Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta

by Blewitt, Chris; Blewitt, Chris

  Again he tried to roll over on his back to get a look at his attackers but was shoved face down. He felt blood start to trickle down from his lip and decided to stay down. Another kick came from his right into the small of his back. Craig didn’t make a sound, but kept his eyes focused on the ground.

  Suddenly, a man spoke. “Think you’re smart, huh?” the man said.

  Craig laid there motionless.

  “Just leave him,” another man said.

  “Shut up.”

  Another stomp to the back of the head sent a rush of pain to Craig’s head as it hit the hard concrete. He knew better than to try to get up again.

  “Keep your mouth shut and this will all be over,” the man said. “You hear me?”

  Craig said nothing.

  From the left this time, another kick in the ribs, this time a little lower, near the groin. Craig grimaced in pain.

  “I said,” the man began, “keep your mouth shut. You don’t know anything, you didn’t see anything, and you didn’t hear anything. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Understood?”

  Craig didn’t know whether to respond or continue to lay there in the fetal position. Finally he said, “Okay.”

  “Good,” the man said. “And forget about calling home to your little friend. Missy won’t be taking calls anytime soon.”

  This last statement was followed by small kick to the back of the head. Craig stayed down and listened as the two men jogged away. He waited a few minutes before standing up and leaning against the wall. The only sounds were that of crickets in the field across from the hotel.

  SATURDAY

  Round 3

  Hitchens -6

  Walker E

  Chapter 21

  Hank awoke early, got into his car, and headed towards Logan Street. As he approached the house to do some more damage to Walker’s car, he noticed two men standing along the edge of the driveway, smoking cigarettes. It was barely six o’clock in the morning and Hank quickly realized that it was out of the ordinary for a golfer to have round the clock security. He sped up as to not arouse suspicion and continued on his way back to the hotel.

  Stopping at a Dunkin Donuts, Hank brought back two coffees and pounded on Craig’s hotel door. A bruised and groggy Craig opened the door and squinted from the rising sun.

  “What time is it?” Craig asked.

  “Almost eight. What happened to you?” Hank asked, referring to Craig’s swollen lip, which was crusted with blood.

  Craig touched his lip. “Guess I had too much to drink last night. I tripped coming up the stairs.” He didn’t know who jumped him last night, it could have easily have been his boss.

  “Well, here’s come coffee. Take your time and get ready. We’ll leave for the course around nine.”

  Craig closed the door and walked into his room. He grimaced with each step; his ribs felt like they were on fire. He grabbed some ibuprofen from the nightstand and downed three of them with the coffee. He thought about calling Lori but felt it may be too early. He laid down in bed and gently rubbed his ribs.

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  Commonly called “moving day”, the third round at the Masters was the chance for the leaders to pull ahead and for those trailing to make up some much-needed ground. The pairings on Saturday for the golfers were determined by the order of finish the previous day. Those that finished in the worst position on Friday teed of first, and the leaders would tee off last, usually around three o’clock. Chet Walker was paired with a PGA rookie named Mike Jackson, and the two were set to tee off at nine fifty-five.

  Arriving at the course early, Stan brought Chet’s clubs to the equipment trailer and asked one of the technicians to check out the lies of the clubs. Each golfer’s clubs had a unique position where the club head met the shaft at the hosel. Chet’s clubs were set at one degree upright, meaning he had more of an upright swing compared to a shorter golfer who had a flat swing.

  “Three degrees upright,” the tech said, handing the club back to Stan.

  “Huh? Double-check this one, please,” Stan said, handing him another iron.

  The tech put the club into a small steel device and measured how many degrees the club head was from the shaft. “Three degrees upright,” the tech said again.

  “Damn,” Stan said. He left the bag with the tech and asked him to bend all the clubs back to one degree upright. Any more than two degrees from what the golfer was used to would be noticeable. Chet’s varied a few times depending on what he was working on with his swing. That’s why he didn’t notice the change.

  Stan walked back towards the putting green, where Chet was working on his lag putting from twenty feet. “Your clubs were bent to three degrees upright.”

  “What?” Chet said, looking up at Stan.

  “Yep, I just checked. They’re bending them back to one degree.”

  “No wonder I pushed all of my irons the past two days.” Having a more upright club position usually meant that the golfer would come into the ball on a steeper angle, which would cause the ball to go right of its intended target. A flat angle of attack would cause the ball to go left. It was barely noticeable to the naked eye, and Chet cursed himself for not recognizing it earlier.

  “Son of a bitch. Maybe Craig did know what he was talking about.”

  “The problem is finding out who did this and why.”

  Walker got his clubs back and was hitting his irons much better on the practice range. Stan saw this and knew he was dialed in. They wrapped up his practice session by sinking about twenty three-foot putts before heading to the first tee.

  Walking through the gallery, Walker shook hands with the rookie Jackson and made similar handshakes with the rules official and scorer. As Walker and Stan approached the first tee, they were handed their scorecard and the pin sheet. Stan looked over the pin sheet carefully and thought about asking for another one but did not want to arouse suspicion.

  The two men were introduced over the loudspeaker, and Jackson teed off first, sending his drive into the bunker on the right side of the fairway. Chet stepped up to the tee and seemed to take all of his frustration out on this swing, smashing the ball over the bunker and into the middle of the fairway. He tossed the club back to Stan and walked briskly down the fairway, still six strokes out of the lead.

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  Craig and Hank arrived at the course shortly after Chet teed off. They went to the tent and met up with Robert and Lori. Upon seeing the bruises and swollen lip on Craig, Lori covered her mouth as if to say, Oh my God, what happened to you? Craig sensed she was about to speak and shook his head. He walked over to the tables in the corner to grab a cup of coffee, and Lori followed.

  “Craig, what happened?”

  “It seems as if the word is out. People know that I know something. Two guys jumped me at the hotel last night and told me so.”

  “Who were they?” she asked.

  “No idea. Never got a good look at their faces.”

  Lori reached up and touched his lip, trying to brush away some of the red scab. “Craig, we have to tell someone about this. It’s getting too dangerous for us.”

  Craig shook his head. “Not yet. We need to find out for ourselves what’s going on. Whoever those guys were, they knew I was staying at that hotel and possibly even followed us last night to Chet’s house.”

  “Maybe we should tell my uncle.”

  “No!” Craig said suddenly. “I mean, like I said, let’s figure something out today, and if we can’t, we’ll talk to Chet and see what he thinks.”

  The two filled paper cups with coffee and brought them over to their bosses. Ninety minutes of mindless chit-chat and they were happy to rid themselves of Hank, Robert and Archie. At the eighth hole, they found Walker walking away from the tee box down the middle of the fairway. Looking at the scorekeeper, they saw that Chet had managed to pick up only one stroke on the leaders, who had yet to tee off yet. He was sitting at one under par as he looked up at the green ahead of him, tw
o hundred and sixty yards away.

  Stan looked at the pin sheet and determined that the sheet looked correct: the hole was cut in the back left portion of the green. He handed Chet his three wood and stood back to watch him blast a low draw that started right of the green and turned left, bouncing on the front fringe and rolling towards the back of the green. The gallery surrounding the green erupted in applause, and Chet tipped his cap in their direction.

  Craig and Lori followed Chet up to the green and saw that his ball was resting only six feet away for an eagle. Mike Jackson was struggling and had to hack out of the woods for his third shot, which went over the green. He pitched up and two putted for a bogey six. Chet surveyed the putt for a few moments before approaching the ball and taking a few practice strokes. He let out a deep breath and stroked the putt. Center cut, eagle. The crowd again let out a loud cheer as Walker moved to within three strokes of the lead.

  “I guess our boy didn’t really learn his lesson,” Brewster said.

  Brewster and Stumps were on the other side of the ninth fairway as Lori and Craig continued to follow Walker. They really didn’t care too much about the tournament. Neither men were golfers and the only motivation they had for being there was money.

  “This sucks. It’s so freaking boring watching men chase around a little white ball,” Stumps said. “Why couldn’t we go to the Super Bowl or the World Series and watch this guy?”

  “Would you rather be guarding some spoiled nineteen-year old basketball player that will never make it and be out of money within a year?”

  “Good point.”

  They walked down towards the green as Walker hit his approach shot to within fifteen feet. They were only concerned about one thing: making sure that Craig and Lori never got close to Walker.

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  Archie Armour was enamored with the golf swings of the modern day pro golfer. He liked to watch the men on the driving range swing away, grooving their perfect swings. The last twosome of the day was set to tee off: Pat Hitchens, the leader by one, and Sven Garnier. Hitchens was Hank’s first selection and the number two golfer in the world. At only one stroke back, anything could happen. Archie desperately wanted to win this bet. The formation of their two companies would be a huge success, and having a sixty percent share would be tremendous.

  Hitchens hit his last range ball of the day and walked towards the first tee. He looked up at the trees as a big gust of wind made the tall pines sway back and forth. Archie followed him to the tee and watched both men tee off. He started down the fairway and noticed the huge scoreboard that was nearby on the third green. He ducked through the trees so he could get a better look. Chet Walker had made it to the first page of the leader board at three under par. He smiled and went back to the first green to watch the leaders. Hank had refused his invitation and preferred to watch the tournament on TV until Hitchens started the back nine. He had told Archie he’d meet up with him when he got to the tenth hole.

  Another gust of wind brought a few leaves down, and Archie looked towards the sky and saw that a storm was brewing. Dark clouds were rolling in from the West.

  Chapter 22

  The drama was building on the course and so was the storm above. Inside the clubhouse at Augusta National, five men were huddled over television screens and computer monitors, including Red Maitland. On one screen, the cameras were following the leaders, Garnier and Hitchens, tied at four under par on the sixth hole, the long downhill par three. Another television showed Chet Walker on the par-five thirteenth, one of the greatest holes in golf. The hole was short for a par-five, measuring only 485 yards. Unless you hit a wayward tee shot, most golfers tried to reach this hole in two shots.

  The hole, nicknamed Azalea, doglegged left off the tee and the fairway sloped severely from right to left. A hooked tee shot could easily find Rae’s Creek on the left-hand side and derail a good round. A well-struck tee shot left the golfer a mid iron over the creek to a green that was more wide than long. Chet was in the middle of the fairway and the screen showed he had 167 yards to the pin, which was tucked onto the left-hand side of the green. He hit a towering eight iron that flew high and just right of his target. The ball landed fifteen paces on the green and took one bounce. The crowd gasped as the ball suddenly stopped and began to backspin. It was slowly tricking towards the fringe and possibly into Rae’s Creek.

  Red stared intently at the screen, hoping, wishing Chet’s ball would go in the water. But it didn’t. The ball stopped as it hit the fringe, and the crowd breathed a sigh of relief. Red moved away from the TV and walked to the other side of the room, where two men sat and watched the National Weather Radar for the impending storm.

  “Let’s call it,” Red said.

  One of the men, Jonathon Wright, turned to him and said, “What, now?”

  “Yes,” Red said. He wanted to stop Chet’s great play and also not have the leaders play in the wind and possible rain.

  “Red, we can’t stop play unless there’s lightning or heavy rain. Look outside, we have neither.” Wright turned his attention back to the radar and picked up the phone. He called the Atlanta airport and asked them if there was any lightning in their general vicinity.

  “Atlanta has nothing to report. They think the storm is going to barely brush us with some brief showers and wind. Nothing to get excited about.”

  Frustrated, Red went back to the TVs and watched Hitchens play a shot from the bunker on the sixth, landing the ball some ten feet away from the hole which he then proceeded to miss, dropping him back to seven under par. Walker, back on thirteen, putted his ball from the fringe and rolled it to within inches, tapping in for his birdie. Red went back to the other TV and saw that Garnier had missed his par putt as well. Walker was now only two shots out of the lead.

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  Walker’s first setback came on the fourteenth hole, the only hole on the course without a bunker. He hooked his tee shot into the woods on the left, narrowly missing the creek that runs alongside. Stan looked over his ball and saw that he may have a shot to the right side of the green if he kept it low enough to avoid the trees. Chet tried it and clipped a tree, sending the ball back into the woods on the left. He finally took his medicine and chipped out.

  Only seventy yards from the green, Chet was about to play his fourth shot when he looked at the pin position on Stan’s sheet, then looked at the pin on the green. The two didn’t match. The sheet said that the pin was in the center of the green, equal distance from the back and the front. Chet‘s eyes saw it differently, and he walked the entire seventy yards to the green to see for himself. He was right. The pin was tucked over a large mound in the front of green and from the fairway, he could not see this.

  “Guess we’ll have to do this on seventeen and eighteen, Stan,” Chet said.

  He pulled his lob wedge from the bag and hit a high flop shot that bounced on top of the green and rolled towards the hole, stopping three feet past the pin. He tapped in for his bogey and moved on to the fifteenth hole.

  Craig and Lori watched in anguish as they realized that Chet’s pin sheet was once again wrong. Suddenly, Craig had an idea. “Follow me,” he said to Lori.

  They skipped the fifteenth and sixteenth holes and jogged through the trees to the seventeenth. Lori was trailing behind, asking, “Where are you going?”

  “You’ll see,” Craig replied.

  They got to the seventeenth green and Craig asked Lori for a pen and piece of paper from her purse. He grabbed it and started making notes before turning back to her. “Wait here; if Chet and Stan get to their approach on seventeen before I get back, give this to Stan.” He ripped the paper in half and handed it back to her.

  “How am I supposed to do that?” she asked.

  “Get their attention somehow. Flash them,” he smiled.

  “Cute,” she said.

  “Just do something,” Craig said and jogged off towards eighteen.

  Lori looked down at the torn paper and realized wha
t Craig was doing. She walked back down the seventeenth and waited for Chet’s twosome to catch up. Craig ran the entire eighteenth hole, his ribs killing him every time he inhaled a deep breath. He held his left side with one hand as he made his way up the hill of eighteen towards the green.

  Brewster and Stumps were on the other side of the seventeenth, out of breath. Brewster stayed with Lori, and Stumps took off after Craig.

  Craig wrote a few things down on the paper and went back down the hill towards the seventeenth. He saw Lori standing near the ropes as Chet and Stan were walking off the tee box.

  “Did they see you?” he asked. He was bending over and holding his knees, clearly out of breath.

  “No, you told me to wait here.”

  “Here, give me the paper,” he said, taking the sheet from Lori.

  As Chet approached, so did the huge gallery following him. They were starting to lose their position along the ropes as more and more people inched up close to get a better view. Stan and Chet were a good fifty yards away from them as they stopped to watch Mike Jackson hit first. The crowd was quiet, and as Jackson and his caddy discussed their shot, Craig decided to act.

  “Stan!” Craig said in a loud whisper. Neither man moved. “Stan!” he said again, this time louder. Stan turned in his direction and scanned the crowd for a second or two. Jackson hit his shot, and Chet walked up closer towards his ball.