Stranger in the House by Patricia MacDonald Page B

addressed the ball in front of him, rocking a little on the sides of his feet, and then drew back his club. Rambo shifted lower to watch, and the bushes crackled. Edward swung a little wildly; the ball spun off in a curve down a hill and into a sand trap. Edward colored slightly and cleared his throat. “Did you hear those bushes rustling?” he asked. He looked around at the bushes as if to excoriate them. Then he walked over to the crest of the hill and looked disapprovingly down at the ball, as if it were a badly behaved child. “I guess I’ll have to chip it out,” he said. “You play on. Don’t want to keep your son waiting.”
    Thomas rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses and then looked up the fairway where his ball was a tiny speck. “All right,” he said. “I’ll meet you up there.”
    Thomas began to stroll by himself up the fairway.
    Seeing him pass by, Rambo tingled with anticipation. This was his chance. He licked his lips nervously and peered out between the leaves.
    When Thomas was halfway up the fairway, Rambo edged his way over to the sand trap. Edward was treading gingerly into the middle of the sinking surface. Rambo parted the bushes and scurried to the lip of the trap. After looking in every direction, he cleared his throat.
    “Hey, you.”
    Edward stiffened and stuck his chin out, humiliated at being observed in this predicament. He looked around coldly, prepared to wither with his glance whoever was summoning him. He frowned at the unexpected sight of the pale, nervous man in front of him. The man wore a cheap sport shirt, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. He might have been an aging caddie but for the shoddy black shoes on his feet. The man was clearly not someone of importance. Irritated by the interruption, Edward ignored him.
    “You better come over here,” said Rambo, his eyes darting around the sloping emerald hillocks of the course. “I want to talk to you.”
    Edward glared at the man and replied with an icy, imperious formality. “If you have any business being here, sir, you had better make it known to me immediately. If not, please leave these grounds. They are private, and you are interrupting my game.”
    Rambo stared at Edward. He raised one finger and shook it at him. “The word of the Lord is my business,” Rambo chanted at him. “The Lord’s justice is my aim!”
    Edward heaved his shoulders in a sigh and shook his head. “If you know what’s good for you, sir,” said Edward, “you will go peddle your shibboleths elsewhere and get off this golf course this instant.” He turned his back on Rambo and addressed the half-buried golf ball.
    “The Lord has spoke to me. The Lord has given me a sign, not once, but twice, that I must render His justice unto you.”
    “I’m warning you,” said Edward in a menacing voice.
    “Your evil, your wicked ways. Easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man—”
    “That’s it,” said Edward, jamming his club in the sand and turning around to shake a finger at Rambo. “I’m having you bodily thrown out of here.”
    Rambo took a step back. “I saw you,” Rambo hissed at him. “That day on the highway. Eleven years ago. I know what you did.”
    Edward stopped short. His face turned ashen under the brim of his golf cap. His knuckles went white as he gripped the shaft of the club for support.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Edward whispered.
    “To the boy, your friend’s son,” said Rambo, flinging his arm wildly back behind him, the direction in which Paul had gone. “I was there in the bushes that day taking a leak. I saw it all.”
    Edward stared at the man, his body vibrating like a violin string. Suddenly he realized why the man looked vaguely familiar. Newspaper pictures of the wiry man, always wearing a hat. “Rambo,” he breathed.
    “That’s right,” cried Rambo triumphantly. “Albert Rambo. The voice of the Lord on this earth.”
    An incredible gnawing had