by Bill Flynn
The dispatcher handed him the load manifest. Joel skimmed over it, noting only a few parcels would be delivered enroute from Prestwick. Packages for the Turnberry Hotel made up the majority of his load. Included were golf products for the tented Expo area and expedited deliveries for hotel guests who’d forgotten medication, contact lenses, or the like.
He left the loading dock and drove south toward his first delivery in Ayr. Clouds hung low to mask the attempt of a rising sun to lighten up the lead-gray sky, and once beyond Ayr, sprinkles of rain began. Joel switched the windshield wipers on slow and continued driving toward darker skies. As he drove south, Joel thought about the golfers who would play Turnberry that day. They would be facing rain and strong winds after being spoiled by two days of calm, and it would be a true test of their skills. Most all of Scotland would be watching to see how the foreign golfers handled the elements that were so much a part of golf as it was played in their country.
When the van entered the village of Maidens, Joel switched the wiper blades to high speed. Frequent bursts of rain slammed at the right side of his van as strong gusts blew in from the Firth of Clyde. The Ailsa Craig island was well hidden in the clouds. The Blue Streak van pulled up to the guard shack at Turnberry’s entrance gate. It was an hour before the first tee time. The crowd was light, but six security guards were on duty there. Joel thought this strange until he was told there’d been a bomb threat, and Security would be inspecting each package in his delivery lot. Joel unloaded his van and received a signature receipt from Turnberry Security Chief, Randal Lyle, who assured him the parcels would be delivered after the inspection.
The large drop of packages at Turnberry would allow Joel to finish his route an hour earlier and to get on the road to Glasgow. Soon, he would be cheering MacGregor on inside a warm, dry pub, watching the BBC television broadcast of the Open.
Lyle directed the guards to begin their inspection of the Blue Streak deliveries. Not long afterwards, he was called over to a bench where a small box had been opened by one of his men. The man’s normal red flush had drained. His face was pale and his bulging eyes were fixed on the box he’d just opened. Lyle looked down at its contents. Resting on top of some red-stained cotton was a gold earring hooked into a bit of flesh that resembled an earlobe. Both men stood there gazing down at the bloody contents of the package. That alone was alarming enough, but what really startled them were the words on a note inside the box.
The security head, Lyle, asked, "To whom is this package addressed?"
The guard expelled a gasp of air along with his answer. "The golfer, Scott Beckman, sir."
"Go find Mr. Beckman right away and bring him to my office," Lyle ordered.
The tournament leader’s tee time was 12:06, and Scott planned to arrive in the locker room at nine that morning. He looked out through the rain streaks on his hotel room window as a strong gust turned the leaves on an oak tree over to expose their lighter shade of green. He phoned Matt’s room at the Kilt and Jeans but didn’t get an answer. Perhaps Matt was at breakfast or already at the course, he thought, knowing his caddie would be aware of weather reports and prepare his bag for any adverse conditions.
Scott took both new cashmere sweaters from a drawer and put the beige one on over a turtleneck. He pulled a windbreaker over both. The other sweater went in his duffel for later transfer to his golf bag if required. And with wind-chilling rain a factor he thought it could be a two-cashmere day.
Matt was not at the practice range when Scott arrived there, and he asked some of the caddies if they’d seen him. They told him that Matt hadn’t made it to breakfast at the Kilt and Jeans.
A group of sports writers approached Scott, clamoring for a new spin on the American who led the Open, and he talked to them for ten minutes while keeping an eye out for his caddie, but Matt didn’t show. He headed for the locker room to get his golf bag, and on the way there, he stopped at the putting green to wish Bob Bray good luck. Even though there were still more than two hours before his tee time, Scott was becoming more worried about Matt’s absence. Claudio asked Scott how Matt had fared after last night’s celebration.
"He’s not here, and I’m wondering why."
Claudio stopped rolling golf balls back from the cup to Bob Bray and looked up at Scott. "I saw him leave the Kilt and Jeans with a lovely redhead last night. He probably overslept and he’ll be here soon."
Scott left the putting green, hurried to the locker room phone and called the Kilt and Jeans desk, trying to find out if anyone there knew of Matt’s whereabouts. No one at the Inn could locate him. After a chambermaid checked Matt’s room, she reported that Matt’s bed didn’t look like it had been slept in. Scott’s concern heightened. Just as he hung up the phone, the locker room attendant rushed toward him with a message. He told Scott there was a gate guard with a golf cart outside waiting to take him to Randal Lyle’s office.
Scott got into the golf cart marked SECURITY and was driven toward the hotel. He guessed it was about Matt and tried to dampen his worst fears. As they sped up the hill his mind raced through all categories of accidents or illnesses that could’ve occurred to make his friend go missing. He struggled to maintain control as he entered the security office.
Randal Lyle was sitting behind his desk, and two local police were standing in front of Randal staring down at a box on his desk. Randal was wearing gloves to eliminate his own prints "This just arrived and it’s addressed to you. It was sent from Portpatrick overnight by Blue Streak Delivery." Randal’s expression made Scott brace himself for bad news as Randal slowly opened the box.
Scott stared down at the gold earring looped through a piece of flesh resting on a wad of cotton dotted with blood. He saw shocking words written on notepaper there: WITHDRAW, followed by, OR THE NEXT PACKAGE WILL CONTAIN THE REST OF YOUR CADDIE’S EAR.
Scott put both hands to his face. "Oh, no," he said, "not Matt!" Randall closed the cover on the box and handed it to one of the constables. The other one was on the phone to the bartender at the Kilt and Jeans trying to get a description of the girl Matt had left there with.
Randall followed Scott to his room. Scott felt more help than just the local police would be needed to find Matt, and he passed Randall Chief Inspector Bradshaw’s card with his phone number at Scotland Yard. Randall placed the call to Bradshaw on his cell phone.
While Randall was trying to reach the chief inspector, Scott picked up the room phone to tell the Royal and Ancient he’d withdraw. He took a deep breath before touching the numbers for the R and A tournament director, but Randall stopped him with a shout before Scott got connected. Bradshaw’s request to speak with Scott was urgent, and the Turnberry Security Chief handed his cell to Scott.
Bradshaw’s familiar clipped accent filled the earpieces. "The security chief brought me current on the message you received from your caddie’s kidnappers. Have you withdrawn from the tournament?"
"No, but I was about to make a call to do it."
"Don’t withdraw, Scott." Bradshaw said.
"I have to, Chief Inspector. Whoever did this could do worse if…"
Bradshaw interrupted him. "Scott, listen to me," he implored. "We have quite a bit of experience with this type of threat, and giving in to those people will not guarantee your caddie won’t be harmed further."
"I’ve got to withdraw." Scott said. "I just can’t take that chance."
"Scott, hear me out. Something we’ve been onto here at the Yard is just starting to reach critical mass. We’ve a strong lead on who’s responsible for Matt’s abduction. I’ll put on a crew immediately to step up our effort relating to this investigation. How long before you have to tee off?"
Scott looked at his watch. "I have ninety minutes. Does this have anything to do with the feathery?" A thought that the feathery was cursed crossed Scott’s mind.
"No, I’m sure it’s a motive connected to gambling only. I’m asking you to put your call to the Royal and Ancient on hold. To withdraw right now would
be the wrong move. I need a few minutes to pull some things together here that’ll give you more justification to continue play. Give me thirty minutes to regroup with my people, and I’ll ring you up after."
"I’ll wait for your call, then" Scott said after a short pause, "before I withdraw."
Close to half an hour later, the musical tone on Randall Lyle’s cell phone went off. He handed the phone to Scott. There was a delay before Bradshaw spoke. In the background, he could hear others offering information to Bradshaw.
Finally, the chief inspector said, "we’ve been working on a case that involves wagering on sporting events, and it’s also tied to the Open. This has led us to those who kidnapped your caddie."
"Have you located Matt?"
"Yes, we know where he is and we’re taking appropriate action for his safe release as we speak. We’ve an undercover agent planted with the gang that kidnapped him. Also, we received a phone call from Belfast. It seems the organizer of the abduction, one Malachy Gallagher, has given himself up. He’s pin-pointed the location where your caddie is being held. I’ll inform you of the progress when I know more, but I recommend you not withdraw. We feel Mr. Kemp’s release is imminent. Go win the British Open." Bradshaw ended the call with, "Best of luck. I’ll watch you on the replay tonight."
Some of Scott’s anxiety lifted, but strong concern for Matt still lingered on after Bradshaw ended the call.
Randall Lyle broke into Scott’s silence. "Scott, the media will come at this like piranhas, so let’s keep the reason for Matt’s absence secure. How about Matt is down with the flu and has a high temperature? Doctor wants him to stay in bed today."
"That might work. Thanks, Randal."
"You’re going to need a caddie, Scott."
"I know. Got anyone in mind?"
"It’s quite late to find one before your tee time, you know. Derrick might have someone. I’ll ring him up him."
When Derrick Small entered the room, he offered a suggestion. "Would Douglas McEwan be alright?" I saw the young lad hanging around the putting green earlier."
Scott came away from his thoughts about Matt. "Isn’t anyone else with more experience than Douglas available?"
"It’s last minute, and all of the others are already taken." Derrick grinned. "Douglas was trained to caddie by the best…yours truly."
"Okay, I’ll go with Douglas. I’ll head for the range and meet him there. I’ve got another forty-five minutes before my tee time."
Derrick located Douglas and escorted him to the range. The boy was thrilled to caddie for Scott Beckman. Derrick calmed him down and gave him a stern lecture about keeping his remarks off the course. He then gave him a pat on the back, saying, "You’ll do well, lad."
Scott hit only a few shots on the range before leaving for putting practice. The wind was blowing a gale and it was raining hard when he reached the practice green. The temperature had dropped, but the cashmere sweater under the top half of his rain suit held off the chill. Douglas tucked in two extra towels and made sure there was a sufficient supply of golf gloves in his bag for a wet and wild day. An experienced person adapted to doing so in the local weather could still manage an umbrella in the wind and Douglas showed that experience as he held one above Scott while he practiced putting. He would miss Matt’s expertise, but Scott had some comfort in the belief that Douglas would know the course and how it played in the wind and rain.
On his way to the first tee, Scott spied Beth in the crowd and walked over to her. She was dressed for the weather in a light blue rain suit that was a compliment to her figure, and the color went well with that mass of jet-black curly hair.
"You’ve done so well. Keep it up, Scott," she said.
Douglas was standing behind Scott with the golf bag slung over his shoulder. "You have a new caddie. Where’s Matt?" Beth asked.
Scott moved close to her and spoke very softly about the reason for Matt’s absence.
"Oh shit, is this about the feathery?"
"No, it’s about gambling on golf."
"Can I do anything to help?"
Scott thought about her offer for a few seconds. "Would you stand by the phone in my room and bring me any news about Matt? Call the head of security, Randal Lyle, to take you out on the course if you hear anything."
"I’ll do that."
"Thanks. You can watch the Open on television there." Scott handed her his room key and headed for the first tee with a proud Douglas McEwan following close behind.
Despite the weather, a large gallery was surrounding the first tee. They were dressed in rain suits and carried large multicolored umbrellas. Scott’s playing partner was Kuniaki Yamazaki from Japan, and he was alone in second place. Yamazaki had won a few tournaments in Japan and Australia, but had been on the U.S. tour two years without a top-ten finish. He was one of the few to make it to the Open in a regional qualification playoff. A multitude of fans who had made the trip from Japan were in the gallery, and a large group of Japanese press photographers were positioned near the ropes. If Yamazaki won the British Open, it would be the first major golf tournament won by a native of that golf-crazed nation. He bowed, smiled and said a few polite words in English to Scott.
When, Scott Beckman, the tournament leader, was introduced, a ripple of applause went around the first tee. He hit his drive. It was caught in a crosswind and deposited in a bunker on the right side, 284 yards out. Yamazaki’s drive was a perfect three wood to the left side of the fairway, and a roar from the thickly populated Japanese crowd followed it. Scott made a bogie on the first hole and Yamazaki a par.
From there it didn’t go well for Scott. When they reached the seventh tee, called Roon the Ben, Scott was three over par on the day and Yamazaki at even par, leading the tournament by two shots. The twosome of Yamazaki and Beckman were still in first and second place respectively because the wind kept the field playing in front of them from gaining any ground.
Douglas was doing a good job, and neither the caddie nor the weather could be blamed for Scott’s play. Scott had played better on this same course in the same conditions during practice, but today his thoughts kept wandering to Matt, and the concentration needed for each shot and putt was absent.
Yamazaki’s caddie was aware that Douglas was a novice. When Scott’s shot reached the green of a par three, hole-high against the wind, the Japanese caddie approached Douglas before Yamazaki would select a club for his shot to the same green. His question was said in broken English. "What club your bag use for shot here?"
Douglas, at five-foot-five, pulled his body up to about five-foot-eight and frowned down at the Japanese caddie, saying, "It’s against the rules to tell you that, so bug off."
Scott was within earshot of that exchange, and heard Douglas’ rebuke. He smiled…his first of the day. Then his thoughts returned to more worry over the fate of his regular caddie.
Beth was watching play on the television in Scott’s room when the phone rang. Several earlier callers were seeking news about Matt, and she thought this might be another one of those. "Hello, Scott Beckman’s room."
The voice on the other end asked, "Hey, who’s this? This is Matt." Beth snapped up in her chair and exclaimed, "Scott’s caddie, Matt,
Matt Kemp? Beth Sweeney here. Is it really you, Matt? Where are you?"
"It’s me for sure, lass. I’m at a police station in Larne, Northern Ireland, about twenty miles north of Belfast."
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, except for the mother of all two-beer hangovers and a missing gold earring that was not removed gently. Is Scott playing?" He asked.
"Yes, he’s on the seventh hole, three over for the day."
"Good, I was afraid he might withdraw. Please tell him I’m okay, and I’m trying to get to Turnberry for tomorrow’s round. Travel by sea
is out. The ferries to Portpatrick have stopped running because of the bad weather, and there’s no commercial flights to Scotland out of Belfast
airport until around noon tomor
row."
"Hold on a minute, Matt, I’m getting the security head, Lyle, on my
cell phone."
Beth told Randal Lyle about Matt’s problem after locating him near the green on the ninth hole. He radioed the local police with the information that Matt was located and then caught up to Bob Bray on his way to the 10th tee. He passed on the news about Matt, and mentioned his difficulty in returning to Turnberry. The pilot of Bray’s Gulfstream was following Bob Bray behind the ropes. Bob approached him, and after a short conversation with the pilot, Bob came to the security golf cart and spoke to Randal.
"The pilot of our Gulfstream said he’ll be there inside of two hours to pick up Matt. He wants Matt to get to the Belfast Airport private terminal as soon as possible. Even though commercial flights are grounded, he may be able to slip in. But the pilot doesn’t want to hang around there long because the weather at Prestwick on return is going to get worse."