he needed to get to sleep.
He got into bed and tossed and turned for a while. The more he tried to prevent it, the more Jennifer consumed his thoughts. His growing frustration and anger created turmoil in his head. The dark thoughts resurfaced. Was something terrible going to happen, or was his mind just playing with him? Whatever it was, now was definitely not a good time for it. Annoyed, he threw off his blanket, got out of bed and went into the living room. He grabbed the remote, turned on the TV and settled onto the couch. Flipping through the channels he stopped at a news report. Alvin Carey was being lead away in handcuffs by police. At least I’m not that bad, he thought. Buck has his hands full with that guy.
The next story was about the Master’s Tournament. The reporter was the one Reid had seen earlier in the day. He was obviously smarter than most; he had not approached Reid for comments and had his cameraman shoot footage from a distance. As the clip ran, the reporter talked about Reid’s endorsement and that he was favored to win the Master’s. Reid mumbled, “You got that right. That jacket is mine.” Next came an interview with last year’s winner. When asked about his chances, he commented, “It depends on how Reid is playing; he looked very good out here today. When Reid’s in the zone he’s tough to beat. But I’m playing well, too. It should be a close tournament.”
“Well, if this tournament is meant to confirm the master of the game, The ‘Bad Boy of Golf’ better be ready to play his best, because the competition is ready. Everyone here wants the coveted Green Jacket. Till tomorrow at the first tee. I’m Bobby Lee, live from the Master’s Tournament in Augusta, Georgia.”
Reid turned off the TV, walked to the computer and logged onto the Internet to check his e-mail. He smiled as he read messages from his sisters accepting his invitation to Augusta. He shot off quick replies and sifted through the rest of his e-mail. As usual, mostly junk. Previously he received all his fan mail. He got a kick out of responding, and although it had been time consuming, he missed it. Ever since that twisted threat was sent to the ICSF address, all his e-mail was redirected to Buck’s office for screening. Only his personal e-mail was forwarded to him.
He closed his eyes as the thoughts of the threats ignited a fuse in his head. They began to wreak havoc on his brain. Every muscle in his body tightened and his head began to throb. Annoyed, he shoved the mouse across the desk and stood. The mouse fell and swung from its wire; it sent a little bead of infrared light sweeping through the dark room, hitting everything in its path. Watching it, Reid was spooked by the thought, Is that what a snipers infrared sight looks like as it marks its target? He followed the dot with intensity as it moved from object to object: couch, wall, TV, desk, his chest. He actually jumped back to avoid it. His leg hit the chair and he fell backward onto the floor; luckily, he didn’t hit anything as he fell. The only damage was going to be a sore left butt cheek. He put his head back on the carpeted floor and looked up at the dark ceiling. He began to laugh, thinking, What kind of moron am I? I’m just lucky I didn’t get hurt. He laughed harder, wondering how he would have explained it if he
had
gotten hurt. Getting up, he looked at the clock. 1 a.m. “I have to get to sleep,” he groaned. He went back to bed. Head on the pillow, looking at the ceiling, he chuckled quietly, thinking of the utter absurdity of the whole situation. Exhaustion consumed him and he slowly fell asleep.
The 5:30 a.m. call abruptly, ended another nightmare. Reid lay in bed, almost drifting back to sleep. He knew if he lay there any longer he might doze off and miss his tee time. He got up, shaved, showered and dressed in his standard golf uniform: blue Izod shirt and khaki Izod pants.
He shoveled down his standard game day breakfast of fresh
He got into bed and tossed and turned for a while. The more he tried to prevent it, the more Jennifer consumed his thoughts. His growing frustration and anger created turmoil in his head. The dark thoughts resurfaced. Was something terrible going to happen, or was his mind just playing with him? Whatever it was, now was definitely not a good time for it. Annoyed, he threw off his blanket, got out of bed and went into the living room. He grabbed the remote, turned on the TV and settled onto the couch. Flipping through the channels he stopped at a news report. Alvin Carey was being lead away in handcuffs by police. At least I’m not that bad, he thought. Buck has his hands full with that guy.
The next story was about the Master’s Tournament. The reporter was the one Reid had seen earlier in the day. He was obviously smarter than most; he had not approached Reid for comments and had his cameraman shoot footage from a distance. As the clip ran, the reporter talked about Reid’s endorsement and that he was favored to win the Master’s. Reid mumbled, “You got that right. That jacket is mine.” Next came an interview with last year’s winner. When asked about his chances, he commented, “It depends on how Reid is playing; he looked very good out here today. When Reid’s in the zone he’s tough to beat. But I’m playing well, too. It should be a close tournament.”
“Well, if this tournament is meant to confirm the master of the game, The ‘Bad Boy of Golf’ better be ready to play his best, because the competition is ready. Everyone here wants the coveted Green Jacket. Till tomorrow at the first tee. I’m Bobby Lee, live from the Master’s Tournament in Augusta, Georgia.”
Reid turned off the TV, walked to the computer and logged onto the Internet to check his e-mail. He smiled as he read messages from his sisters accepting his invitation to Augusta. He shot off quick replies and sifted through the rest of his e-mail. As usual, mostly junk. Previously he received all his fan mail. He got a kick out of responding, and although it had been time consuming, he missed it. Ever since that twisted threat was sent to the ICSF address, all his e-mail was redirected to Buck’s office for screening. Only his personal e-mail was forwarded to him.
He closed his eyes as the thoughts of the threats ignited a fuse in his head. They began to wreak havoc on his brain. Every muscle in his body tightened and his head began to throb. Annoyed, he shoved the mouse across the desk and stood. The mouse fell and swung from its wire; it sent a little bead of infrared light sweeping through the dark room, hitting everything in its path. Watching it, Reid was spooked by the thought, Is that what a snipers infrared sight looks like as it marks its target? He followed the dot with intensity as it moved from object to object: couch, wall, TV, desk, his chest. He actually jumped back to avoid it. His leg hit the chair and he fell backward onto the floor; luckily, he didn’t hit anything as he fell. The only damage was going to be a sore left butt cheek. He put his head back on the carpeted floor and looked up at the dark ceiling. He began to laugh, thinking, What kind of moron am I? I’m just lucky I didn’t get hurt. He laughed harder, wondering how he would have explained it if he
had
gotten hurt. Getting up, he looked at the clock. 1 a.m. “I have to get to sleep,” he groaned. He went back to bed. Head on the pillow, looking at the ceiling, he chuckled quietly, thinking of the utter absurdity of the whole situation. Exhaustion consumed him and he slowly fell asleep.
The 5:30 a.m. call abruptly, ended another nightmare. Reid lay in bed, almost drifting back to sleep. He knew if he lay there any longer he might doze off and miss his tee time. He got up, shaved, showered and dressed in his standard golf uniform: blue Izod shirt and khaki Izod pants.
He shoveled down his standard game day breakfast of fresh
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