Majoring in Murder

Chapter 14

During the following week, I wrote a paper for English and studied my ass off for an upcoming test in my Philosophy class. I felt confident and thought I might do pretty well on the test, but I'd have to wait and see. When Friday arrived, I had the duffel bag in my trunk along with the binoculars I purchased for the first job. I left school just before lunch in order to get to the golf course and settle in.

I wore a dark brown shirt and some old khaki pants in an effort to blend in with the scrub brush and dead pine needles that littered the ground. If I remained stationary, I figured my half-assed camouflage technique would work and no one would notice my presence.

I parked my Sentra in the Baptist Church parking lot at 1:20 PM, hurried across the road with the duffel bag slung over my shoulder, and darted into the woods after a car passed me and disappeared over a hill. Unlike the previous Saturday when I scouted the area, traffic was much lighter on New Salem Road. It gave me a chance to slip into the woods undetected.

I carefully lowered the duffel bag over the fence until it was close to the ground, dropped it on the other side where the blanket of pine straw cushioned its fall, scurried over the top, took up the bag, and walked as quietly as I could to the place where I could watch the fairway without the players seeing me. Occasionally, I would step down on a concealed branch and have to stop after it snapped underfoot.

When I arrived at the narrow clearing, I opened the bag and removed the rifle. As I withdrew the barrel, I admired its matte finish, which was good because it would minimize glare and reflection if the sunlight shone on it. This awareness of reflection didn't come to me until I placed the gun on the blanket of pinestraw beside me to remove my binoculars. The sun came out from behind some clouds and shone through the trees around me, casting concentrated rays of light. A brilliant beam bounced from the binocular lenses and shone directly in my eyes. I fumbled the glasses back into the bag as I rubbed away the tears. That's when the importance of the rifle's finish finally hit home. I had to hand it to Carlo or one of his associates, whoever had picked out the rifle knew what they were doing. It took a couple of minutes before the blue-gray spots vanished from my vision.

I didn't want to risk compromising my position by the sun glinting off the binoculars, so I opted to leave them in the bag. Instead, I would have to rely on the rifle's scope to identify my target since it had flip-up covers that shielded the lenses from direct light. I was disappointed that I couldn't use my new binoculars because they were less cumbersome than the long rifle for simply looking at distant objects. I'd have to do something to reduce the glare for future jobs, but at that moment, I didn't have any solutions. Since I had plenty of time to wait and nothing else to do, I considered the idea of painting them. That wouldn't work though, because painting the lenses would render them useless. Whatever came to mind to put on the lenses—tinting maybe?—didn't seem practical. After all, even the shiny material of the tint could produce a reflection. I looked down at the riflescope's flip-covers and had an idea: why not put some pantyhose over the ends? I could secure them to the binoculars with rubber bands. It might be crazy enough to work so I decided to try it when I got back to school.

Waiting for Lou to make an appearance gave me plenty of quiet time to reflect on what I was about to do. If I didn't try to distract my mind from the task, I might've talked myself out of it. Instead, I looked up at the sky through the tree branches. Billowy white clouds moved lazily across a deep blue sky.

Maybe I should've brought a book, I thought. At least then, I could try to read while I waited and it would keep my mind busy. On second thought, I might not have been able to concentrate on a story.

I sat there cross-legged, staring at my hands as I pulled apart pine needles and tossed aside the pieces. I kept glancing at my watch and every time I did, it seemed that less time elapsed between each peek. It was 2:05 when a party of golfers approached the tee-off area. I raised the rifle, peered through the scope, and focused on each player; none of them was Lou. They wore polo shirts and khaki slacks or shorts, except for two of the men who wore loudly colored plaid knickers in outrageous colors: pink and blue, orange and green. Two men wore topless visors and another wore a cap that looked like it was out of an old Dickens novel. Of course, the man wearing the old-fashioned cap was also the man wearing the orange and green plaids. I stifled the urge to laugh at their ridiculous outfits. I guess a golf course is the only place someone can get away with dressing so silly. Just add a wig and big red nose and he could've passed for a circus clown.