Final Round

by William Bernhardt

  “Don’t think you’re going to hide behind some shyster’s coattails, Andrew,” Tenniel said forcefully. “I won’t let you get away with this. I will hound you until every cent is repaid and you are behind bars.”

  Spenser’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t stir up any trouble you can’t handle, Artemus.”

  “Is that it, then? You think I won’t prosecute because I don’t want a scandal at the club.” He leaned forward ominously. “Don’t be so sure.”

  Spenser backed away. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving.” He headed rapidly toward the doors. “But let me warn you. I will not tolerate this unwarranted encroachment on my good name. I have a reputation in this community, and I will not stand idly by and see it sullied. If I learn that you have made any libelous accusations, I will instruct my attorneys to seek redress to the full extent of the law.” He skittered out the door and disappeared in the corridor.

  “Well,” Conner observed, “he’s terrified.”

  “True,” O’Brien agreed. “But unfortunately, that doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Maybe not, but he had a hell of a motive.”

  “I’m beginning to think a lot of people had motives. What I need is proof. And I need it fast. Before this maniac strikes again.”

  28

  O’Brien glanced at her watch, then gave Conner’s shirt sleeve a gentle tug. “Well, Slick, what say you and I do a little spelunking?”

  Conner’s eyebrows rose. “Madam, there are gentlemen present!”

  “I’m talking about the sewer tunnels. You know, our killer’s escape hatch.”

  “Didn’t Liponsky’s dudes scour the tunnels?”

  “Looking for a murderer, yes. Looking for clues, no.”

  “And why would you want me along?”

  “Because you’re my golf expert. What other reason could there be?”

  They made their way to the rough on the north side of the eighteenth hole. After diligent searching, they found the manhole cover that blocked the access into the tunnel system.

  “Looks dark,” Conner commented, peering into the stygian hole. “I’d better go first.”

  O’Brien pulled a pencil-thin flashlight out of her back pocket and tossed it to him. “Take this, Slick.”

  Conner flipped the flashlight on. “Here goes nothing.”

  Advancing feet first, he lowered himself into the narrow passage. “Luckily I had a light breakfast.” Once he was in waist-deep, he kicked around, searching for something to hold onto. He found a rusted iron ladder descending the side of the tunnel. “This should help.”

  Cautiously, he placed one foot on the first rung of the ladder. It squeaked and wobbled, but held. The next foot followed. He could feel the strain on the metalwork, but the ladder didn’t break free.

  “I’m going down,” he announced.

  “I’ll alert the media,” O’Brien replied.

  Conner worked his way down the rickety ladder. About ten feet under ground level, he reached the bottom. He scanned the area with his flashlight, etching a 360 degree circle with the thin beam of light.

  “There’s some kind of recess down here,” Conner shouted up. “Big enough to stretch your legs. Even move around a little bit. And I can see two tunnels going in different directions. Man, they’re small.”

  “Big enough to pass through?” O’Brien shouted back.

  “Oh, yeah. But it won’t be fun. They’re maybe three feet in circumference, tops.”

  “All right. Look out, I’m coming down.”

  Conner moved to the side of the ladder. “Be careful. That ladder has seen better days, and the wall is slick and slimy. Don’t hurt-”

  Conner was interrupted by a swift whooshing noise down the length of the access tunnel. O’Brien had foregone the ladder altogether-and jumped. She landed in a crouched position, executed a perfect barrel roll on her left shoulder, and ended up on her feet. “You were saying?”

  Conner blinked. “That was impressive. Where’d you learn that move?”

  “I have a brown belt in tae kwon do.”

  “Who doesn’t?” He grinned. “Was that just to impress me?”

  “No, that was because I hate to get my fingers slimy.” O’Brien snagged her flashlight and scanned the two tunnels. “Let’s take the north tunnel. They tell me that one leads off the Augusta National grounds. It seems the most likely route for a felon on the run.”

  O’Brien crouched down, then duck-walked into the tunnel, using her hands for balance. “I’ll take the lead.”

  “You’re the boss.” Conner knelt down and followed, waddling behind her.

  Once they were five feet from the entrance, the tunnel was pitch black. The only illumination came from O’Brien’s flashlight. Conner’s fingers came down on something wet and slimy, but he couldn’t see what it was. “Am I the only one getting creeped out here?”

  “No,” O’Brien admitted. “This is like something out of Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “And then some. If I hear any bats, I’m leaving.”

  O’Brien laughed softly. “Bats are okay. But if you hear rats, I’ll join you.”

  “Rats? You think there might be rats?”

  “Rats? In a sewer? What a crazy idea. Of course not.”

  They continued trudging down the tunnel. Conner assumed there had to be an end somewhere, but he couldn’t see it. “Now if this were a Stephen King novel,” he suggested, “we would be in hell now, except we don’t know it, see. We’d just keep trudging along this dark, slimy tunnel for eternity, never reaching an exit.”

  “Wonderful imagery,” O’Brien commented. “Very Sisyphean. You read about Sisyphus in college, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure.” Conner paused. “Is that something to do with your sorority house?”

  O’Brien laughed again. “You’re smarter than you look, Conner.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  They continued moving along the tunnel. Conner wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It seemed like hours, but the voice inside his head told him it was probably more like ten minutes. His ankles were already beginning to ache. Miss Tae Kwon Do up there might be able to duck-walk for hours, but he felt certain he’d be getting shin splints after fifteen minutes.

  He was thinking about suggesting they sing “One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” when he heard O’Brien let out an abrupt cry.

  “What is it?” he asked urgently.

  She didn’t answer, but he did hear what sounded like a scraping or crashing sound, followed by a heavy thud. “Oww!”

  “O’Brien! What’s wrong?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “O’Brien?” His voice was tinged with concern. “Talk to me!”

  “I’m all right,” she answered. “More or less, anyway. There seems to be a small crater here in our otherwise reliable tunnel. Some of the brick gave way and my foot crashed down into it.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Ankle feels twisted.” He heard more scraping noises, followed by a strong grunt. “Can’t seem to get my foot free.”

  “Let me help.” Conner scooted forward until he bumped into her prostrate figure. He slid his hands under her arms and gently tugged. She didn’t budge.

  “Damn. I’m stuck. I think I feel blood trickling down my foot.”

  “We’ll figure something out. Don’t panic.”

  “Thanks. I wasn’t planning to.”

  Conner took the flashlight from her. There was, in fact, a small crater beneath them-small, but bigger than he might’ve guessed. O’Brien’s foot had wedged itself neatly into it.

  He tested some of the surrounding brick and mortar. It felt loose and crumbly. “I think I can get you out of here.” He hesitated. “Um… I have to… um…” He cleared his throat. “Have to, you know. Reach between your, um, legs.”

  “What are we, in kindergarten? Just do it already.”

  “Right, right.” Conner inched forward till he was directly behind her. With O’Brien blocking hi
s path, the only way he could get to the crater was by folding himself on top of her and reaching down in front. His hips hung on her left shoulder as he pried her foot loose. He was forced to prop his body on top of hers, his chin resting against her knee. The whole thing struck him as some bizarre variant on good ol’ 69, but he opted to keep the thought to himself.

  “Having any luck?” O’Brien grunted. Conner suspected she was probably in more pain than she cared to let on.

  “Yes,” he answered. “But it’s slow work.”

  “What do you weigh, anyhow?”

  Conner bristled. “Two hundred. Two-oh-five, tops.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe you should lay off the frozen margaritas.”

  Conner grimaced. “Remind me again why I’m busting my butt to help you?”

  After about two more minutes of making like a gopher, Conner managed to create an opening large enough to withdraw her foot. Gently, he helped her out of the rocky crevasse. Her foot was bleeding.

  “Think you can walk on it?”

  “Assuming I can get out of these tunnels into someplace where you can walk, yes.”

  “Stiff?”

  “A little.”

  “Here. Let me massage it.” To his surprise, she didn’t protest. He wrapped himself over her again and began rubbing the sore calf and foot.

  Her foot was soft and warm, and despite the bizarre circumstances, Conner felt himself responding to her touch. “You have… um… very nice feet.”

  “My momma always said it was my best feature.”

  “Well… I wouldn’t go as far as that.” He continued massaging the sore muscles, working his way slowly up her calf.

  “You can quit if you’re tired.”

  “No. I don’t mind.” Taking her shoulders, he adjusted her slightly, pulling her up into his lap. Again she didn’t resist.

  She turned slightly and so did he, till they were almost face-to-face. Even if he couldn’t see her very clearly, he could definitely feel her presence.

  “O’Brien,” he said.

  “Yes?” she whispered.

  Whatever it was he was planning to say, he forgot it. He leaned forward slightly, and once again, to his amazement, she did not draw back. Their lips met.

  “How’s your foot?” Conner asked, when at last their lips parted.

  “Foot?” she replied, and a second later, they were kissing again. The brush of her lips sent warm shivers cascading down his spine.

  Abruptly, she broke it off. “I’m sorry,” she said, placing a hand against his chest.

  “Sorry? Why? I’m not.”

  “It’s just-I just-“ She paused. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “But-why?”

  “I’m still on duty.”

  “We’ll call this a coffee break.”

  “But-I can’t-for all I know-”

  “What are you saying?”

  O’Brien grabbed the flashlight and began brushing herself off. “It wouldn’t be appropriate, Conner. You’re still a suspect.”

  Conner felt as if he’d been thrown overboard and dashed against the rocks. So that was it. Despite all they’d been through, she still held out the possibility that he was the killer.

  “Anyway,” she said, changing the subject, “let’s move on.”

  “Right. Fine. Whatever you-“ Conner stopped in midsentence. As O’Brien turned, the beam of the flashlight washed across the crater. “Give me that thing.”

  Conner took the flashlight and aimed it into the now even larger crevasse. There was something down there. Something shiny and metallic.

  Conner reached into the opening. He knocked some dust and rubble out of the way and managed to come up with a palm-sized metallic silver box.

  “This doesn’t look like part of the sewer system,” Conner said. “But I don’t know what it is.”

  “I do,” O’Brien said anxiously. “It’s an electronic voice disguiser. Our killer must’ve left that behind.” She took the box from him and carefully wrapped it in a handkerchief.

  “But why did he leave it down here?”

  “I don’t know. Probably an accident. Maybe he fell into the crater, too. Maybe he dropped the thing without realizing it. Whatever the reason, it’s a big break for us.”

  “What-another serial number to trace?”

  O’Brien shook her head. “I’m hoping for something even better. Fingerprints.”

  29

  An hour later, Conner abandoned the search through the tunnels. When he made his goodbyes, O’Brien grabbed his arm and said, “Go get ’em, boy. Win this one for the Gipper.”

  “I never knew the Gipper.”

  She squirmed. “Then win it for some other dead sports guy.”

  Conner smiled. “I’ll do my best.” She gave his hand a squeeze, and then he was off.

  Just before he arrived at the first tee-off, Conner spotted Fitz, who stepped forward to intercept him.

  Fitz motioned him to the side. “I want a word.”

  Conner checked his watch. “Could we do this after I sign in?”

  Fitz shook his head. “Do you have any idea what’s waiting for you up there?”

  “This is just a wild guess, but… my golf clubs?”

  “Yeah, that-and three camera crews and about a thousand golf fanatics.”

  Conner went bug-eyed. “No!”

  “Yes! And they’re all here to see you.”

  “But-why?”

  “You’re the man of the hour. The latest phenom. The underdog who bounced back from personal tragedy to batter down the favorites. You’ve got a story no reporter-or fan-can resist. You’re practically a folk hero.”

  Conner probed the side of his mouth with his tongue. “Do I detect a certain note of cynicism?”

  “I’m not cynical about your performance yesterday. I thought that was incredible. I always knew you had it in you. I just didn’t know if I’d live to see it.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  “The problem is I don’t want you to blow it after you’ve come so close.”

  “And of course, it goes without saying that I would normally blow it.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. You pay me to look after you, and that’s what I’m doing. Every athlete has a tendency to choke when he thinks he’s being watched, and today you’re going to be watched big time.”

  “I won’t choke.”

  “I also know that you, more than most, crave attention and love to play to a crowd. Especially a crowd that adores you. Especially a female crowd that adores you.”

  “I won’t get distracted.”

  “There’s going to be a ton of pressure. Those reporters will be badgering you, telling you that Ace just bogeyed the thirteenth or Harley just got a hole-in-one on the ninth. Trying to get your reaction. You have to put all that out of your head.”

  “I know this already, Fitz.”

  “You have to keep your brain on the game. Ignore the leader board. Concentrate on the game, and nothing but-”

  “Fitz, please.” Conner held up his hands. “You can skip the pep talk. I’m ready.”

  “You say that, but you-”

  “Fitz, I’m telling you-I’m ready.”

  “Yeah, but-”

  “Fitz.” He laid his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Listen to me. Did you trust Gary Player?”

  “Well, of course, but-”

  “Did you trust Jack Nicklaus?”

  “Well, sure-”

  “Did you trust Arnold Palmer?”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Good.” Conner looked him firmly in the eye. “Now trust me.”

  Conner sailed through the first nine holes of the course, beating his previous day’s score by two strokes. Even his putting, usually the worst part of his game, was perfection itself. The crowd behind the gallery ropes stayed with him the whole distance, but if Conner was aware of their presence, he never indicated it.

  Conner showed no signs of letting up on
the back nine. He blitzed through the water holes of Amen Corner, all the while staying dry as a stiff martini. He listened patiently as Fitz made recommendations about clubs and tactics. As they finished the fifteenth, no one in the area-including Conner-could miss hearing one of the commentators announce that Conner Cross now had the best score in the tournament.

  As they approached the sixteenth hole, one journalist sidled up to Conner and engaged him in a brief whispered conversation. Fitz, who was out of earshot, was clearly not amused.

  At the seventeenth hole, Conner set up his tee shot, but hesitated before hitting the ball. He gazed out at the horizon, surveying the fairway, testing the wind. After a few more moments, he waved Fitz over for a consultation.

  “C’mon,” Fitz whispered. “We don’t want to pick up a stroke for delay of the game.”

  “I won’t be long.” He cast his eyes dreamily toward the fairway. “Fitz, what would you say… if I went for it?”

  Fitz didn’t need an explanation of what that meant. “I’d say you’d lost your mind.”

  “Well, now, let’s give it some thought.”

  “Conner, please don’t blow it when you’re doing so well. I thought you were past all this macho, going-for-it stuff.”

  “This isn’t machismo, Fitz. It’s plain strategy.”

  “The smartest strategy is to lay up. Take the dogleg left, then get to the green on your second shot.”

  “Normally, I would agree, but today…” His eyes turned back toward Fitz. “Today I think that would constitute an extra stroke I can’t afford.”

  Fitz’s eyes narrowed. “What did that reporter tell you?”

  Conner leaned closer. “It’s Ace. He’s four holes behind us. He dropped two strokes on the first two holes, but after that, he’s been mirroring my performance the whole way. And I’m sure I need not remind you…”

  Fitz completed the sentence. “That he started the day two strokes ahead.”

  “Which means we’re tied. Or will be, if he continues to play as he has, which seems likely. I need to pick up a stroke.”

  “But there’s no straight shot. You think your ball can go through those trees?”

  “Over them.”