“I had a clear shot,” Sam said. “And I was only going to get one.”
“I’m glad he’s dead,” Caroline said quietly. “I’m just sorry it was you that had to do it.”
“So am I.”
They had stayed in the cabin to watch Frank Naples compete with Sergio Garcia and the dwindling sunlight, finally winning his second green jacket with his 70-foot chip-in from the back of the 18th green, down to the first tier and into the hole, cut in its usual front left Sunday location. When Naples was brought to the Butler Cabin, Cameron Myers used his most soothing voice to conduct a bland, content-free interview prior to the jacket ceremony. He referred to the explosion and the shooting of Doggett only once—indirectly—in a question about how Naples had managed to keep his concentration during the interruption of play.
“I’ll never watch a golf tournament the same way again,” Caroline said, as they watched Naples slip on the green jacket in the small basement studio. “I’m always going to be staring at the faces in the crowd, instead of at the players.”
“I put you through a lot this weekend,” Sam said.
“Damn right you did,” she agreed. She stared intently at him with her piercing blue-green eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I know you are. But it’s what you do. It’s who you are. I should have realized that.”
When the reporters asked Boyce at the press conference how Sam Skarda happened to be the one to shoot Doggett, he told them Sam had been working as a private investigator for the club. Porter was asked how long that arrangement had been in effect.
“We don’t discuss the club’s private business,” Porter said.
“How much is he being paid?” someone asked.
“As I said: We don’t discuss the club’s private business,” Porter replied. “But rest assured, we are very grateful for what Sam has done for this club.”
“David, now that this is over, will Augusta National be rethinking its position on women members?” asked Jane Vincent of NBC.
Sam saw her question as the perfect opening for Porter to announce to the world that Margaret Winship would be asked to join. The National had stood firm through a vicious character assassination, proving its hands were clean in the killings and making a convincing case that private clubs should not allow themselves to be bullied or blackmailed. And with Rachel Drucker and the WOFF now being forced to retract their accusations, the National could play the perfect grace note by admitting Margaret Winship—not as a result of coercion, but simply because the club had chosen to, for its own reasons.
“We’ve had no discussions about that, and I don’t believe we will in the immediate future,” Porter said. “We’d prefer to focus on the golf tournament.”
Business as usual. Never give an inch, until you’re ready. Why should Sam have been surprised?
When the press conference ended and the reporters began working on their stories, Boyce accompanied Porter, Brisbane, Sam, and Caroline out of the media building.
“Well, I’ve got reports to file,” Boyce said, looking at Sam. “Will you be staying here at the club? We’ll need to reach you.”
Sam looked at Porter, who nodded.
“I guess they’ll let me hang around a little longer.”
“Good,” Boyce said. “That was outstanding police work today. You ought to reconsider quitting.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, shaking Boyce’s outstretched hand. “I’m just sorry about Harwell.”
“I know. We all are.”
Boyce turned and walked to the parking lot. Porter asked Sam to accompany him to his office.
“I’ve got to pack,” Caroline said. “I’m catching the red-eye back to Tucson tonight at 11:45.”
“We could find a nicer room for you,” Brisbane said with a smile.
“It’s not the accommodations,” Caroline said. “I really do have to get home.”
“I’ll drive you to the airport,” Sam said.
“All right. See you in a while.”
He watched her walk toward the clubhouse. She could have stayed if she really wanted to—but too much had happened here. Blood had stained the surreal beauty of Augusta National. A trip that was supposed to be purely for pleasure had turned into a nightmare. She’d almost been killed, and she’d watched Sam kill a man.
He wished he could be on the plane to Tucson, talking her through it.
*
It was raining by the time Sam drove Caroline to the Augusta airport in the rented Taurus. He’d had to give the keys to the courtesy car back to the valet—another sign that Masters Week really was over.
He dialed the iPod to the April 1973 playlist—the year that Georgia native Tommy Aaron won his only Masters. There had been some great soul music on the air that spring. The first song was the O’Jays’ “Love Train,” followed by the Four Tops’ “Ain’t No Woman Like the One I Got.”
Sam turned to look at Caroline in the illumination from the passing streetlights. There was no woman like her, but he didn’t have her. Sunday had wiped away what had been a great beginning on Saturday night. Caroline had trouble accepting what he did for a living, and he couldn’t tell her he was through doing it.
She had been quiet during the drive. He didn’t know what he could say to her that wouldn’t sound like he was just making conversation. He wasn’t going to bring up anything about Doggett or the murders.
Then she did.
“How much did they pay you?”
She might have been stunned by the answer.
When Sam had gone back to the tournament headquarters with Porter and Brisbane, he was expecting a warm thank-you and a check for, what—$20,000? Maybe as much as $50,000. After all, these guys were rich, he’d helped save the tournament for them, and there had been bombs and bullets flying.
The check Porter wrote was for $250,000.
Sam started to ask if they could afford it, then almost laughed at himself. They’d probably spent more on shrimp this week.
“That’s a lot of money,” was all Sam managed to say.
“That’s a fraction of what we paid Frank Naples today for winning,” Porter said, with the first genuinely friendly smile Sam had seen from him all week. “Naples is a great guy and a hell of a golfer, but if he’d stayed in Texas, we’d still have had a Masters.”
“You deserve that check as much as Naples deserves his,” Brisbane said. “More, really.”
Yet Sam couldn’t bring himself to tell Caroline what he’d been paid. He wanted to see her again, but he didn’t want money, or his job, to influence whether she wanted to see him again.
“They paid me enough,” he finally answered her.
Enough to quit the cops. Enough to do something else. Maybe open his own investigations office, taking only the work that interested him. Maybe spend some time in Arizona…
That’s what he wanted to tell her, but it would have to wait. Wait until Caroline made up her mind about him, and about who and what she wanted now that she was through with Shane Rockingham.
Gladys Knight and the Pips were singing “Neither One of Us Wants to Be the First to Say Goodbye” as the car pulled up to the curb in front of the terminal. The sob in Gladys’ voice over the end of a love affair had never sounded more sincere.
“You timed that,” Caroline said.
“If my timing were only that good,” Sam said.
He helped her take her suitcase out of the trunk. They kissed, and Caroline walked into the terminal.
Neither one of them said goodbye.
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