William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  “Down here,” O’Brien said. She pointed to the key line at the bottom of the page.

  Conner read the sentence in question, then gasped.

  The killer demanded that the million in cash be delivered to a yet-to-be-designated location late that night—

  By Conner Cross.

  Alone.

  Chapter 21

  * * *

  “Wow,” Conner said, staring at the paper clutched in his hands. “Double wow.”

  “That was pretty much our reaction,” O’Brien replied.

  “But why me?”

  “Actually,” Liponsky said, “we were hoping you might be able to answer that question for us.”

  “I’m clueless,” Conner said.

  “Our first thought was that you’re the killer, and you’re planning to take the money and run. But Lieutenant O’Brien assures that that is . . . well, only one possible explanation.”

  Conner looked at O’Brien. “You did that for me? I’m touched.”

  Artemus Tenniel emerged from somewhere in the rear of the office. To Conner’s surprise (and partial horror), the man smiled faintly and placed his hand on Conner’s shoulder.

  “I know we’ve had our differences in the past,” Tenniel said quietly. “But I’m hoping you’ll be able to put that aside for the time being and do what’s right.”

  Conner shrugged his shoulder free. “What’s right, meaning—helping your sorry butt out of a tight spot. Being the bag man for the Augusta National.”

  Tenniel was unfazed. “Needless to say, if word of this situation gets out—it could destroy the tournament. Permanently.”

  “That would be a tough end for the bastion of tradition and excellence.”

  “Yes, it would. So we’ll pay the money. But it must be kept confidential. The club has been having some serious financial problems of late.”

  “Say it ain’t so.”

  “I’m afraid it is. Our funds are unaccountably lower than average this year, and thus far we have been unable to determine why. Believe me when I say we can’t afford the losses we’d suffer if the tournament were canceled.”

  As astonishing as it seemed, Conner knew it was possible. Whatever other faults and foibles the Masters might have, it was well known to be one of the few major professional sporting events in the universe that hadn’t succumbed to greed. The tournament resolutely refused to compromise itself to obtain a corporate sponsor or celebrity huckster. And it forewent millions in potential television dollars in order to restrict commercials and dictate standards to broadcasters. The Masters had a long and unbreachable litany of commandments announcers were required to observe. Thou shalt not refer to the gallery as a mob—or even a crowd. Thou shalt not refer to golfers’ earnings. Thou shalt never liken the holes at Augusta to those at any other course.

  “Don’t you have insurance?” Conner asked.

  Tenniel seemed taken aback. “Yes. I mean . . . I suppose we do.” For the first time in Conner’s experience with the man, he seemed unsure of himself. “Of course, that’s not the preferable way to proceed but . . . now that I think of it, we do have some insurance. Quite a generous policy, as I recall.”

  “As you recall?”

  “Haven’t looked at the thing in years.” Tenniel turned abruptly and returned to his desk.

  “So,” O’Brien said to Conner, “are you on board?”

  Conner looked at her, then at the fax, then back at her. “You’re asking if I’ll risk my neck and go out all by myself to make this drop, possibly facing the killer on my own against impossible odds and getting myself killed in the process?”

  “That probably isn’t how I would’ve phrased it, but . . . yeah.”

  “Sure,” he said, handing the fax back to her. “Sounds like fun.”

  By one in the afternoon, Conner was ready to tee off for the third—and penultimate—day of the tournament. He spotted Fitz several yards before they actually met. He was running a fast interception course, obviously intending to cut Conner off before he made it to the first tee.

  Conner checked his watch. “Almost one, Fitz. We’d better get to the tee-off.”

  The caddie’s lips were pursed tight. “I’d like a word with you in private first.”

  “I’d love to, Fitz, but see, I’m in this golf tournament—”

  “That’s why I want to talk to you.”

  “—and if I don’t show up on time, they’ll disqualify me.”

  “If you don’t play any better than you have so far, you’d be better off disqualified.”

  “That would be humiliating.”

  “It would be a mercy killing. Now, listen up, buster, and listen up good.”

  Conner scrutinized the stern expression on Fitz’s face. “Is this another trip to the woodshed?”

  “You’re damn right. And long overdue, too.”

  “Look, Fitz—I’m in no mood for a lecture.”

  “Just shut up and listen.”

  Conner did precisely that.

  “How long have you been on the tour now?”

  As if Fitz didn’t already know. “This is my third year.”

  “And in that magnificent stretch of time, what exactly have you accomplished?”

  Conner tilted his head to one side. “I like to think I’ve developed a sense of personal style.”

  Fitz grimaced. “And what exactly has that gotten you?”

  “I have a following.”

  “Charles Manson had a following. So what? What else has it gotten you?”

  Conner frowned. “Hearty chuckles?”

  “I’ll tell you what it’s gotten you. Absolutely nothing.”

  “I have my own personality, Fitz, and I plan to keep it. I’m not going to turn into one of those PGA zombies.”

  “I’m not talking about your attitude, sorry though it is. I’m talking about your game.”

  “You said I have one of the best drives in the business. As good or better than Tiger Woods.”

  “Yeah, but your putting game stinks. Because putting requires concentration, focus, resolve—all the qualities you’ve held back. And for that matter your driving game is erratic, because it can’t overcome your unfailing tendency to make stupid decisions!”

  “Aren’t you being a bit harsh?”

  Fitz ignored him. “This tournament is a perfect example. Your performance has been abominable.”

  “Now wait a minute. There have been some pretty damn extenuating circumstances, Fitz. My best friend died!”

  “I know that. Why do you think we’re having this talk?” His eyes were narrow and electric. “John McCree made a lot of personal sacrifices to get you on the tour. And you’re throwing it all away!”

  Conner’s lips parted wordlessly.

  “Sorry to be blunt, but that’s the reality of it, kid. John gave you a lot, and you haven’t given him anything in return.” Fitz whipped off his shoeshine boy cap. “Look—I don’t know what it is with you, Conner. I don’t know what made you the way you are. I don’t know if it’s because you lost your mama so early or because your dad was too hard on you. Maybe you’re just some kind of genetic mutant, which is the theory I personally favor. But whatever it is—you need to get over it.”

  Conner wanted to defend himself, but there was a distinct catch in his throat. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately,” he finally whispered.

  “Stop making excuses. It’s make or break time, pal, you’re a lightning rod, like it or not. If you don’t show these people what you can do today, you might as well hang up your golf shoes for good.”

  “What exactly is it you want me to do?”

  “Stop wasting your talent. Stop screwing around. Listen to your caddie. Push yourself. Before it’s too late.”

  “And you expect me to do all this for you?”

  Fitz drew in his breath. “I was hoping you might do it for John.”

  Conner felt a distinct itching in the back of his eyeballs.

  “His fondest wish was that
an Oklahoma boy would make good at the Masters. Why don’t you see if you can make his dream a reality?”

  Conner didn’t know what to say.

  “Well? Say something! Will you do it?”

  Conner pivoted around, his face expressionless. “I think it’s time to start.”

  Fitz trailed behind him as they made their way to the first tee. Conner pulled a golf ball out of the zippered pocket in his bag; Fitz selected a club.

  Conner gripped the club, his hand just above Fitz’s, then froze. “I—I don’t know what to do,” he said, barely audibly.

  “Course you do. What do you mean?”

  “I mean—I don’t know how to be any . . . better.”

  “That’s fine. I do.” Fitz pushed the club into Conner’s hand. “Now go hit the damn ball.”

  “I was thinking I might use the other—”

  “Conner!”

  Conner took the proffered club and prepared to shoot. He popped the ball onto the tee and fell into position.

  “Loosen your grip,” Fitz said.

  Conner frowned—but he did it. He focused, concentrated, then started his backswing . . .

  “Adjust your stance.”

  Conner’s teeth ground together—but he did it.

  “Now swing.”

  Conner let ’er rip. The ball sailed up beautifully, forming a graceful rainbow arc, then landing not five feet from the green.

  It was a perfect shot. The spectators applauded with enthusiasm.

  Conner gave Fitz a long look, then, at last, smiled. He threw his arm around the older man’s shoulder. “Fitz, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  Chapter 22

  * * *

  Conner finished each of the first six holes either one or two under par. He established a new personal best, and did a great deal to rehabilitate his previously pitiful standing.

  By the seventh hole, a buzz began to circulate throughout the tournament. By the time he was ready to start the back nine, Conner had acquired his own gallery, following him from hole to hole. The word was out—Conner Cross was where the action was.

  At first, it was a tough adjustment. Conner was not accustomed to having spectators follow him so attentively. But he had to admit—it was kinda fun.

  “Just ignore them,” Fitz said, clamping a firm hand down on Conner’s shoulder. “Block them out of your mind.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” Conner said, grinning and waving as he approached the seventeenth. “They love me.”

  “They won’t if your game starts sucking again.”

  That brought Conner down to earth in a hurry.

  “You’re here to play a game, so play it. Focus all your energy, all your attention, on the game. That’s what matters.”

  “Right. Got it.” It was tempting to put on a show for the spectators. In fact, his class clown instincts almost demanded it. But Fitz was right. The game was what mattered. He was playing well and he was relishing the moment. He was in the zone, as the sportscasters say. Something had clicked.

  And he knew what it was, too. For the last many years, he’d been playing for himself—someone who wasn’t all that demanding. But now, for the first time, he was playing for someone else. Now he was playing for John.

  And Jodie.

  And he wasn’t going to let them down, either.

  Conner scanned the fairway. “Do they still have that stupid tree in exactly the wrong place on the left of the fairway? Obstructing the green?”

  “They do,” Fitz confirmed.

  “Do you think they’d have that thing removed, if I put in a formal request to the Augusta National committee?”

  “Let me put it this way, Conner. Back in the Fifties, President Eisenhower put in a formal request that the tree be removed—and it’s still there.”

  “Well, sure. But he didn’t have my winning personality.”

  “Go around the tree, Conner. Lay up.”

  “I hate laying—”

  Fitz raised a finger. Conner never finished the sentence. He laid up.

  And finished the hole two strokes under par.

  Conner finished the day’s play with exuberance. He’d never played so well—and he knew it. He spent half an hour gassing on with the reporters under the spreading maple tree, talking about his game—and how the day’s performance had been for John. He also credited Fitz, which was certainly a new page in his playbook.

  By the time he reached the clubhouse, he was sky-high. “Hail the conquering hero!” someone shouted, as he entered, and there was a spontaneous round of applause. Some of the players cheered.

  Actually cheered, Conner thought silently. For me.

  Vic the bartender slid him a glass of his favorite—on the house. This treatment was so unusual Conner felt he should slug himself just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Everyone swarmed around him; everyone wanted to be his friend. And he had a pretty good idea why, too.

  He didn’t need to see the day’s postings to know where he stood. He would still be behind Ace, the leader—but the gap was much narrower. If he played tomorrow—the last day of the tournament—like he had today, he could catch up. He could even conceivably win.

  Conner steadied himself against the bar. Just the thought of it made his head reel—literally reel. Conner Cross, champion of the Masters, sipping mint juleps in his green champions jacket.

  It was too wonderful to imagine. But it was possible.

  “Hey, Conner, way to play, man.” It was Harley Tuttle.

  “Thanks, Harley. How’d the day go for you?”

  “Oh, ‘bout like always. I think I’m still running fourth or fifth.” He shrugged modestly. “Like my daddy used to say—always the bridesmaid, never the bride.” He took a sip from his drink.

  Conner grinned. “I’m sure your luck will turn around soon.”

  “Maybe. But the way you played, man—that was spectacular. I saw what you did on the seventeenth on the closed circuit.”

  “You mean the cameras were following me?”

  “Didn’t you know? Hell, yeah—I think CBS covered your entire back nine.”

  Conner didn’t know what to say. He was flabbergasted.

  Some of the other pros offered congratulations. Conner chatted with everyone in sight, anyone who came near. Whether they were in the tournament or not. He was feeling generous and egalitarian. He did notice, however, that his chief competition, Ace, didn’t seem to be in the clubhouse.

  Probably out on the driving range, Conner mused. When he heard how well Conner was playing, Ace probably panicked and realized he needed some more practice.

  Well, it was a nice daydream, anyway.

  Fanboy Ed wasn’t anywhere in sight. Did he just leave, since John wasn’t in the tournament anymore? Or was he doing something else? Conner wasn’t sure why he cared, but for some reason, Ed’s absence bothered him.

  Barry, on the other hand, was present, even though he had absolutely no reason to be. He was out of the tournament, and it showed. He looked as if he hadn’t budged from his barstool all day. He was barely able to sit upright. Conner actually felt sorry for him. He didn’t know why—possibly because for once, Barry had his mouth shut. But it was becoming increasingly apparent that Barry had a serious drinking problem, and needed help.

  Conner knew it well; he had a stockpile of paternal memories on the subject.

  And where was Freddy, come to think of it? Sure, he’d been planning to leave town, but now that the cops had made that impossible, Conner thought he might show up at the clubhouse. But there was no sign of him. He wondered if O’Brien had exchanged any heated words with the man yet, or if she was still laying back. Hard to know. She was a very cool lady—very cool, and very several other things as well.

  And speak of the devil . . .

  He saw O’Brien entering the clubhouse, carrying a large black valise.

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t know whether to snap the cuffs on you or buy you a bottle o
f champagne.”

  “I know which I’d prefer,” Conner replied.

  O’Brien grinned. “Didn’t take you for a champagne drinker.”

  “I’m not. But that thing with the cuffs could be kinda kinky.”

  “As I recall, you didn’t enjoy it that much last time.” She edged closer to him and lowered her voice. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Go where?”

  “I see your triumph has addled your wee brain. The sun has set, Conner. And you have a date tonight, remember?”

  “Cool. Your place or mine?”

  “Neither.” Leaning close, she opened the valise a crack, so only he could see inside. It was filled with cash. More cash than Conner had ever seen in one place in his entire life.

  “Get some coffee for the road,” she said, snapping the bag closed. “It’s show time.”

  Chapter 23

  * * *

  Night had fallen, and it seemed appropriate somehow that there was no moon. In stark contrast to the glistening hustle-bustle of the day, the Augusta National course was now dark and gloomy, somnolent. Much too quiet. Almost spooky.

  Conner strode into the darkness, O’Brien on one side, Agent Liponsky on the other.

  As they marched toward the fifteenth green, Liponsky gave him a last minute briefing. “The faxed instructions just say that you’re to be on the fifteenth green with Tenniel’s cell phone,” Liponsky explained. “Evidently the killer already knows the number. Once you’re in place, we have no idea what he might have in mind.”

  Somehow Conner didn’t much like the sound of that. “Care to speculate?”

  “Either he plans to meet you there, which I doubt, or he plans to send you somewhere else. We’ll be using scanners to try to pick up the conversation on your cell phone, of course. And we’ll try to trace the call, although that can be tricky with mobile phones. And we won’t be far away.”

  “Didn’t the fax say I had to come alone?”

  “Yes. And you will, too. We just won’t be far off, that’s all.”