Doggett kept walking past the door and went to the far end of the hall. There was another flight of stairs behind a fire door on that side of the motel. He could stand in the stairwell and keep an eye on Room 245 from a safe distance. In a half-hour or so, he’d have to decide what to do next. But he’d wait for a while and give Skarda time to leave.
*
“I’ve asked them twice to come up and fix it,” Caroline said. “They must have a lot of stuff to fix in this dump.”
Sam bent down and turned the knob to “Off.” The noise stopped. He turned it back up to “Low,” then “Medium” and “High.” The noise returned. He opened the grate and looked at the fan inside, but couldn’t see what was causing the problem.
“I tried all that,” Caroline said, lying back on the bed and sighing. “I’ve got two choices: Stay awake listening to it all night, or turn it off and stay awake sweating all night.”
Sam closed the grate and stood up.
“There’s a third choice,” he said. “I’m going to the front desk and get somebody up here.”
“Well, maybe they’ll listen to you,” she said. “I’m going to have a glass of wine.”
She got up from the bed and opened the mini-refrigerator. Inside was a bottle of pinot grigio. She got a corkscrew out of her purse, opened the bottle, went into the bathroom, and came back with two glasses wrapped in plastic sanitary wrappers.
“You can have a glass when you come back,” she said. “Then you should go.”
“We’ll talk abut that,” Sam said.
He left the room, then glanced behind him to be sure he’d remember the number: 245.
Caroline’s room was in the middle of the motel. Sam looked down the hallway in both directions, and decided to take the same stairs they’d come up.
A man and a woman were pleading for a room at the front desk when Sam got to the lobby. They’d driven all the way from Pennsylvania to see the Masters, the woman said. There must be something available.
“I’m sorry, folks,” said the desk clerk, a chubby man who didn’t look sorry at all. “We’ve been booked for months.”
“Hell, I know how this works,” said the man, pulling out his wallet. “What’ll it take, $300?”
The desk clerk looked amused.
“Our guests are paying $500 per night this week,” the clerk said.
“For this hole?” the man said, stunned. “Let’s go, Linda. I’d rather sleep on a park bench.”
“You might have to,” the clerk said.
Then he turned to Sam.
“Can you imagine?” the clerk said. “Walking into an Augusta motel on Friday night of the Masters and offering $300 for a room?”
“What were they thinking?” Sam said.
“What can I do you for?” the clerk said, still smiling.
“My friend in Rroom 245 paid your ransom, and she’d like her air conditioner to work.”
The clerk lost his look of amusement.
“She’ll need to call down here and request a repair.”
“She’s done that twice since Monday. No repairs. Can you imagine?”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Rafael, our repairman, works from 7 a.m. to 5 p.m.”
“And what exactly does Rafael do when he’s working?”
“We have a long list of projects for him each day.”
“I’m not surprised,” Sam said, looking around the charmless lobby. The clerk frowned. “Put the air conditioner in Room 245 at the top of Rafael’s list tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said.
Sam turned and headed back to the stairs. He could use that glass of wine.
*
Doggett had been relieved to see Skarda leave Room 245—until Skarda looked down the hallway in Doggett’s direction, as though he were going to take the stairs where he was hiding. Doggett ducked back to the stairs and quietly pulled the fire door closed behind him, then ran down the steps to the first floor. He listened at the bottom of the steps to hear if the fire door above him was being opened. It remained closed. Then he looked down the main floor hallway and saw Skarda turning the corner from the steps on the other end of the hall. He must be leaving, Doggett thought as he walked back up the stairs. Now it was time.
He hurried back up the steps, two at a time, and walked quickly down the hall to Room 245. He slung the bag over his shoulder, unzipped it, and put his hand inside, fingers curled around the knife’s smooth wooden handle. Then he knocked twice on the door. He heard a voice inside say something, muffled, which sounded like “Coming.”
“You should have taken the extra key,” Caroline said, as she opened the door from inside the room. Doggett put his shoulder into the door and rammed it open, knocking Caroline backward onto the bed. He slammed the door shut behind him and pulled the knife out of the bag. Caroline screamed as Doggett advanced toward her.
“Shut up,” he ordered, lunging for her. But Caroline rolled sideways off the bed, pulling the bedspread with her. When she hit the floor, she reached out and grabbed the wooden desk chair, throwing it in front of her as she scrambled backward on her hands, not daring to take her eyes off Doggett. She screamed again as Doggett stumbled over the bedspread and the chair, trying to slash her with the knife.
“Shut up, I said!” he yelled.
Caroline was up on her feet again; before he could reach her, she managed to dive into the bathroom. Doggett was right behind her, and thrust his right hand, holding the knife, into the bathroom as Caroline pushed the door shut. She braced her feet on the toilet and put her back to the door, pushing with her legs, with all the strength she had, to keep him from getting the door open.
“Open the fucking door!” Doggett screamed, while Caroline screamed back at him as loud as she could.
Then they both heard a pounding on the door, Sam yelling from the hallway.
“Caroline! Open the door! What’s going on?”
“He’s in here! He’s got a knife!” Caroline screamed.
Doggett stopped pushing on the bathroom door. He’d meant to get in, kill Caroline quickly, and get out. He hadn’t counted on Skarda coming back. Half the people in the motel had probably heard the ruckus by now. There was no way he was going to pull this off. He just had to get away, to think. It couldn’t end here. He wasn’t through yet.
Doggett dropped the knife, squeezed his arm back out, and the bathroom door banged shut, Caroline pushing on it as hard as she could from the other side. Doggett knew she wouldn’t be coming out; he just had to get past Skarda.
As Sam pounded on the door, Doggett moved to the hinged side of the door, then reached across it and turned the handle. Sam saw the door begin to open and pushed it aside as he ran in. Caroline screamed “Sam, look out!” when she heard the door open, and Sam ran straight toward the sound of her voice, coming from the bathroom at the far end of the room. Then he heard a noise behind him and turned to see a figure running out of the room and down the hallway to the right.
“Caroline, are you hurt?” he yelled at the bathroom door.
“No! But he tried to stab me!”
“He’s gone,” Sam said. “It’s safe now. I have to go after him.”
“No!” Caroline yelled. “Don’t!”
“I can’t let him go,” Sam said. “Call 911.”
Sam ran out the door, turned right, and saw that the hallway was empty, though several people had cautiously stuck their heads out of their rooms to see what all the yelling was about. Sam ran down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the lobby.
“What the hell are you people doing?” the desk clerk demanded as Sam ran past him. Sam stopped on the sidewalk and looked down the parking lot to the entrance, where the light blue truck he’d
seen earlier was squealing out into the street. Sam’s car was at the other end of the lot; he would never catch him. Caroline needed him more now, so he went back inside.
“I’m askin’ you again, buddy,” the desk clerk said. “What the hell is going on up there?”
Sam walked over to the desk, attempting to calm himself and catch his breath.
“We need to change rooms,” he said.
“That’s impossible,” the clerk said.
“I don’t think so,” Sam said. “My friend in 245 was nearly murdered by an intruder a couple of minutes ago. Now, we want the room you were going to sell to that couple from Pennsylvania.”
“What room?” the clerk demanded.
“The room you would have found if they’d come up with $600.”
“What? Why…” the clerk sputtered.
“The cops will be here in five minutes. You’ll have to explain to them how you allowed a guy with a knife to trap my friend in her bathroom. In the meantime, we want the other room. Now.”
The clerk had beads of perspiration forming on his upper lip and temples. He looked outside; there were sirens in the distance, getting closer.
“Two queens or a king?” he asked Sam.
“We’ll take the two queens.”
Chapter Thirty
Two uniformed Richmond County officers arrived a couple of minutes after Sam returned to Room 245. They surveyed the mess while Sam sat on the bed with his arm around Caroline. She was shaking, but the terror she had felt was beginning to subside.
“Was that the guy who…?” she said.
“I think so,” Sam said. “Unless somebody else in Augusta hates you.”
She laughed weakly, and reached across Sam to the night stand for a cigarette.
“I’m just glad you weren’t…”
“Killed?” Caroline said.
“Yeah. That.”
“My wrist hurts. And my back.”
“Did you get a good look at this guy?” Sam asked. She was calm enough now to take her back through the attack, while it was still fresh in her mind.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll never forget him.”
“Describe him.”
“Tall.”
“How tall?”
“Six-two, maybe. White guy. Balding. Dark eyebrows. Thin.”
“How old?” Sam asked her.
“God, I don’t know. Thirty-five, forty maybe.”
“Could he have been older?”
“I guess,” she said. “He seemed kind of gaunt, you know?”
Sam thought about Stanwick immediately: 6-2, thin, balding, dark eyebrows. He got his cell phone out of his jacket and called the clubhouse. When the operator answered, he asked for the Firestone Cabin. After a couple of rings, Lorraine Stanwick answered.
“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Stanwick,” Sam said. “This is Sam Skarda. I need to talk to your husband.”
“I wish you’d stop calling here,” she said. Then he heard her put the phone down and call Ralph’s name. In another few moments, the unmistakable voice of Ralph Stanwick was on the other end of the line.
“Yes?” he said irritably.
“It’s Skarda. My friend Caroline was just attacked in her motel room on Jones Parkway.”
Stanwick’s impatient tone changed.
“Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine.”
“Did she get a look at the guy?”
“A good look. From her description—I’ll be honest. I called to see if you were with your wife tonight.”
“Listen, Skarda, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but my wife will tell you I’ve been with her all night,” Stanwick said, resuming his defiant tone.
“She tells that story a lot,” Sam said. “Is Robert Brisbane there?”
“Yes.”
“Put him on.”
Brisbane assured Sam that Stanwick had been in the Firestone Cabin all evening.
“Is Caroline all right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And you’ve called the police?”
“They’re here now.”
Sam thanked him and hung up. That theory seemed dead.
While one of the cops inspected the lock on the door, the other emerged from the bathroom.
“There’s a hunting knife on the floor in the bathroom,” he said. Then he noticed the open bottle of wine on the dresser. He looked around at the overturned chair and the bedspread on the floor.
“Having a little party in here, were we, folks?”
Sam stood up.
“I told you what happened,” he said. “A guy barged into the room while I was in the lobby. He pulled that knife on Caroline. This is the same guy who’s killing people at Augusta National. Call Detective Harwell.”
“We’ll decide who to call, and when,” the other officer said, closing the door to the room. “No sign of forced entry. Just the two of you in here now. Maybe it’s your knife”
“Call Harwell,” Sam repeated. “This is the guy you’re looking for.”
“We’re supposed to take your word for that?” one of the cops said.
“My name’s Skarda. I’m playing in the Masters this week, but I’m a cop, too. I’ve been trying to help the National find their killer.”
One of the officers started to laugh, but the other held up his hand toward his partner. He took a closer look at Sam.
“You’re that cop from Minnesota?”
“Yes. I saw the guy pull out of the parking lot, headed east. I couldn’t catch the plate number, but it looked like an older pickup, maybe a Ford or a Chevy, light blue, loud engine. No more than 10 minutes before you got here.”
“What was he doing here?” the cop asked.
“Trying to kill Caroline,” Sam said. “She was on TV, saying Augusta National should admit women members. He must have seen it.”
“So what?” the cop said.
“Look, Harwell knows what’s going on. He knows me. Get him here. Garver will have your ass if you don’t.”
Sam would have preferred to talk to Boyce, but he knew this would have to be handled through channels. At this point, a motel break-in and assault was a Richmond County case.
While one of the cops called headquarters, Sam told Caroline that they were moving to another room in the motel.
“I couldn’t stay in this room tonight,” she said as she packed.
“I know,” Sam said.
“And I don’t want to stay in this motel alone,” she said, turning to look at him.
“I know,” he said.
*
Harwell showed up about 45 minutes later, looking irritated and perplexed. The fact that it was Skarda who’d asked for him didn’t make him any happier. Skarda was supposed to be staying at the Augusta National clubhouse. What was he doing here? And how did he know this supposed attack had anything to do with the killings at the National?
Sam patiently explained it to Harwell as Caroline finished packing: Caroline’s caddie status, the TV interview, the truck that must have followed them from the National after dinner, Sam’s trip to the lobby to complain about the air conditioner, the knife attack, Sam chasing the attacker out to the parking lot, and the light blue pickup roaring out of the parking lot.
Caroline described her attacker to Harwell.
“What was he wearing?” Harwell asked.
“Dark blue windbreaker,” Caroline said. “Black pants. Black shoes, I think.”
While Caroline talked to Harwell, Sam thought about her description. Although it sounded like Stanwick, it would have been impossible for him to get back to the Firestone Cabin that quickly. Besides, Sam trusted Brisbane—or, at least, he wanted to. And it wasn’t One-e
ye; Caroline had met him. The attacker was white.
It looked like he was down to his last suspect.
“Do you have access to booking photos tonight?” Sam asked Harwell.
“Sure,” Harwell said. “You got somebody in mind?”
“Lee Doggett.”
Harwell paused for a beat and then said, “What’s he got to do with this?”
Sam recounted his meeting with One-eye and his attempts to find Doggett earlier in the day.
“Yeah, she could look at his photo downtown.”
“How about bringing one here?” Sam said. “You don’t want to drag Caroline down there tonight. She could use some rest.”
“Well…all right,” Harwell said.
Half an hour later, another cop was at the motel with a mug shot of Doggett from the file of booking photos at the Sheriff’s office. Caroline recognized him immediately. So did Sam, though he’d never seen him before.
He was a younger version of Ralph Stanwick.
“That’s him,” Caroline said. “That’s the son of a bitch who waved the knife in my face.”
“Boyce sent some officers over to Doggett’s last known address earlier today,” Sam told Harwell. “Vacant.”
“I know,” Harwell said. “I didn’t think much of him as a suspect.”
“Why not?”
“Honestly? Because he was a name you gave us. We’ve got good cops on this case, Skarda.”
“I know,” Sam said. “I’m one of them.”
“We’ve got patrols out looking for a light-colored pickup with a loud engine, but it’s not much to go on,” Harwell said, folding up his notebook and putting the mug shot of Doggett into the inside pocket of his suit coat. “If we find him tonight, we’ll call you.”
“We’ll be in Room 127,” Sam said.
*
While Caroline was in the bathroom, Sam made sure the door to Room 127 was locked and the security chain was in place. Then he called Boyce and told him about the attack and Doggett’s booking photo.
Amen Corner Page 23