Final Round

by William Bernhardt

“Over them! Are you kidding?”

  “It’s possible. Theoretically.”

  “But it’s so risky, Conner.”

  “It has to be. Otherwise, Ace will simply duplicate it. It has to be something so risky he won’t dare try it himself.”

  Fitz nodded grimly. “This would certainly qualify. I don’t think anyone’s gotten to the green in one on this hole in the history of the Masters.”

  “On the other hand, no one has more experience than me at trying.”

  “Trying and failing.”

  Conner raised his club. “So what do you say?”

  Fitz ruminated for several seconds. “I… I think you should do what you think is right,” he said finally. He paused a moment before adding: “I trust you.”

  “Thank you, Fitz.” Conner took the proferred club and strolled calmly to his tee-off spot.

  He drew in his breath and tried to remember everything he had ever been told about this game. Loosen your grip. Keep your weight on both legs. Swing smoothly, with a strong follow-through. And he remembered one other piece of advice as well, something his old buddy John McCree had said a million years ago and a million miles from here.

  If it isn’t fun, what’s the point?

  A tiny smile crept across his face, and he knew what he was going to do.

  Conner went for it.

  30 The ball climbed into the sky, becoming a tiny dot against the fluffy white clouds overhead, reaching ever higher, passing the water hole, soaring over President Eisenhower’s tree, and not coming down until it was only a few precious feet from the green. Pandemonium erupted. The crowd screamed, and the applause didn’t die for minutes. The commentators went apoplectic, then launched into a spew of hyperbole. Everyone in sight seemed to be pouring out their love and affection, all in Conner’s direction.

  Except Fitz. Fitz was remaining notably stone-faced.

  As they strolled to the eighteenth and final hole of the course-and the tournament-Conner whispered into Fitz’s ear. “Hear that? They love me.”

  Fitz nodded stolidly. “It’s true.”

  “They think I’m magnificent.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Everyone!” Conner stopped. “Except you.” He peered at his caddie. “You’re afraid this will go to my head and I’ll blow it on the last hole.”

  Fitz averted his eyes. “It’s a sin to tell a lie…”

  Conner laughed, then slapped the man on the back. “It’s not going to happen, Fitz.”

  “You won’t let the crowd get to you?”

  “Crowd? What crowd?” He winked. “I’m here to play golf.”

  And after Conner Cross eagled the eighteenth, no one in the world could doubt it.

  Conner spent a good half-hour with the reporters under the giant maple tree, then retired to the locker room to change. He’d played fabulously well-the best game of his career. It showed in his score, too. He’d finished at 274-only four strokes above Tiger Woods’s all-time best Masters four-round score of 270. He was definitely a contender. But there were still fourteen players on the course, including Harley Tuttle, who had placed in almost every tournament that year, and Ace Silverstone, who had been leading the pack since the first day. All he could do was cross his fingers-and wait.

  He changed into his street clothes and ambled upstairs to the bar. He’d never felt less like drinking in his entire life, but he knew the bar was where the action would be-and the players. When the final scores were posted, the barflies would be the first to know.

  A few minutes after Conner sat down, Harley Tuttle entered the bar. He made his way toward Conner.

  “Well,” Conner said. “Do I dare ask how you did?”

  “I can tell you this,” Harley replied. “I didn’t beat you.”

  Conner felt a quickening in his heart, a tightening in his gut. “How much difference?”

  “Two strokes. That eagle on the seventeenth nailed it for you. Man, that took some balls.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll probably end up in fourth or fifth place,” he said downheartedly. “I blew it on the fifteenth. Totally underestimated the distance. Should’ve known better.” He shook his head. “Like my daddy always said, Measure twice, saw once.”

  “Hey, you’ve got nothing to feel low about. This is your first year on the tour, and you’ve placed time after time. You must be racking in the bucks big time.”

  “It has been a good year financially,” Harley conceded.

  “So stop with the making morose. Get yourself a beer.”

  “Thanks,” Harley said, grinning. “I think I will.”

  Conner scanned the room, wondering where Fitz was. If the news came in, and if it was what he dreamed it might be-he wanted Fitz to be a part of it. He could never have won the tournament without Fitz’s help, and he knew it.

  Barry Bennett was standing by the front window, staring out at the course. He seemed wistful but, for once, sober. “The last player is coming off the course,” he announced. He turned toward the throng. “Ladies and germs, the Masters tournament is finished. It’s all over but the crying.”

  Yes, Conner thought, but will it be crying salty tears or crying for joy? That was the question.

  Several of the players were kind enough to say a few words to Conner on their way to or from the bar. “Good luck,” one said. “We’re rootin’ for you,” said another.

  Conner thought about that. He wondered if anyone really was rooting for him. Would people like to see him triumph, just for the novelty of it? Or had he made himself so thoroughly obnoxious that the thought of a Conner Cross championship sent shivers down their spines? It was hard to know.

  He was almost embarrassed. There were so many things going on right now. His best friend and his first love had been murdered. The killer was blackmailing the tournament officials. Last night, someone had taken a few potshots at him. And here he was, sitting in the bar, possessed by one thought: his golf score. It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t even care.

  But he did care. And it did matter. Maybe it wouldn’t seem important if he hadn’t come so close. But he had-and now all he could think about was how wonderful it would be to slide his arms into the sleeves of one of those lovely green jackets.

  Less than five minutes later, Conner saw one of the scoring officials entering the hallway outside. There was a large white posterboard under his arm that couldn’t possibly be anything other than the final scores. The official walked to one of the walls outside and began adhering the poster with sticky white tape.

  Conner polished off the last of his ginger ale. It seemed the time had come.

  31

  Conner slowly pushed himself away from the table. You will not run, he told himself. You will remain calm, cool, and collected, no matter how desperately you want to mow down everyone standing between you and that poster. You will make Fitz proud.

  You will make John proud.

  He wasn’t even out of the bar when he saw Fitz making his way in.

  One look at Fitz’s face was all he needed. It told the whole story.

  He hadn’t won.

  As Conner approached the final rankings, the crowd parted wordlessly, creating a path for him. It seemed Ace had rallied on the last five holes, matching Conner’s score on every hole but the seventeenth, and bettering it twice.

  He’d beaten Conner-by a single stroke.

  Just as the sun was setting on the Augusta National, two men were huddled on the porch outside one of the cabins. The hour was late and the night was still. There were no sounds, no whispers of life; no one seemed to be about-except on that porch. And even there, the men were doing everything in their power to prevent anyone from noticing.

  “But why here?” one of them asked. He was just as nervous now as he had been several days ago, when they first met back at the bar on the outskirts of town.

  “Just do it,” the taller one fired back. “Quick! Before someone notices.”

  The first man pressed his
weight against the door and tried the knob. It didn’t turn. “Door’s locked,” he murmured. “See? This is pointless.”

  The other man pushed him out of the way. “What are you, a man or a moron?” With one mighty leap, he flung himself against the door, shoulder first. The aged and weathered wood cracked, then began to splinter. Another hard thrust against the warped wood, and the door was open.

  “Easy as pie,” he said, massaging his shoulder. “Now get in, before someone spots us.”

  Both men quickly skittered inside. One of them-the one who didn’t want to come in the first place-reached for the light switch.

  “Stop!” his companion insisted. “Do you want everyone to know we’re in here?”

  “No. I just want to be able to see where the hell I’m going.”

  “Then use this.” A small rectangular object flew through the air. The other man held up his arms, not knowing what it was he was about to intercept. When it arrived, it almost clubbed him in the face.

  “A flashlight,” he murmured. “Thank God.” He pushed forward on the plastic switch, casting a thin beam of light through the cabin. “So now that we’re here,” he said, addressing his cohort, “why are we here?”

  The other man smiled thinly. “We’re here to finish what we’ve started. To close all the loopholes. To end it once and for all.”

  “You love that crap, don’t you?”

  “Love what crap?”

  “Talking in riddles. Even when you know there’s not the slightest chance anyone will know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You’re really into it. You think it makes you seem deep, don’t you? Well let me tell you something-it doesn’t. It just makes you seem like a jerk-off.”

  “You wound me.”

  “Cut the bullshit.”

  “Why the sudden hostility?”

  The other man moved forward, the flashlight illuminating his path. “I’ll tell you why. I’ve gone along with you all the way on this. You know I have. And what’s it gotten me?”

  “For starters, a hell of a lot of money.”

  “But at what cost? The cops are everywhere. They’re closing in.”

  “On you, maybe.”

  “That’s my point. What the hell good is the money if I never get a chance to spend it?”

  “I think you’re overreacting.”

  “I don’t care what you think. I didn’t sign on to take these risks. And if you expect me to do it any longer, you’re going to have to pay me a lot more than you have so far.”

  “I did try.”

  “Trying’s not good enough, you manipulative son-of-a-bitch! I’m two seconds away from telling the cops everything I know. Maybe offering a deal. Turning state’s evidence in exchange for immunity. What do you think about that, asshole?”

  “You’re so predictable.”

  The other man’s head twitched. “Predictable? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that. You’re so easy.”

  “You’re saying you predicted this?”

  “Of course I did. How could I not? You’re about as subtle as a plane crash. I saw it coming… and prepared accordingly.”

  He tried not to let it show how much the man’s words, his eerie tone of voice, bothered him. “Do you think you’re scaring me? Is that it? ’Cause if it is, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m done with being scared of you.”

  “I know,” the other said, and all at once the merriment faded from his voice. “That was your big mistake.”

  The golf club whipped around so quickly he could barely register what it was, much less take action to avoid it. If it hadn’t been for the flashlight, he would’ve had no chance at all. As it was, he didn’t have nearly time enough. He stumbled backwards, barely missing the lethal club as it whisked around just inches before his face. He bumped into the bed, then lost his balance and fell backwards, tumbling onto the king-size comforter.

  He heard the familiar sound of rushing wind and knew the club was in action again. He rolled around, but this time he wasn’t quick enough. The golf club narrowly missed his head, but still managed to slam into the side of his neck.

  He tried to scream, but found that the injury to his neck had somehow throttled his windpipe, cut off his air. All he could manage was a pathetic gurgling noise, hardly enough to summon help. He heard the whistling of air again and threw himself back, slamming his head against the bed’s backboard. It wasn’t enough. This time the club caught him square on the chin, shattering a few teeth and leaving him so dazed he could barely think, much less move.

  “Damn it, you spoiled everything!” his assailant cursed. “I wanted one quick clean shot-like the first time. The mark of a professional.”

  The man sprawled on the bed was aware of the other man’s movement. He felt the sharp dip, the signal that the other man had climbed onto the mattress and was slowly making his way to him. His head was swimming and red flashes fired before his eyes. He was barely conscious, and knew he wouldn’t be that for much longer.

  “All right then,” the taller man said, snarling, as he hovered just overhead. “You wanted to make it messy? Fine-we’ll make it messy.”

  He heard a scraping noise, and in the dim light of the flashlight-where was that thing now anyway?-he saw the other man extract a thin knife from its sheath.

  “Time’s up,” the killer said, as he drew inexorably closer. “Now watch this last stroke. It’s one of my best.”

  32

  Back at the clubhouse, Conner licked the salt from the rim of his fourth margarita. Things couldn’t be any worse than this, he told himself. It just wasn’t possible.

  It would be different if this had happened to the Conner of a few days before. He had never taken these tournaments seriously, never allowed himself to get too attached to the idea of winning. When he lost, it was no great shakes; hell, he hadn’t even been trying hard, right?

  But somehow, somewhere in the midst of the excitement and horror, in the loss of his closest friends and the woodshedding of his caddie, he had lost that detachment. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had allowed himself to dream of winning-and found that he liked it.

  He had been so close, damn it! So close. For all he knew, he might never play this well again. And it hadn’t been enough. He’d given the game everything he had-and come up short.

  He couldn’t fault the other players. They had been tremendously supportive. Even Ace had offered a few kind words. Conner had secretly harbored the hope that this tournament might increase his fellow players’ respect for him and his skills, and that at least appeared to have happened.

  But who was he kidding? It wasn’t the same as winning. Not by a mile.

  He lifted the margarita to his lips. Could he down this in a single shot, he wondered?

  “Conner, may I speak to you?”

  Conner peered upward. His vision was already somewhat blurry, but not so much that he couldn’t make out the figure of Lieutenant O’Brien standing just in front of him.

  What was she here for? he wondered. To offer her condolences?

  “What’s up?” he said, trying not to sound as blotto as he was. “Come here to lick my wounds? ‘Cause if you have, I could make a few alternative suggestions…”

  O’Brien looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m not here alone.”

  Conner squinted, trying to bring his long-range vision into sharper focus. He spotted at least four uniformed police officers standing behind her. “What’s up, O’Brien? Is the Augusta National hosting the policemen’s ball?”

  “Not exactly,” O’Brien said. She whipped her cuffs out from behind her jacket. “You’re under arrest.”

  This had a more profound sobering effect than a dozen cups of coffee. “What?”

  “You heard me,” she said, tugging at his shoulder. “Get up.”

  “But-but-“ He allowed himself to be hoisted. “I told you I didn’t do it.”

&
nbsp; “And for some stupid reason, I believed you. I guess I let my professional judgment get clouded. It won’t happen again.”

  “But I’m telling you, I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t kill my own best friend.”

  “I didn’t think so before, but-“ She stared at him for a tense moment, and Conner realized that there was something more behind this arrest. “There’s been another murder,” she said directly.

  “Another one?” Conner was stunned. “But-I didn’t have anything to do with it. I couldn’t’ve. I haven’t left the clubhouse for hours.”

  “Right. C’mon, Conner.”

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me. What about Freddy? Have you found him yet? He’s the one you need to talk to.”

  “That would be extremely difficult,” O’Brien said, as she snapped the cuffs over Conner’s wrists. “He’s dead. As if you didn’t already know.”

  Four. The Killing Stroke

  Dwight D. Eisenhower loved the Augusta National. Because of his friendship with cofounder Cliff Roberts, he was not only a member but a frequent visitor. After he became president, Eisenhower’s visits were so common that Roberts had a residence built for Ike on the club grounds. Because Eisenhower liked to fish, Roberts had already built him a pond nearby and stocked it with black bass and bluegill. Eisenhower spent the happiest days of his life at the Augusta National, where he could fish in the morning, then find ready partners to play golf all afternoon and contract bridge all night.

  Eisenhower’s visits to Augusta were not, of course, without controversy. In 1957, when Eisenhower ordered the federal troops into Little Rock to protect the black students integrating Central High School, he reportedly made the call from Augusta. In reaction to this move, obviously controversial in the deep South, the Augusta Chronicle blasted him for “running the country from a country club.”

  In 1955, when Eisenhower ran for reelection, opponents circulated a poster that read: Ben Hogan for President. If we’re going to have a golfer, let’s have a good one.