Final Round Page 6

  “Wow,” Fitz said with admiration. He let out a slow whistle. “I’m impressed.”

  “You should be.” Conner was wearing traditional golf attire-cotton Polo shirt, khaki pants, golf shoes. Even a sporty red baseball cap. “Took me two precious minutes to iron this stuff.”

  Fitz pulled a face. “Yeah, right.”

  “Okay, it took me two precious minutes to find this stuff. Happy now?”

  “I heard you got called to the woodshed last night. I see they made an impression.”

  “Yeah,” Conner mumbled. “They definitely made an impression.” He checked his watch, then followed Fitz out of the cabin toward the clubhouse. “We don’t have much time. Have you gotten my clubs out of the locker room?”

  “You left them on the driving range last night, you nincompoop.”

  Conner slapped his forehead. “Damn. I was practicing, then Freddy lured me down to the locker room. Then on the way back up, I bumped into this coed golf groupie from Emory and one thing led to another…”

  “I’ll bet.” Fitz offered his best disapproving look. “Don’t worry. I always check on your clubs before I turn in at night. When I saw they weren’t in the locker, I started looking around. I know you like to drive the night before a tournament, so they weren’t hard to track down. Once again, I pulled your butt out of the frying pan.”

  Conner pushed through the clubhouse door and exited onto the walkway that led to the first tee. “That’s why I pay you the big money.”

  Fitz grimaced. “Believe me, kid-seven percent of your winnings is not big money.”

  Conner approached the first tee marker, which was flanked by officials anxiously looking at their watches. “Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I’ve made it, just in time. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

  Conner inched forward, but the officials didn’t budge.

  “Pardon me, boys,” Conner said, retaining his sunny demeanor. “See, I’m a player. Except it’s hard to play if you won’t let me on the course. So am-scray.”

  The officials didn’t move. They looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “They don’t move till I say so.”

  Conner’s face fell. “Derwood. How miserable to see you again. Why are you here?”

  “I told you last night. You don’t play unless I say so. These officials have been instructed that you are not to approach the first tee until you are authorized to do so. By me.”

  “Derwood, you are experiencing serious delusions of grandeur. A Napoleonic complex. But you have nothing in common with Napoleon, except of course your height.”

  Derwood’s teeth clenched together. “Laugh all you want, clown boy. But you don’t play till you pass my inspection.”

  “Fine. Inspect away, Little Corporal.”

  Derwood did a slow circle around Conner, taking him in head-to-toe. “Shirt is regulation, slacks are regulation,” he muttered as he passed. “Shoes are tattered and tacky, but regulation. Even the cap is regulation.” He nodded officiously. “Very well, gentlemen. This entrant is authorized to participate in today’s tournament.”

  The officials appeared keenly relieved.

  Before he moved away, Derwood pressed close to Conner and smirked. “I knew we could whip your gonzo-ass into line,” he whispered.

  Conner didn’t reply. He pivoted silently, took the club proffered by Fitz, passed through the gauntlet of officials, and approached the first tee. He placed his ball on a tee, pulled on his right-hand glove and, almost as an afterthought, removed his cap.

  Gasps sounded in the spectators’ gallery.

  Derwood’s eyes went wide. “He’s shaved his head!”

  Indeed he had. Not only buzzed it to the scalp, but created a discernable zigzag pattern across the back, sort of like an Iroquois on speed.

  “That is not acceptable!” Derwood shouted. “Someone stop him-”

  Too late. Conner swung, and the white dimpled ball flew down the fairway. An instant later, Conner and Fitz had entered the course in pursuit.

  Derwood threw his hat down and stomped on it. “You won’t get away with this!” he shouted. “You haven’t heard the last of me.” But in fact, Conner had heard the last of him, at least for the moment, because he was already well out of earshot.

  Safely ensconced on the third tee, Conner thought he could slow down and engage in a bit of conversation. “Where’s John, anyway?” he asked Fitz. “Aren’t we playing together?”

  Fitz shook his head. “He drew an earlier tee time. Problem is, he didn’t show up.”

  “Didn’t show up? That’s not like John.” He paused. “Come to think of it, he never showed up last night.”

  “I searched all over the grounds. Couldn’t find him. Even checked his cabin. His wife said she hadn’t seen him since last night.”

  “You mean he didn’t come back to the cabin last night? John? That doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Like when? During that languorous stretch between when you got out of bed with your coed and when you appeared at the first tee?”

  “Well, sometime.”; Conner dug the head of his club into the ground. “This is totally unlike John. I’m concerned.”

  “There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

  “Yeah, but still-”

  “Concentrate on your game. We’ll find John later.”

  Conner frowned. “I suppose.” He scanned the fairway. “I don’t think I need the wood for this. Hand me my nine-iron.”

  “Are you joking? That hole is four hundred and fifty yards away. Plus there’s a water trap. Plus the dogleg left.”

  “I like the nine-iron. It’s my best club.”

  “You’re making a mistake-”

  “Fitz. I’ve made my decision. Pass me the club.”

  “Your wish is my command, sire.” Fitz passed the requested club.

  Conner shielded his eyes and gazed at the distant green, mentally recalculating the distance. There was a water trap about two thirds of the way up the fairway, but if he hit hard, shot over it, avoided the rough…

  He turned to his caddie. “Fitz, how do I get to the green in one?”

  “Practice.”

  “But seriously.”

  “You don’t. Especially with a nine-iron. Lay up.”

  Conner groaned. “I hate that cheesy play-it-safe crap. I think I can make it to the green in one. I’m going for it.”

  “Conner, don’t be a fool. It’s a sucker pin.” Meaning the pin had been placed such that only a sucker would try to get close to it.

  Conner held a finger against his lips. “Please. A master is at work.” Conner shook himself down, adjusted his stance, brought back his club, and fired.

  The golf ball flew into the air, taking a tremendous lift and forming a beautiful line right down the center of the fairway… then took a sudden veer to the right, crashing to earth deep in the rough.

  “Damn!” Conner swore. “What happened?”

  “You swung,” Fitz answered.

  The two men tracked down the ball, killing a good ten minutes of course time.

  “I could still make the green in two,” Conner opined. “I’m going to blast it out of here.”

  “With the nine-iron?”

  “It’s my best club.”

  “That’s what you said-”

  Before Fitz could finish his commentary, Conner had swung. Once again, the ball took off beautifully… and once again, it took a sudden and dramatic turn to the right.

  “A fatal slice,” Fitz commented, under his breath. “Fatal for you.”

  Conner tried again, on the fourth hole, the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh. Each time, the story was the same. Beautiful launch, followed by a sudden slice to the right.

  “What’s going on?” Conner said, as he searched for his ball in the rough off the seventh fairway. “My drive used to be the best part of my game. You said I could hit a dime at two hundred yards.”

  “That’s what you get for li
stening to me.”

  “I’m serious. You’re my caddie. You’re supposed to help me out when I’m in trouble.”

  Fitz shrugged. “Sorry, Conner. If I could help, I would. But I’m as mystified as you. This is just weird.”

  “Thank you, Harvey Penick.”

  “Look, this is going to require some study. After you finish, we’ll go out on the driving range and take a look at what you’re doing. Maybe I can figure something out.”

  Conner reluctantly agreed. By that time he was already seven over par. During the next ten holes, he managed to make some improvement, but not nearly enough. As he approached the eighteenth tee, he was four over par, and he knew perfectly well that wasn’t good enough to finish in the money in a par-three tournament.

  “Fitz, I’m going to try the nine-iron again.”

  Fitz closed his eyes. “You know, I was just thinking, ‘How could this boy possibly make things worse than they already are?’ And presto-right on cue-you answered the question. You must be psychic.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Conner snatched the club from his bag. “Don’t give me any crap or I’ll dock your day’s pay.”

  Fitz snorted. “As if there’s going to be any pay after this performance!”

  Conner ignored him. He placed the ball on the tee, rocked himself into position, and swung. The ball rose into the air and, once again, swerved right, descending into a deep and wide sand trap.

  “Goddamn it!” Conner shouted.

  “Stop swearing!” Fitz commanded. “Officials are everywhere.”

  Conner silently trudged down the fairway, finally finding his ball buried in the sand.

  “I know better than to imagine that you might consult your caddie on how to get out of this tough scrape,” Fitz said. “So I’ll ask you. What’s your plan?”

  “Thought I’d use a wedge. If I pop it high enough, it might go all the way to the green.”

  “Do you see the sheer wall of this trap, Conner? There’s no way-”

  “Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

  “It would be smarter to just get yourself out of the trap. Get to the green on your third.”

  “You always want to play it safe. It’s like golfing with my grandmother.” Conner addressed the nearly buried ball, crouching slightly for his scoop shot. He swung the wedge. The ball bounced up against the high wall of the trap and ricocheted back into the sand.

  “Goddamn it!” Conner shouted, then looked sheepishly at Fitz. “No one heard me,” he grunted.

  “I did.”

  “I meant no one who would report me.”

  Fitz arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  Conner squared himself once more before the ball half-buried in the sand. He took a deep breath, said a silent prayer to the patron saint of golfers, whoever that was, and swung. The club ground out in the sand before it hit the ball.

  “Did the ball move?” Fitz asked, inching forward from his safe berth outside the trap. “If the ball moved, you have to take a stroke, even if your club didn’t hit the ball.”

  “The ball didn’t move,” Conner said. There was an eerie quiet to his voice. “But something else did.” Conner poked the tip of his club into the sand. There was something down there, just below the surface of the sand. Something… blue.

  He crouched down for a closer look. Using the handle of his club as a probe, he dug around, brushing the sand off the surface. The blue-something was a piece of fabric. A shirt, he realized. A shirt sleeve, to be precise.

  Conner shot up in the air, his face stricken.

  “What?” Fitz asked, moving forward quickly. “What is it?”

  Conner found he couldn’t speak. He could barely manage to point down toward the sand.

  There was an arm in the shirt sleeve.

  A horrible sensation coursed through Conner’s body. His brain was beginning to put two and two together, and he didn’t like the sum. Taking a deep breath, he bent down and began brushing away the sand surrounding the tattered shirt sleeve.

  The shirt was attached to a body, all buried beneath the sand. Grabbing it with both hands, Conner pulled the body out and rolled it over to get a look at the face.

  Conner heard Fitz drawing in his breath, just behind him. He was finding it hard to speak himself.

  His worst fears were confirmed. It was his best friend, John McCree, with his mouth filled with sand. And a fist-sized bloody gash on the side of his head.

  Two. The Gentleman’s Game

  At the Masters, falling out of favor with the powers-that-be can be fatal. After finishing second, Frank Stranahan looked forward to going for the win. But the next year, he had an unfortunate contretemps with Cliff Roberts and was thrown out of the tournament before it had even started. Herman Keiser’s upset victory endeared him to many, but Cliff Roberts disliked him so intensely that he accused Keiser of stealing his championship green jacket.

  Jimmy Demaret won the Masters three times, but that wasn’t enough to impress Bobby Jones or Cliff Roberts. Demaret had told a slightly off-color joke on the grounds one day that resulted in a written reprimand from Jones. And the Augusta National, as many others learned before and after Demaret, had a long memory. Unlike Augusta favorites Gene Sarazen or Ben Hogan (neither of whom won three times), no bridges, ponds, or cabins were named for Jimmy Demaret. “I can’t even get an outhouse named for me,” Demaret commented.

  8

  “My God,” Fitz whispered under his breath. “What happened?”

  Conner found his tongue frozen and his brain almost equally paralyzed. His eyes were locked on the bloody, sand-encrusted figure buried beneath the surface of the trap. A million thoughts raced through his brain, and almost as many emotions as well. John. John!

  He heard Fitz rustling behind him. “We should… do something.”

  Conner heard the words and knew them to be correct, but he was far too immobilized to act upon them. He didn’t know what all he was experiencing-part shock, part grief, part panic. John!

  “We can’t just leave him here,” Fitz muttered. “Other players will be along soon.”

  All true, but at the moment, the tournament was the furthest thing from Conner’s mind. He kept staring at John’s blood-streaked face, while his brain leap-frogged through the conjoined life the two of them had shared. This is the boy who turned me onto golf, he thought. This is the kid who got me through high school. This is the man who helped me break onto the tour. Everything I am, I am because of this man.

  This man whose corpse was buried in the sand trap on the eighteenth hole.

  Conner pushed himself up to his feet, drinking in air, hoping the sudden rush of oxygen would clear the cobwebs in his brain. We have to do something, Fitz said again, or perhaps Conner was only hearing an echo in the nether reaches of his brain. At any rate, the statement was true. Very true.

  Conner stumbled back to his golf bag and pulled out a cell phone. He flipped it open and then, with concentrated effort, punched 9-1-1.

  About an hour after the police finally arrived, the crime scene was secure. Tournament play had been halted; the entire sand bunker and surrounding area was cordoned off with orange warning cones and yellow tape. A man in a suit was videotaping, recording the position of the body and the surrounding area. Three technicians in coveralls were cautiously searching for trace evidence-hair, fiber, blood. Another man was dusting for fingerprints; yet another was on his hands and knees, pressing his nose against the fairway, searching for the imprint of a footprint that might be recordable.

  A Sergeant Turnbull from the Augusta police department had responded to Conner’s call. He was a short, stocky pit bull of a man in a tacky suit. They’d been over Conner’s testimony about a thousand times, or so it seemed to Conner. What was there to tell? They were playing the course, his club went down in the sand, and he found… John. All Conner had done was brush some of the surface sand away from his head and shoulders and flip over the body, which wasn’t buried all that deeply. If Conner hadn’
t discovered him, someone else would’ve, and soon.

  Conner could tell Turnbull wasn’t satisfied, but didn’t know what to do about it. Or perhaps he just had other priorities at the moment. “Don’t leave town,” he said curtly.

  “Of course not,” Conner mumbled. The whole thing seemed unreal to him, like a bizarre dream from which he couldn’t wake himself.

  John was dead. This had to be a dream-a nightmare.

  “Who did this?” Conner said suddenly, not really expecting an answer.

  To his surprise, Turnbull offered one. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Unfortunately, the perp doesn’t seem to have left many clues.”

  “Clues?”

  “Right. They’re always helpful when you’re trying to track a killer.”

  “A-“ Conner eyes widened. “Then you think it’s-”

  “Murder? Course it is. You thought maybe he beat himself to death on the side of his head? And then buried himself in a sand trap? I don’t think so.”

  “But-who-?”

  “We were hoping you might have some thoughts on that subject. Know anyone who had a grudge against McCree?”

  Conner racked his barely functioning brain. “I can’t think of anyone.”

  “We’re not finding any hair or fibers, although it would be a miracle if we could recover trace evidence from a sand trap. This fairway is cut so short it can’t hold onto anything, much less a footprint or a stray hair. No fingerprints on the body. Basically, we’re at square one. A very unpromising investigation. Glad it isn’t my problem.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Nah. I’m just a lowly sergeant. I was just the highest rank in the office when your call came in. They’ll assign this to a lieutenant-Lieutenant O’Brien, probably. I expect you’ll get to tell your story all over again. Probably several times.”

  Great, Conner thought silently. I can hardly wait.

  “Y’know, if there’s… anything else you might know about this mess, I’d sure be obliged if you told me.”

  Conner cocked one eyebrow.

  “Maybe right now it seems best to clam up, but let me tell you from experience-the truth always comes out eventually, and it’ll go easier for you if you come clean.”