William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  “Get with the program, Cross. I’ve got enough material to kick your butt off the tour two times over. And don’t think I won’t do it, either.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “It would be a shame if that happened now, wouldn’t it? Just when it looked as if you might actually win a major tournament.”

  “You’re going to kick me out on the last day of the tournament, for alleged violations that happened well before? No way.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “I’ll go to the press. I’ll tell them everything. Including that you tried to blackmail me into silence.”

  “Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. But even if you do—you won’t finish the tournament.”

  Conner felt a hollow spot in the pit of the stomach. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “I need an answer now, Cross. So I know whether to approve you for play tomorrow.”

  Conner pondered before answering. “Well, here’s the straight scoop, Peregino. I made a promise to Jodie McCree, and if I’m going to keep that promise, this tournament needs to continue—with me in it. So I don’t see any reason to volunteer any information to the press.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Conner held up a finger. “I won’t lie. But I won’t volunteer anything.”

  “Good enough.” Peregino pushed himself up from the table. “Uh . . . thank you. For doing the right thing. You’ll feel good about this.”

  I feel, Conner thought, like I’ve been dickering with the devil. But that’s life on the PGA.

  “If you’d like, we could hold a mock press conference. Let you practice dodging questions.”

  “Gosh, that does sound—“ Conner’s eyes were diverted by a figure moving rapidly down the corridor outside the bar. “Excuse me, Peregino. Gotta run.”

  Conner jumped out of his chair and bolted down the hallway. “Wait!”

  The figure at the end of the corridor stopped. Conner increased his speed, catching him near the outside door.

  It was Ed Frohike, the President of the John McCree Fan Club. “How ya been, Ed?”

  Ed’s face was a mix of surprise, confusion, apprehension. “I’m fine.”

  “I haven’t seen you around the last day or two. Where ya been?”

  Ed answered awkwardly, diverting his eyes toward the floor. “Well, you know. Without John in the tournament . . . it hasn’t been so . . . interesting for me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What are you doing here today?”

  “Oh . . .” He craned his neck. “I . . . just had to get my things.”

  “Your things?”

  “Yeah. My backpack. Clothes and stuff. I’ve got ’em stored in a cabinet in the men’s room.”

  “Really?” As far as Conner could tell, he was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing all week. “Is there something wrong? You seem nervous.”

  “It’s just—I don’t want to be caught. I’m not really supposed to be here, remember. Hidden in a crowded bar is one thing, but out in the hallway, exposed . . .”

  The more they talked, the more uncomfortable Ed seemed to become. “You mentioned to me that you used the underground tunnels to get onto the grounds.”

  “Did I?”

  “As a matter of fact, you kind of bragged about it. So let me ask you a question. How did you find out about the tunnels?”

  “How did I find out?”

  “That was the question, Ed. Got an answer?”

  There was a brief pause. “I found a diagram on the Internet.”

  Conner did a double-take. “What?”

  “On a Web page run by an underground golf groupie. Calls himself the Ping.”

  “The Ping?”

  “Yeah. After the once-tournament-illegal clubs. He loves golf, but he’s got kind of a counter-culture approach to it.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Anyway, he published the schematics on his Web page and encouraged people to use them to break into the oh-so-exclusive Masters.” His face fell. “Guess I’m the only one who did.”

  Conner declined to enlighten him. “Did you tell anyone about the tunnels?”

  “No. Well, other than you.”

  And Conner hadn’t told a soul.

  Ed took a step toward the door. “Well . . . if you don’t mind . . . I really should make myself scarce . . .”

  Conner stepped aside obligingly. He didn’t really want to, but he supposed he had no grounds—much less authority—for holding Ed any longer.

  After Ed disappeared, Conner decided to walk outside. There was no point in hanging around the bar any longer, and after all he’d been through, he was ready to call it a night.

  The sky was still as dark as it had been earlier. But for a few halogen lamps dotting the landscape, it would be just as dark as it had been out on the golf course. He still had to focus hard to see anything.

  How had it come to this? he silently pondered. How had buddying up with John led to investigating his murder a million years later? How had falling in love with golf led to delivering a bag full of money at the Masters? How had falling in love with Jodie led—?

  He stopped himself short. There was no point in going there. No cheese down that tunnel. It was all over. All over and done—

  His thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched noise buzzing just beside his ear, followed by a crackle of thunder.

  He whirled around. What—?

  He reached up and touched his left ear. His hand came back with blood on it.

  Someone had taken a shot at him.

  Chapter 26

  * * *

  All at once, Conner’s brain sputtered into action. He dove forward, seconds before another shot fired somewhere north of him. He took cover behind a hedge, then scrambled close to the front of the building.

  A moment later, he heard footsteps moving rapidly away from him.

  Conner bit down on his lip. There was almost nothing stupider than chasing someone who was trying to shoot him. But if he didn’t—

  He might never find out who it was.

  He didn’t have time for protracted analysis. He pushed himself around the corner of the clubhouse and ran in the general direction where he’d heard the shots and the footsteps.

  There was something moving over there, toward the cabins. He could just barely see the outline of a figure moving fast. Conner steered himself toward it, bracing himself for the next crash of thunder.

  Conner took a hard left around the first cabin and continued barreling forward, panting and wheezing. He had almost forgotten how much exercise he’d already had tonight, until his aching thighs reminded him. He felt winded before he’d crossed the first hundred feet; he broke out in a cold sweat long before that. But he forced himself to keep moving.

  The shadowy figure was well ahead, but Conner was gaining on him. Come on, Cross, he told himself. Pedal to the metal. Don’t let this creep get away. He was still telling himself that when something big and solid slammed into his face.

  Conner hit the ground hard. His head hit the grass; fireworks went off before his eyes.

  What the hell—? His hands groped for the glistening steel object that had knocked him over.

  A golf club. The SOB had thrown a golf club at him!

  Conner pulled himself together and started running, ignoring the intense throbbing he now felt in his head. If there were any chance he could catch this creep, he wasn’t going to let it slip away.

  He’d passed three more cabins when he spotted the silhouette. Hah!—the fool had made the mistake of stopping, checking to see if the coast was clear. He was history now.

  Conner poured on the speed. Hell, a few more nights like this, and he’d be ready for the triathlon.

  The figure ahead saw him coming and started sprinting, but it was too late. Conner tackled him like a pro quarterback, wrapping himself around the man’s legs and bringing him down with a thud.

  Conner sat on top of the squirming man, then rolled him over onto his back to see who it
was.

  “Ace? Ace Silverstone? Why did you do it?”

  “Conner Cross!” the other man fired back. “Why the hell are you sitting on me?”

  Conner kept a firm arm on Ace’s throat. “You were trying to kill me!”

  “You’re even crazier than I thought.”

  “You were firing a gun.”

  “I’ve always suspected you had some mental problems, Cross, but you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

  “Don’t feed me that. I saw you. I heard the shots.”

  “I heard those shots, too. That’s why I came outside. What was going on?”

  Conner stared at the man’s wide, seemingly innocent eyes. Was it possible he’d made a mistake? If it had been Ace, where was the gun? He began frisking him.

  “This your idea of a good time, Cross?”

  Conner patted him down all over, but he didn’t find a weapon. “What did you do with the gun?”

  “What gun? I’ve never had a gun. What are you babbling about?”

  “Someone took a couple of shots at me. I’ve been chasing him all the way from the clubhouse.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. Assuming this isn’t all some bizarre psychosis created by your paranoid brain. May I get up now?”

  Conner hesitated. Was it true? Had the killer slipped away after he’d been decked by the golf club? “How long have you been outside?”

  “Barely a minute. If that long. Since I heard the first shot.”

  “If you just came outside, why are you sweating?”

  “I’ve been exercising. You should try it sometime, Cross. You are an athlete, in theory, anyway.” He pushed up with his hands. “Now get off me, you oaf.”

  Reluctantly, Conner rose, releasing Ace. It was just possible, he supposed. The killer could’ve escaped. Ace could’ve gotten caught in the crossfire.

  “You’ll be lucky if I don’t file a complaint with the PGA,” Ace said, brushing himself off.

  “Don’t bother. The PGA loves me. Today, anyway.”

  “You ought to consider getting some counseling, Conner,” Ace said, as he hastily made his way back to the cabin. “You really do have a screw loose. Maybe several.”

  Ace went inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

  Conner wanted to kick himself. Once again, he’d had a chance to catch the killer. And once again, he’d somehow managed to screw it up. How much longer could this go on?

  He pointed himself north, toward his own cabin. It’d been a hell of a night, and he needed rest. He was playing in a tournament tomorrow, after all. The last day of the Masters. The Big Enchilada. If he could keep his head together, could keep on playing like he had today, it was just possible he could be heading back to Watonga in a spiffy green jacket.

  But somehow, he couldn’t get his brain to focus on the tournament. No matter how hard he tried, his mind kept wandering back to the same thought.

  The killer was still at large.

  And it seemed his current target was Conner Cross.

  Chapter 27

  * * *

  Sunday

  The next morning, Conner lathered himself up as he sang at the top of his lungs: “Some enchanted evening . . . you will meet a stranger . . .” Funny, he thought, how much better your singing voice sounds in the shower than in real life.

  A good night’s sleep had washed away the fatigue and frustration of the night before. This morning, he was determined to focus his energies on the tournament. It was the last day of the Masters—and he was in fourth place. It was possible . . . just barely possible . . .

  He stepped out of the shower, still high as a kite. He took the towel handed to him and began to dry off, humming a happy tune. He could envision the entire victory scene—the ball drops into the hole on the eighteenth, a stunning hole-in-one, the crowd grows wild, screaming and throwing confetti on the course, the other pros scoop him up and hoist him aloft, pouring champagne over his head. “For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good—”

  Wait a minute. He took the towel handed to him—by whom?

  Lieutenant O’Brien stood by the bathroom door, her arms folded, visibly unimpressed. “Are you about done, or should I call for a backup band?”

  In a panicked flurry, Conner whipped the towel around his waist. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  “I knocked. No one answered.”

  “I was in the shower!”

  “I gathered that.”

  Conner grappled with the towel, trying to secure it. “You don’t have any business being in my cabin! Much less my bathroom!”

  “Excuse me. Didn’t you tell me I could”—she tried to simulate his seductive voice—“drop by anytime?”

  “Yes, but I meant—”

  “Get your clothes on, cowboy. We’ve got work to do.”

  “I’ve got work to do,” Conner said, pushing past her. Where did he leave his clothes, anyway? “I’ve got a golf tournament. And I don’t want to be distracted.”

  “Relax, your tee time isn’t until afternoon. And in the meantime, we need you.”

  “You need me?” Conner picked up his boxers and a pair of pants. He started to drop his towel, then realized she was still watching. “Could you possibly turn your back for just one tiny moment?”

  O’Brien obliged.

  “Haven’t I done enough already?” Conner asked, yanking his clothes on. “I ran all over the golf course. I delivered your money. I helped tackle the drunk.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Plus, someone was taking pot shots at me last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, oh.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “I didn’t see the point. He got away. And besides, I was exhausted.”

  “That was stupid. Who knows—we might’ve found something.” She frowned. “This is disturbing. Particularly in light of the latest development.”

  “Well, just don’t tell me about it, okay?” Conner said, pulling on his shirt. “Fitz says focus is the most important part of playing pro golf. He says focus could be the secret to improving my putting game—which definitely needs improvement. So I intend to stay focused. Don’t be distracting me or luring me out to play cops and robbers, okay?”

  “You’re not interested?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You don’t want to know what’s happened?”

  “I don’t.”

  “We’ve received another fax.”

  Conner slowed. “Am I mentioned?”

  O’Brien’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh, yeah. Big time.”

  Five minutes later, Conner was in the downstairs level of the clubhouse. It was Tenniel’s office, but the passage of another day had created further changes; now it resembled a set from a TV cop show. Conner noted that there were twice as many agents, as before, twice the equipment—and twice the tension.

  On the other hand, one component from the previous day was missing: Agent Liponsky.

  “I understand she’s been removed from the case,” O’Brien explained.

  “I’m all torn up,” Conner replied.

  “I figured you would be. They’ve put some guy named Stimson on the case. I like him better.”

  Conner arched an eyebrow. “Cute?”

  “Think Ben Affleck.”

  “Wonderful. So where’s the fax?”

  O’Brien handed him a copy of the faxed message that arrived a few hours before, while most people, including Conner, were snoring in their beds. It had been sent from a convenience store, just as before. The clerk in attendance vaguely remembered sending it but never got a proper look at the man who brought it in. The customer’s face had been obscured by sunglasses, a hat, and a high-collar coat, an extremely unhelpful description confirmed by the security camera.

  Conner scanned the fax. It appeared to have been typed, or perhaps word-processed, on the same machine as before—and without distinguishing characteristics. “Want to give me the highlights?” he
asked.

  “Why? Can’t read anything longer than a beer label?” She jabbed a finger toward the bottom of the page. “He wants another million.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “You hear anybody laughing?”

  Conner turned and spotted his nemesis Andrew Spenser hovering in the background. “He says if we don’t supply him with more money, people will start dropping like flies. Players, spouses—even spectators.”

  “But we paid the man!”

  “Apparently he wants more.”

  “Then why didn’t he just ask for two million in the first place?” Conner frowned. “Something here doesn’t make sense. Are you sure it’s the same extortionist?”

  “Positive,” O’Brien answered. “The message has been scrupulously analyzed. It matches the first one in every possible way.”

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” Spenser said firmly. “We’re not paying it.”

  “But what if he—“ Conner began.

  “We can’t keep doling out a million dollars a day, just to keep an extortionist at bay.”

  “But if you don’t—”

  “It would be different if we felt the money would ensure everyone’s safety. But clearly, this man cannot be trusted. He intends to keep milking us endlessly.”

  Conner handed the fax back to O’Brien. “I think maybe you’d better discuss this with Tenniel before you make any rash decisions.”

  “This is Tenniel’s decision,” Spenser corrected him. “He’s laid down the law. Not a cent more.”

  “Playing the tough guy, huh?”

  “Confidentially, I don’t know that we have much choice. I think Mr. Tenniel mentioned our financial difficulties to you.”

  “Did anyone confirm if you have insurance coverage?”

  Spenser seemed surprised. “Of course we do.”

  “Maybe the safest thing would be to cancel the tournament, then collect damages for your loss.”

  “It’s not that simple. The policy doesn’t pay off in the event of disruption or cancellation by us. Only if the tournament is rendered impossible or canceled as a result of forces outside our control. Like an act of God. Or a court order.”

  “Or maybe being shut down by the police.” Conner turned toward O’Brien. “Why don’t you do it? Give them the excuse they need.”