Final Round

by William Bernhardt

  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.”

  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.

  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-bustl
e, 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.”

  “What?” More futile sputtering followed. “But-you can’t do this! I’ll go to Spenser-”

  “Who I already fired, ten minutes ago. Next time, Derwood, think twice before you align yourself with an embezzler.”

  “But sir-!”

  “It’s over, Derwood. Go pack your bags.”

  Derwood looked as if the top of his head might pop off at any moment. His whole body clenched, top to bottom. Finally, he stomped out of the bar.

  Once he was gone, Tenniel looked down with the most beatific smile Conner had seen in his entire life. “I’m sorry you had to witness that, Mr. Cross.”

  “Aw, that’s all right,” Conner said magnanimously. “I think maybe you were a bit hard on Derwood, though. Sure, he’s a blowhard, but I hate to see him lose his job.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t agree with you there, Mr. Cross. You see, I’ve spent most of the night studying the audit report that was submitted to your late friend, Mr. McCree, and I’ve become convinced that Derwood Scott was a partner in the systematic embezzlement being perpetrated by Andrew Spenser. At the very least, he knew what Spenser was up to but didn’t report it. Either way, I’m afraid he can no longer be employed by the Augusta National.” Tenniel turned his eyes toward the crowd. “But this isn’t what I came here to talk about. If I could have everyone’s attention, please?”

  The room fell silent. Tenniel never even had to raise his voice.

  “I think it goes without saying that the Masters tournament is greatly indebted to Conner Cross.”

  Conner felt his heart fluttering wildly. Could this really be happening? To him? At the Masters?

  “There is no way we can possibly thank you for all you’ve done. You, sir, are a hero, in the truest sense of the word. You embody all that the Masters tournament has come to represent-a standard of excellence in all respects: body, mind, and soul. If you would do me the honor, I would like to shake your hand.”

  Conner stumbled to his feet and extended his hand. Was this possible? Did this mean Conner was forgiven for the crack about the Easter bunny suit?

  “Thank you, Mr. Cross. But of course, a mere handshake doesn’t go nearly far enough. I’m pleased to have the honor to announce that the board of directors has just held a special meeting and has unanimously voted to award Conner Cross the Bob Jones Sportsmanship Award for exemplary performance both on the course and off.”

  Conner didn’t know what to say. He was utterly floored. He couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound stupid, so he mumbled a “thank you” and left it at that. He felt as if he were walking on air. His eyes were even getting misty. Could the other guys see? This could be totally embarrassing… but somehow, he didn’t care.

  The other pros surrounded Conner. One by one, his peers, many of the golfers he respected most in the entire world, offered their congratulations. Conner was so unaccustomed to this kind of treatment he didn’t know what to do. So he just stood there gaping, as the parade passed by.

  And at the end of t
he line, he found Fitz.

  Fitz pressed his hand into Conner’s. “I’ve caddied for a lot of fine players,” he said, and there seemed to be a bit of a catch in his voice. “I’ve caddied for men who won the U.S. Open, the British Open, the Masters-the whole tour. But I never before had the honor of caddying for someone who won the Bob Jones Award. Congratulations, son.” Fitz gave him a quick wink. “I knew I could trust you.”

  Conner walked with Fitz outside, where a throng of reporters were waiting. En masse, the journalistic assemblage pressed forward, rolling cameras and pressing microphones into his face. “What will you do now?” and “What does this mean to you?” and “Where will you put the trophy?” Conner was too stunned to put on a show; he figured he’d be lucky if he managed to sound coherent.

  A female reporter sidled in from the left and positioned herself in front of him. “Dozens of men have won the Masters,” she said. The rest of the crowd stopped to listen. “But only three have won the Bob Jones Award. Many golfers have sought it, without success. How do you explain this?”

  Without hesitation, Conner put his arm around the shoulder of the older man standing at his side. “Those other guys didn’t have Fitz.”

  39

  That night, Conner dined in the Augusta National’s private ballroom, which he had never even seen before. He was being treated to a seven-course meal-a special extravaganza arranged by Artemus Tenniel. Caviar, pâté fois gras, steak tartare, and several other dishes Conner didn’t actually like but felt classy as hell eating. There were no patrons, no members. Conner had the place to himself-himself, and his special guest for the evening.

  Lieutenant O’Brien was out of uniform and wearing pearls and a black decolleté gown-and looking very uncop-like in it, too, as Conner couldn’t help noticing.