Final Round

by William Bernhardt

  Cursing himself, he started looking for O’Brien. At the very least, he could tell her what he’d heard. Maybe she could figure out a way-

  All at once, the ballroom was split apart by a piercing scream. The shocking sound echoed and reverberated through the hall, rattling the chandeliers. The cry was picked up by others; soon the entire room was shouting and yelling and running every which way at once.

  What the hell was going on? Conner wondered. He didn’t know, but there was an aching hollow in the pit of his stomach telling him that when he discovered the answer, he probably wasn’t going to like it.

  A crowd was gathering at the front of the ballroom, swarming toward the front doors. Conner headed in that direction, pushing people out of the way with impunity. “Excuse me,” he bellowed. “I need to get outside! Move!”

  When he finally made it through the doors, it was immediately clear that everyone’s attention was focused in one direction-toward the technicolor fountain in the center of the front patio.

  “Let me through!” Conner shouted, shoving past the spectators. Women were holding their faces in their hands. A few people looked sick. Some were even crying. What the hell was happening?

  Finally, he made it to the base of the fountain and peered inside. It didn’t take him long to see what all the commotion was about.

  Her body was still floating, rocking back and forth with the gentle currents and ripples, and her gown was like a kaleidoscope when illuminated by multicolored lights. A casual observer might suspect that a party guest who’d had one too many had decided to take a dip in the fountain with her clothes on. But Conner knew that wasn’t what had happened. He knew, because he saw the steady stream of blood oozing from her throat.

  Steeling himself, Conner reached into the water and turned the body over so he could see her face. And when he did, his jaw fell open, gasping.

  He released the body but remained where he was. He felt frozen, locked into place. His brain felt paralyzed, too. He was petrified by shock and horror and an utter lack of comprehension. How could this be?

  It was his first love, Jodie McCree, just as he had seen her only hours before. Except now there was a deep, bloody gash across the base of her throat.

  A fatal slice.

  Three. Swinging in the Dark

  In 1968, Bob Goalby and Roberto De Vicenzo dueled for the Masters championship. As they approached the final hole, De Vicenzo was ahead by a stroke. Goalby sliced on the tee shot and barely made par. De Vicenzo overshot the green and bogeyed. The score was tied. But De Vicenzo’s scorekeeper, Tommy Aaron, had made a tragic error. Aaron gave De Vicenzo a four on the seventeenth hole, even though a worldwide television audience had just watched him do it in three. De Vicenzo didn’t catch the error and signed the scorecard. Therefore, the official score showed Goalby winning by a stroke, even though everyone knew better.

  At first, the Augusta National powers-that-be didn’t know what to do. The Masters is not a USGA or PGA event, so they weren’t bound by their rules. Should they abide by the letter of Rule 38, Paragraph 3, or allow equity and justice to prevail? Perhaps there should be a sudden-death playoff, some suggested. They huddled in the clubhouse, meanwhile forbidding the CBS sportscasters from announcing a winner. At last, Bobby Jones himself was called upon to resolve the controversy, while the TV people stalled for time.

  “We are the Augusta National Golf Club,” Jones ruled, “and we will abide by the rules of golf.” De Vincezo had signed the card, and that was that. Goalby was declared the winner.

  20

  Afterward, Conner lost all sense of time, all notion of where he was and what he was doing. It was as if he’d fallen into a curvature in the time-space continuum; he was aware that the world was proceeding apace, but he wasn’t a part of it anymore. Somehow, he’d disconnected himself; the people swarming around him were like actors in a play-a horrible, gruesome play-and he was safely ensconced in the audience. Or so he wanted to believe.

  Jodie. With a hideous oozing slash across her throat.

  People buzzed all around him, droning on, creating a dull roar at the edge of audibility, like bumblebees swarming in the distance. He heard himself answering their questions, but the answers came from somewhere else, some separate brain, some distinct consciousness. Only when he saw a friendly face did he slowly start coming back to his head.

  “Cross? Hey, Cross?” It was Lieutenant O’Brien. “Are you going to be all right?”

  Conner blinked several times rapidly. His consciousness attempted to recollect itself. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

  “Good. You clowns clear out. Give him some air.”

  Conner was only vaguely aware of everything that happened after that. They asked him more questions and he tried to answer them. He heard them asking others questions, too, but no one seemed to know anything. There were no leads, no witnesses. Somehow, the killer had managed to murder Jodie in the fountain, or at least deposit her body there, and no one saw it happening. No one who was talking anyway.

  All the reception guests were required to stay on the premises until late into the night-even the bride. Despite all the preparations and programming consultants and the investment of monumental wads of cash, Freddy’s party was ruined.

  Around one in the morning, Conner somehow managed to stumble to his car and drive back to his cabin, where to his infinite relief, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Saturday

  He was awakened by an insistent pounding on the door of his cabin. Given his current state, it felt as if someone were ringing a gong inside his cerebellum. Groaning, Conner rolled out of bed, stumbling against the nightstand in the process. He abruptly realized he wasn’t wearing anything. He checked the closet, but couldn’t find a robe, so he settled for a towel.

  He heard the front door of his cabin pop open. Damn! he thought. Guess I forgot to lock the door again. He heard the footsteps crossing the outer room. A few moments later, the clamourous pounding resumed at the bedroom door, even more insistent than before.

  Wrapping the towel around his waist, Conner plodded to the door. “Damn it, Fitz, can’t you ever give me-”

  He stopped cold. It wasn’t his caddie standing on the other side of the door. It was Lieutenant O’Brien.

  “Nice outfit,” she said, as she marched into the bedroom. “Is it monogrammed?”

  Conner clutched the top of the towel. He didn’t want any comic accidents. “Good morning, Lieutenant. I knew I’d get you into my bedroom eventually.”

  “You’re a riot, Cross.” She stared at the unmade bed, the tangled sheets, the pillows strewn across the floor. “How the hell are you?”

  “Not as good as I was a few minutes ago. When I was in bed. I think I’ll go back now. You can come, too, if you like.”

  “I’m here on business.”

  Conner pressed his fingers against his forehead. “Surely you don’t have more questions. Haven’t I already answered every question that could possibly be asked? Especially given that I don’t know a damn thing.”

  “I’m assuming you don’t know who killed Jodie McCree. But surely you learned something last night.”

  “Not really.”

  “I was keeping tabs on you, Cross. You disappeared for a good while. And later, a witness told me you were racing across the room, pushing people out of the way. Heading toward the fountain. As if you knew what had happened. Or was about to happen.”

  Conner held up his hands. “Hey, now-don’t get any crazy ideas.”

  “It looks pretty damn suspicious.”

  “I can explain.”

  “Then you’d better. As quickly as possible.”

  “Right.” He fell onto the edge of the bed. “After I saw Jodie floating in the fountain… I guess I forgot all about it.” Slowly, dredging up the memories, Conner recounted how he had trailed Freddy up the stairs, how he had overheard a mysterious conversation with an unidentified second person, how he had followed them but lost them.


  And then found Jodie instead.

  “I don’t know what the hell Freddy was talking about, or who the other guy was, but it has to relate to these murders.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “What else could it be?”

  “How should I know? Maybe he was having an argument with the caterer. Maybe one of the violinists broke a string. Maybe they bet on a golf game. It could’ve been anything. We can’t assume that because there was a murder, every weird conversation beforehand related to it.”

  Conner appeared unconvinced. “Whatever they were discussing, it was crooked. And very secret. If I were you, I’d arrest Freddy. Before he leaves.”

  “I don’t have grounds to arrest him. And he’s been told not to leave town.”

  “At least bring him in for questioning.”

  “What would be the point? Do you think he’s going to confess to murder? Much better to leave him alone. Let him think no one suspects-but keep a close eye on him.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” Conner pounded his fists together. “But I’d still like to know what Freddy was talking about.”

  “Did he mention Jodie?”

  Conner mentally traced back through the conversation. “I don’t think so. Not as such, anyway.” He snapped his fingers. “But Ace did.” He related their brief conversation at the reception to O’Brien. “He said something about Jodie. That she was sweet or nice or something like that.”

  O’Brien arched an eyebrow. “Did he say sweet or nice?”

  “I don’t know.” He tried to recall the exact phrasing. “Come to think of it, I think Ace said precious. Yeah, that was it. Precious. Definitely. I think. What difference does it make?”

  “A hell of a lot.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Ace Silverstone is from the South, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah… so?”

  “Well, down South we have our own vocabulary. If he said she was precious-that’s a compliment. But if he said she was sweet-that’s the kiss of death. And if he said she was nice-that’s the kiss of death with the coffin sealed.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Conner glanced at the clock radio beside the bed. “Look, I hate to break up this fascinating etymological discussion, but see, I’m in this golf tournament thingie. And I’m not even dressed.”

  “You can get dressed. But you’re not going anywhere near the golf course.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ve been given a late tee time. For a reason.”

  Conner tapped his foot impatiently. “And that would be…?”

  O’Brien looked at him gravely. “Sorry. I got distracted. There’s been another development in the case.”

  Conner felt his blood go cold. “And that would be?”

  “Get dressed. You can see for yourself.”

  O’Brien led Conner into the office of the club chairman. But sometime between his last visit and the present, the entire room had been transformed. People were scrambling all over the place-mostly men in black suits and white shirts and thin black ties. He spotted a reel-to-reel recorder and some high-tech communication equipment. And he couldn’t miss the stiff-necked men with solemn expressions lining the wall closest to the door. Security officers, he surmised.

  “This doesn’t seem like Tenniel’s usual decorating style,” Conner remarked. “What’s going on?”

  “Mr. Tenniel’s office has become FBI Headquarters South.”

  “Because of the murders?”

  O’Brien shook her head. “There’s more to it than that. Let me introduce you to someone.”

  She waved a hand in the air. A few moments later, a woman about O’Brien’s age walked toward them.

  “This is Special Agent Liponsky,” O’Brien explained. Liponsky was wearing a close-fitting gray suit with a scarf tie. To Conner’s disappointment, she looked nothing like Scully on The X-Files. “She’s one of the FeeBees in charge. We’re liaisoning.”

  Conner looked at the two women. “Is that legal in Georgia?”

  O’Brien gave him a wry grin. “I’m her local contact.”

  “Contact on what? Isn’t someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

  O’Brien glanced at Liponsky, who returned a curt nod. O’Brien retrieved a piece of paper from a nearby desk, then passed it to Conner.

  “Mr. Tenniel received this fax about two this morning. It was sent from a local convenience store. The clerk doesn’t remember the sender, who was probably wearing a disguise anyway, and the security camera wasn’t working, so don’t bother asking.”

  Conner quickly scanned the one-page fax. It was typewritten, all in block capital letters. The fax copy was dim; he couldn’t make out all the words. But it didn’t much matter; he could get the gist of it. He scanned the note quickly, drinking in the salient facts-and the big number at the bottom.

  The author of the fax claimed to have killed John McCree and his wife. He-or she-further stipulated that unless the tournament officials paid one million dollars in unmarked bills-there would be more murders.

  “This can’t be real,” Conner said, clutching the paper in his hands. “Must be a copycat. Someone trying to cash in on the murders.”

  “We considered that.” Agent Liponsky’s voice was flat and direct. “But as you’ll see when you read the letter, so did the killer. He’s provided numerous details about the first killing-how John McCree was killed, what was the weapon, where on the body it struck. None of this information has been released to the public. No, we don’t think there’s much doubt. Whoever wrote this letter is the killer-or at the least, is working with the killer.”

  “Why does he think the tournament officials will pony up?” Conner asked, reading as he talked.

  “The negative publicity has already hit them hard. Imagine if a third person is killed, and word gets out that the tournament officials could’ve stopped it, but didn’t, because they didn’t want to part with any of their profits.”

  “That would be devastating.”

  “That would be the end of the Masters. Tenniel and the rest of the board don’t have any choice, and they know it. They’ve already started assembling the cash.”

  “And you’re going to let them pay?”

  “It’s the safest course of action,” Liponsky explained. “We don’t want to see anyone else get killed, either. Of course, when the drop goes down, we’ll be watching.”

  “That goes for the FBI and the Augusta PD,” O’Brien added.

  Conner’s eyes returned to the faxed message. “There’s still one thing I don’t understand. Why are you telling me about this?”

  Liponsky and O’Brien exchanged another look.

  “Read the fine print,” O’Brien advised.

  Conner’s eyes darted down the page. Details about the murder… threats and intimidation… demands for unmarked bills…

  “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.

  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 plac
ed 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.”