William Bernhardt

by Final Round (v5)

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  “I’m not going to the police.”

  “Then I will.”

  “And tell them what? That you have some screwy theory designed to get you off the hook? You don’t have any proof.”

  “I have the knife.”

  “Of course you do. You’re the killer.” Harley laughed. “But no one saw me with it. And no one ever will.”

  “I’ll tell them what I know.”

  “And who’s going to believe you? You’re just a screw-loose, shaved-head gonzo golfer. You can’t prove anything.”

  “I think I can. See, we found your voice disguiser in the tunnels, where you dropped it. It has fingerprints all over it. And I’m betting they’ll match the ones we take from you at the police station a few minutes from now.”

  “I can explain that away.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Conner reached into his pants pocket and removed a small tape recorder. “This has been recording ever word you’ve said since I turned on the lights.”

  Harley’s face hardened like steel. “Give me that.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I said, give me that.”

  “Or what? You’ll brain me with one of my golf clubs?”

  Harley reached inside his jacket and slowly removed a small revolver. He pointed it at Conner’s head. “You won’t leave here alive.”

  Chapter 37

  * * *

  Conner stared at him. “You’re a veritable arsenal, aren’t you?”

  “Like my daddy used to say, A smart man comes prepared.”

  “Yeah? Well, here’s something my daddy used to say: You’re about to be in a hell of a lot of trouble, son.”

  “Give me the tape recorder, Conner.”

  “What else have you got? A flame thrower in your socks? Maybe a bazooka in your boxers?”

  “Give me the tape recorder, Conner. Now!”

  “I really don’t want to do that, Harley.”

  “And I really don’t want to blow your brains out, Conner!” His voice was thin and strained. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. “But I’ve already killed three people. One more won’t make much difference!”

  “Harley, let’s talk about—”

  “Give it to me! Now!”

  “Be reasonable—”

  “Now!” Harley’s arm wavered up and down. His trigger finger twitched. “I said, now!”

  Conner crouched down and laid the tape recorder on the tile floor. He gave it a gentle kick. The tiny recorder slid between them, stopping about two feet in front of Harley, who picked it up and dropped it into his coat pocket.

  “Thank you,” Harley said, wiping his brow. “I don’t like to leave loose ends.”

  Conner pursed his lips. “And what about me, Harley?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d just give me your word not to tell anyone what you know?”

  Conner didn’t answer.

  “No. I didn’t think so.” He raised the gun eye level. “I suppose I should make this look like a suicide. ‘The golf club killer, racked with guilt, ends his killing spree by taking his own life.’ ”

  He held the gun out at arms’ length and squinted, aiming carefully, zeroing in on Conner’s right temple . . .

  “Freeze, asshole.”

  Harley’s head whipped around. “Wha—?”

  Lieutenant O’Brien was perched in one of the windows, behind and above him. “Drop the gun. Pronto.”

  Harley pivoted slightly.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Harley. I’ve got you dead to rights. Now drop it!”

  Harley opened his fist. The revolver dropped to the floor with a clatter.

  “Now give it a kick. A good one.”

  Harley complied. The gun went flying across the locker room, well out of sight.

  “Now put the tape recorder on the bench.”

  Harley did it.

  O’Brien jumped down from the window ledge, careful to keep her gun trained on Harley. “Mr. Tuttle, you are officially under arrest.”

  Harley recovered his mask of innocence. “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Conner Cross is the killer! He’s been trying to frame me. He’s desperate to divert suspicion to someone else.”

  “Save the performance for the trial, Harley. I’ve been in that window listening for the past ten minutes.” She pressed her gun into the small of his back. “Now march. I’ve got a jail cell with your name on it.”

  “All right. I’ll go. No need to get rough.” His body slumped. “Shouldn’t you get the knife? It’s your best evidence.”

  Her eyes diverted for barely a fraction of a second, but it was all Harley needed. In the blink of an eye, he whirled around, ducking in case she fired the gun, and bashed his elbow back into her face. O’Brien went reeling backward, blood spurting from her nose, her head smashing into a row of lockers. Before she had a chance to react, Harley lunged forward, twisted her wrist, and wrested the gun away from her.

  Conner sprang forward, but before he could reach Harley, the murderer had locked his arm around O’Brien’s throat and pointed the gun at her head. “Back off!” he shouted.

  Conner froze in his tracks.

  Harley pressed the gun hard against O’Brien’s right temple. “I mean it! I’ll blow her head to kingdom come!”

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Harley. Killing her won’t help you.”

  “Killing both of you will,” he muttered.

  Conner turned his attention to O’Brien. “Are you all right?”

  O’Brien’s eyelids fluttered. Blood still oozed from her nose, which looked as if it might be broken. Dark circles were forming around her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said, not very convincingly.

  “Enough chatter!” Harley barked. “Move!” He tried to edge toward the door, holding O’Brien’s body in front of him like a shield. But O’Brien seemed barely conscious, dead weight. Each step was harder than the one before.

  Conner watched carefully, waiting for an opportunity to do something without putting O’Brien at risk.

  Harley made it to the exit. He released his grip on O’Brien’s throat and she fell in a crumpled heap at his feet. He cocked the gun again, then pointed it toward her head. “This is where you get off, sweetheart.”

  Conner sprang across the room. Even as he did it, he knew there was a good chance Harley would readjust his aim and drill him before he arrived. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to stand still while this madman killed another one of his friends.

  Harley twisted the gun around, but Conner slapped it aside just in time. The bullet flew up and to his right, impacting on one of the lockers. Conner hit Harley again, and the gun dropped to the floor.

  “You—stupid—idiot!” Harley reared back his fist and took a shot at Conner’s chin. Conner ducked, and the blow missed him. Harley lost his balance and fell forward, giving Conner a perfect shot at his gut, which he took. Harley clutched his stomach, gasping for air.

  Desperate, Harley reared his foot back and kicked O’Brien in the ribs, hard. A sharp cry spilled forth from her lips.

  “Stop!” Conner knelt beside her.

  Harley saw his opportunity and took it. He turned tail and bolted out the door.

  Conner cradled O’Brien in his arms, slightly elevating her head. “Nikki! Talk to me. Are you all right?”

  Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. “I’ll be fine,” she said. She wiped some of the blood from her face. “I just didn’t want that creep to drag me clear across the golf course.”

  Conner brushed her hair from her face; some of it had gotten caught in the coagulated blood. “I was so worried—”

  “Later,” she said. To his surprise, she pushed herself upright. “Let’s get that bastard before he disappears and becomes someone else.”

  With Conner’s help, O’Brien rose to her feet. She
collected her gun and made her way out the door. She seemed a bit unsteady, but she was holding together.

  “There!” Conner said, pointing. Harley was making tracks across the first fairway. He already had a substantial lead on them. He probably planned to cut through the rough, then find his way to another one of those sewer access tunnels, Conner mused. He could slip off the grounds and disappear before they had a chance to call in backup.

  O’Brien raised her gun and fired, without success. “Damn. He’s out of range. And if he gets off the grounds, our chances of finding him are about nil.”

  Together, they started running. Conner led the way, but O’Brien held her own. Still, he knew it was hopeless. Harley had too great a lead on them. They’d never catch him like this.

  O’Brien fired another shot, but it had no more effect than the first time. He was too far away.

  Still racing, they crossed the driving range. Conner saw some clubs resting beside a bucket of balls. A crazy idea flitted through his brain.

  “You keep running,” he told O’Brien. He stopped, grabbed the longest range club in the bag, tipped over the bucket of balls, and concentrated. Well, he thought, Fitz says I could hit a dime at two hundred yards. Let’s see if he’s right.

  He swung, sending the first ball over O’Brien’s head and landing about ten feet in front of Harley, who saw it, paused momentarily—then kept on running.

  You’ll have to do better than that, Conner. He took another swing, this time coming in a bit short. Damn. He didn’t have much time. At the speed Harley was running, he’d soon be out of Conner’s range, too.

  Conner took another shot, then another, then another, all in close succession. Golf balls were raining down around Harley. He started zigzagging, tracing a serpentine path down the course, trying to avoid the hail of golf balls. But he kept running.

  The next shot struck pay dirt. It came barreling across the course like a line drive and crashed into the back of Harley’s head. He screamed out, then stumbled and dropped to the ground.

  Harley shook his head fiercely, regathering his wits. Gritting his teeth, ignoring the pain, he pulled himself back to his feet.

  But the golf balls kept coming. Conner fired them off nonstop, one after the other. Harley kept running, but he wasn’t making nearly as good time as before. Conner hit him in the back, then in the leg, just behind his left knee. He was moving even slower, but he was still moving.

  Conner took a deep breath. He knew he only had a few more chances left. What was it Fitz had tried to tell him the other day? Imagine the target. See it in your mind’s eye. Then swing.

  He concentrated and tried to do everything he’d been told. He knew where Harley was. He knew where Harley was going. He knew where he wanted the ball to be. He pulled back the club . . . and fired.

  The ball crashed into the back of Harley’s head, bringing him down hard. And this time, he did not get back up. A few moments later, O’Brien caught up to him. She whipped his hands behind his back and snapped on the cuffs. “It’s over, scumbag.”

  A few moments later, Conner arrived at the scene. O’Brien was sitting on top of the prostrate and bound Harley Tuttle. “Looks like you have the situation well under control,” Conner commented.

  “I let this jerk get the drop on me once,” she said, wiping more blood from her face. “I wasn’t going to let it happen again.” As if to demonstrate, she pressed down on the back of Harley’s head and shoved his face into the dirt.

  “Bit rough for a Southern belle, aren’t you?” Conner asked.

  “My momma didn’t raise any wussies.” O’Brien drank in air, trying to catch her breath. “Besides, see for yourself—this creep is wearing white shoes, and it’s still a week before Easter. There’s just no damn excuse for that.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Thanks for your help, Conner. I hate to admit this, but—you may not be the total toad I thought you were.”

  Conner beamed. “Sweeter words were never spoken.”

  “That was pretty slick work with the golf balls.”

  Conner shrugged. “Well, after all—I am a professional.”

  She nodded. “Good thing he wasn’t close to us. Then you’d’ve had to putt.”

  Part Five

  * * *

  All Over but the Shouting

  Eisenhower was not the only president to take in the Masters. Lyndon Johnson came one year, even though he didn’t golf. Johnson was indifferent to the game and the Masters, but his advisors thought there might be some political advantage in being seen there.

  Unaware of his utter lack of interest, a reporter stopped him between holes to ask what his handicap was.

  “Congress,” Johnson replied.

  Chapter 38

  * * *

  Monday

  Monday morning at the Augusta National clubhouse presented a scene worlds apart from what it had been the night before—really, what it had been since John McCree’s body turned up in a sand trap. The pervasive gloom was gone. Spirits were buoyant and boisterous; smiles were the order of the day. A surprising number of the pros were still around, even though the tournament was over.

  All the hustle-bustle, all the questions and rapt attention gravitated around one central nexus—Conner Cross. For once, no one could get enough of him. Everyone wanted to hear what he had to say.

  “So he pulls this gun on me,” Conner explained to the rapt throng. “Then he looks at me, real cold-like, and he says, ‘You’ll never leave here alive.’ But that doesn’t scare me. I stare right back at him, right down his throat, and I say, ‘The game’s over, you two-bit psychopath. I’m taking you in.’ ” Okay, so maybe this wasn’t exactly how it happened, but it made a hell of a good story.

  “What did you do then?” someone asked.

  “I distracted him with some song-and-dance about the cops swarming around outside, then I got the drop on him.”

  “Wow.” Even Barry Bennett had stayed sober for this story. “All by yourself?”

  “Well, I did have a tiny bit of help. From that female cop you’ve seen running around the grounds. She showed up at just the right moment. Of course, later, I saved her life.”

  “She must be eternally grateful to you,” Barry said. His elbow jabbed its way into Conner’s ribs.

  “Yeah,” Conner said, grinning. “No doubt.” But where was O’Brien anyway? He hadn’t seen her since they finally finished all the paperwork and the arraignment. Surely, he would see her again—wouldn’t he? After all they’d been through . . .

  “So tell us the part about the golf balls,” someone urged. “Did you really pound one into the back of his head?”

  “Like a ballistic missile.” Conner loved this part; it was a modern myth in the making. “I took a bead on the creep, aimed, and fired. Right on target. I never missed.” Well, not more than eight or ten times, anyway. “Took him down in one.”

  “Amazing,” Barry murmured. Several of the others concurred.

  “Conner Cross! I want a few words with you!”

  Conner turned and, to his horror, found himself flanked by none other than Derwood Scott.

  “Derwood,” Conner said coolly. “Imagine. Somehow I thought for sure I’d seen the last of you.”

  Derwood’s face was flushed and puffy. “Not by a long shot, Cross. I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Several, in fact.”

  “Derwood—the tournament is over.”

  “And you’ve made a real hash of it, haven’t you? You blew through this place like Hurricane Hilda.”

  Conner could see his admiring throng suppressing their laughter. “I don’t know to what you are referring, Derwood.”

  “How about your cabin, for starters? It looks like a disaster area. The place is wrecked. Stains all over the floor and the bed.”

  “That would be blood, Derwood.” Apparently Derwood hadn’t been apprised of the latest developments.

  “And the locker room is equally wrecked. One of the windows is shattered
. One of the lockers has a bullet hole.”

  “Cool,” Ace said. “Can I have that one next year?”

  “It’s not funny!” Derwood insisted. “You trampled all over the driving range. You used equipment that didn’t belong to you!”

  Conner coughed in his hand. “There were some mitigating circumstances, Derwood.”

  “I’m tired of your excuses, Cross. You think the world revolves around you, that the rules don’t apply. Well, you’re wrong. I said if you crossed the line I’d see to it you were bumped from the tour, and I meant it. From now on—”

  Derwood felt a firm hand fall on his shoulder. “Derwood, be quiet.”

  Standing behind him with his usual impassive expression, Artemus Tenniel gave Derwood a look that spoke volumes.

  “But sir,” Derwood sputtered. “He’s broken the rules!”

  “Yes, Derwood. I know.”

  “We can’t allow these unrestrained encroachments on our standards. It’s a slippery slope, sir. If we allow one slacker to get away with it, before long, the whole tournament—”

  “Derwood, for once, close your mouth and use your brain.”

  The crowd gasped, watching with amazement—and amusement.

  “Have you forgotten,” Tenniel said, “that Mr. Cross helped catch the man who was blackmailing us?”

  “Well . . . he hardly had much choice.”

  “Mr. Cross quite literally put his life on the line to keep this tournament afloat. I think perhaps that merits some special consideration.”

  “But sir—”

  “Furthermore, in case you haven’t heard, he helped catch the criminal who killed two of our members and one of their wives, again at considerable risk to himself.”

  “But sir—his dress, his behavior—”

  “Given the magnitude of Mr. Cross’s contribution, I think we can afford to give him a bit of leeway, don’t you?”

  “But, sir—!” Derwood pulled himself erect. “No, sir. I can’t do that. Rules are rules. It’s my job to enforce them. And I will. I’m prosecuting Conner Cross to the full extent—”

  “Put your manhood back in the bottle, Derwood. I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go.”