and order scotch whiskey, and have a female companion by the second drink. The fancy casinos attracted the most exquisite call girls. He favored the Taj Mahal. For the past several weekends, he made appointments with his favorite girl,