“Damn,” Chet said. “I hate three-putting.”
“Keep it together,” Craig responded. “You have an easy par-five and you can get that shot back.”
He picked up the bag and followed Chet and Hitchens to the next hole. Walking through the roped area to the fifteenth tee, Craig felt it to be extremely congested. Fans were now packed in like sardines, shouting words of encouragement to both golfers, mostly towards Chet. He heard someone calling his name and looked around for Lori. But it wasn’t coming from a woman; it was a man that was calling his name.
He saw a man in front of him, and as he approached, the guy thrust his hand forward. Craig knew better than to shake hands or high-five any of the spectators, but this man was holding something. He came within inches of contact and the guy simply said, “This is for you.”
Craig grabbed what appeared to be a small envelope, like one that would accompany a thank you card. It was sealed, and Craig quickly opened it as he walked. Inside was written:
We have Lori. Lose this tournament or she dies.
He stopped walking and looked back at the huge gathering of fans. Craig felt his heartbeat quicken, and his hands began to shake. The man who had given him the note was nowhere to be found. He continued to walk towards the fifteenth tee, which was slightly elevated so he could see over the people. The man was gone.
“Craig, my driver,” Chet said.
Craig took off the head cover and handed it to Chet without making eye contact.
“Something wrong?” Chet asked him.
“Huh?”
Chet noticed Craig holding the envelope and the note inside. “What’s that?”
“Oh, nothing,” Craig said and put the papers in his pocket. “Hit it well.”
Craig scoured the crowd in search of the man who had given him the note. More importantly, he was searching for Lori. He could not see her anywhere.
<><><><><>
By the time Lori was nearing the clubhouse, her subconscious was screaming at her to run as fast as she could away from the two strangers. The more questions she asked about her uncle, his health, what happened, where he was, the less answers she was given. Approaching the main concourse area near the putting green, the men told her to hurry up and follow them. They started jogging around the side of the caddies’ shack and down a small narrow path between hedges that were almost taller than them.
Stumps was leading the way, and Brewster still trailed behind her. They slowed their pace to a quick walk and made a right turn towards three huge storage sheds. Lori stopped in her tracks and looked around. No other person could be seen, and she stood frozen.
“Quickly, this way,” Stumps said.
They were about fifty yards from the large sheds that had a few golf carts sitting in front of them. Stumps reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. Again, Lori stopped and fear gripped her heart. Suddenly, Brewster was behind her, holding her right arm and shoving her ahead.
“Shoulda ran when you had the chance,” Brewster whispered. He pushed her ahead.
“Hey—” was all Lori could scream before a large hand smothered her mouth from behind. She was pushed harder, and the grip on her arm tightened. She tried to dig her heels into the ground to keep from moving, but the man holding her continued to shove her towards the now open door. Stumps was holding one of the doors open as Brewster pushed Lori from behind and she fell through the door and onto the ground.
“Scream and you die,” Brewster said.
They closed the door and twisted the lock. Lori looked around the large shed and noticed many different large machines used for the maintenance of the golf course. Tractors, lawnmowers, fly mowers, weed whackers, edgers, and wheelbarrows were lined up neatly in rows. Against the walls were large piles of sand, fertilizer, dirt, mulch, and grass seed. There were rakes and pitchforks, shovels and brooms lined up neatly in a corner. The only light was coming from two windows on either side, high above the tractors. Lori was lying on a mixture of grass and hay.
“What do you want?” she pleaded.
Stumps smiled down at her and said, “Just your company for now. Maybe a little fun later on.”
Lori rubbed her arm and started to get up before being pushed back to the ground by Brewster. “Stay there. You shouldn’t waste your energy.” He lit up a cigarette and sat on the edge of one of the trackers.
“What do you want?” she asked again.
The two men ignored her, and Stumps lit up his own cigarette. He paced back and forth, looked around the room, and saw a few folding chairs in the corner. He grabbed two of them and brought them to the center. He and Brewster sat down in the chairs and left Lori sitting on the floor.
“You don’t think we need to tie you up, do you?”
Lori just shook her head and stayed on the ground with her arms wrapped around her knees. She looked at her watch and thought that the golf tournament would be coming to an end very soon.
<><><><><>
Chet’s tee shot on the par-five fifteenth hole bent around the trees on the left, and his ball was sitting only one hundred and eighty yards from the flagstick. The green was narrow and tucked over a small stream in front. Behind the green there was about thirty yards of grass that sloped downhill and fed into the pond surrounding the sixteenth hole. Craig was clearly distracted since the tee, and Chet could sense it. He had asked more than once walking up the fairway if everything was okay, and Craig insisted it was.
“Stay with me, Craig,” Chet said. “Only a few more holes to go.”
Craig was lost in thought. He had a very difficult decision to make. Do I mis-club Chet? Give him a bad yardage? Give him a bad read on the green? Or do nothing and hope that Lori is okay? For now, he decided on the latter, he had to help Chet win the Masters.
“I’m guessing its one sixty-eight to carry the water and one eighty to the pin. It’s all carry, Chet, and anything short will spin back to the water.”
“Yo, bro, I know what happens if I’m short, okay? I’ve played this course a few times this week.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Craig said.
“Give me the seven,” Chet said.
Craig did not like the club selection and thought a seven may be too much club. Hesitantly, he pulled the club out of the bag and handed it to Chet.
“What? You don’t like a seven?”
They both stared at the green up ahead and waited for Hitchens to hit his second shot. He was only ten yards shorter than Chet but more in the left part of the fairway, leaving himself an easier approach to the green. They watched him hit and the ball started directly for the center of the green and did not move. It landed softly, took one bounce, and stopped about twenty feet from the pin. The crowd applauded, and Chet began his pre-shot routine.
“Craig? You thinkin’ seven or eight?”
Craig did not want Chet to have any doubt in his club selection and nodded his head. “Yeah, seven is right.”
But it wasn’t. As soon as Chet finished his follow-through, both men yelled for the ball to get down. It started straight at the flagstick but was not coming down soon enough. The ball missed the flagstick and instead carried over the green and took one leap off the back of the hill, and they lost it due to the hill over the green. They listened to the crowd first groan as the ball hit the rough, then moan even louder as the ball tumbled toward the water. The last sound that came from the crowd was a big sigh of approval and relief.
“Must’ve held up,” Chet said. He handed the club back to Craig, and they walked down the fairway to the cheers of the gallery. “Craig, I need your input on these shots, damn it. Granted, you don’t know my game at all, but if you’re sensing something isn’t right when I choose a club, for Christ’s sake tell me.”
“Sorry,” was all Craig could muster. He knew it was wrong, but Craig felt a tiny bit happy that Chet missed the green. Maybe he wouldn’t win this tournament and Lori would be safe.
Hitchens marked his ball and waited for Chet to play his p
itch shot. They found the ball resting only a foot from the edge of the water. It would be a difficult stance for Chet, and he positioned the ball near the back of his right foot. Not the type of stance for a flop shot. He grabbed the lob wedge from the bag and took a few practice swings. Craig paced off the short distance and came back to where Chet was standing.
“You have twenty-two to the front edge. From there it’s all downhill about eighteen feet. Short is better than long.”
Chet himself walked the short yardage and finally got into position. He waited a few moments while the gallery cheered for the group in front of them to finish sixteen. He played the ball near his back foot and opened the face of his wedge to get more loft. Chet took a steep swing and sent the ball high into the air.
“Didn’t hit it,” Chet said before the ball even landed. It took one hop in the deeper grass, another on the fringe, and barely trickled on the green, leaving him a ticklish downhill putt for birdie. He threw the club into the bag and went to mark the ball. Hitchens lined up his eagle putt, and Craig held his breath. If he made it, the score would be tied. The ball moved slowly across the crest of the hill and dove left towards the hole. It just barely grazed the edge, and Hitchens collapsed to his knees. He smiled and walked to the hole and tapped in for his birdie.
Craig grabbed the flagstick from Hitchens’ caddy, Winger, and surveyed the putt from all angles. They both agreed the ball would break from left to right and would be very quick. Chet, unfortunately, was too tentative with his stroke, and the ball stopped a good three feet short of the hole.
“Damn,” Chet said under his breath. He wasted no time and stood over his ball without marking it. Craig cringed and wanted to close his eyes. A bogey here and they would be tied; more importantly, it would be damaging to Chet’s psyche to take a bogey on a birdie hole. Craig couldn’t take the pressure and squeezed his eyes shut as Chet brought the putter back. What seemed like an eternity ended with the crowd giving their approval as the ball found the bottom of the cup. Craig put the flagstick back in and pounded Chet’s fist as they passed each other.
The huge gallery at number sixteen had one of the best views on the course. The entire left side of the par-three was framed with huge grandstands that were filled to capacity. Spectators could watch the players putting on fifteen and also see the entire dramatic sixteenth hole. In 1996, Greg Norman’s chance to capture the green jacket had ended on this hole when his ball went into the pond that surrounded the green.
With a one-shot lead, Chet’s heart was racing and his adrenaline pumping. Playing just one hundred and seventy-two yards, Chet grabbed the eight iron without asking for Craig’s advice. The pin was in its traditional Sunday placement near the back left edge of the green. Any shot right of the flag would come off the hill and feed directly towards the hole. Hitchens hit first and knocked the ball to within ten feet. The crowd applauded politely and waited for their favorite player to hit.
Chet played a beautiful high draw that started near the right edge of the green and bounced near the middle and stopped.
“No! Go!” Chet yelled.
The gallery seemed to will the ball by screaming and yelling, and it worked. The ball, seemingly in a dead stop, started to roll end over end and gradually picked up speed. The ball trickled left towards the hole and rolled down the hill. The closer it got, the louder the gallery got. It finally came to rest about twelve feet short of the hole, but it was a level putt that was straight uphill.
Craig was in awe as he looked around at the huge gallery that was on their feet and applauding the two golfers. Hitchens and Chet smiled and waved as they moved toward their respective balls. As they neared the green, Craig noticed that Chet’s ball was just slightly outside of Hitchens, and he would be giving him a great read on his putt. Chet did not waste any time looming over the ball. Both he and Craig saw hardly any break and agreed the ball should be hit firmly in the right side of the hole.
The ball behaved this time, and the crowd roared as Chet raised his putter to the sky when the ball dropped in the hole. He took his hat off and smiled at the appreciative crowd. Chet watched as Hitchens lined up his putt while the crowd was still cheering. As he handed his putter to Craig, he waved both arms to the gallery, hoping to quiet them as his opponent putted. Hitchens could have made the putt even with all the noise. It was on the same line as Chet’s and he nailed it, center cup. The fans cheered yet again and gave the players a standing ovation as they moved towards the seventeenth hole, Walker one stroke ahead.
Craig’s eyes darted in all directions, looking for Lori. He finally found Hank standing next to Robert and another man. Still no Lori in sight.
Chapter 32
Although she wasn’t injured, Lori seemed to drift in and out of consciousness as she sat on the ground in the makeshift barn. Her eyes were glazed over, and she was having trouble making out the shapes of the men that were sitting nearby, hovering over her like vultures. Lori felt pain in her arm, in her right leg, and now a headache seemed to be coming on. Again, she looked at her watch and thought about the tournament, and Craig and Chet, wondering if he was winning.
Her thoughts turned to the reason she was being held in the shed. If these men were murderers or rapists, she surely would’ve felt their wrath by now. Lori wondered if it was a simple kidnapping and they were waiting for the ransom to be delivered. She quickly dismissed that thought because her family was not wealthy enough to provide a decent ransom.
The only other logical explanation would be that this had something to do with fixing the Masters and the people behind it. But what did she have to do with it? She had no influence over the winner. She had just met Chet Walker the other day, and she didn’t know anyone at the tournament except Craig and his boss. She felt her chest tighten as she contemplated this last idea. Did Craig have anything to do with this? It sure didn’t appear that way when they were in Chet’s house last night. He was very reluctant to caddy for Chet, but what better way to get close enough and cause him to lose the tournament?
Lori literally shook the thought form her head and stretched out her legs. Her butt was hurting from sitting on the ground, and she considered asking the men for a chair, but decided against it. Lori had no intentions of showing fear. Something occurred to Lori as she shifted about uncomfortably on the floor: These men had no weapons, at least none that she could see. How were they holding her hostage? She could easily outrun these two slobs. But if they caught her, there was no telling what they may do. If she were to make a run for it, she had to do it fast. The tournament was ending, and there was no telling what these men would do if Chet won.
<><><><><>
When Tiger Woods won the Masters in 1997 by a record twelve strokes, he could bomb the driver on almost every hole and not get into serious trouble. Woods hit wedges into greens where men used to hit six irons. He played the course with such an attack-like aggression, it was left defenseless. So, just like all of the other courses that the pros were now shooting red numbers on, Augusta National changed the layout of the course to make it more difficult. Bunkers were added and tees were lengthened. But the most significant change of all was the addition of deep rough both bordering the fairways and greens.
In all the years that Augusta had hosted the Masters, there was no high grass anywhere on the course. The fairways were wide and acceptant of mishit drives. The greens, however, repelled shots and sent the balls even farther away from their intended destination. Golfers could get more spin on the balls from the short grass and therefore could get the ball closer to the hole. Woods was just one of many players to take advantage of the wide fairways and hit tee shots that left them less than a hundred yards from the green. Golfers now had to be careful of club selection off the tee. They had to hit it far enough, but they also had to stay out of the rough.
No one was more aware of this than Chet Walker as he walked to his ball on seventeen. He ignored Craig’s advice to hit three-wood and instead hit his driver well to the right o
f the fairway into the deep rough. Actually, the rough was not so much deep as it was thick. The grass had no bare spots. It was as if a million seeds had been clumped together and produced grass so thick you could not see the ground. Chet was staring at his ball some twenty yards right of the fairway. A marshal had stuck a tiny white flag in the ground next to the ball when it landed so that Chet could find it. Craig thought about grabbing the flag and waving it well over his head, to say he surrendered.
“What do we have?” Chet asked, surveying his ball. He had a one shot lead in the year’s first major and he was collapsing on the back nine. He looked back towards the fairway and found Hitchens waiting for him to hit.
Craig had just jogged back from the fairway and said, “Looks like one fifty-two to carry the bunker, one sixty-eight to the flag.”
The seventeenth was a long, straight par-four that required a good tee shot to have an easy shot to the green. Off the tee, you had to maneuver around the Eisenhower Pine, a tree that seemed to jut out from the right side only one hundred yards from the tee box. The green was protected by one large bunker in front and a smaller one towards the back left.
“Sitting down a little,” Chet noted as he grabbed a seven iron from the bag.
“I agree, it’s going to come out a little heavy. Seven’s the club.” Craig stepped away and watched Chet approach the ball.
They were both right that the ball was sitting down a good ways, but the club selection was off. As soon as the ball took off, both Chet and Craig were yelling for it to “go”. It didn’t. The ball splashed into the top of the front bunker and rolled gently down towards the bottom. He would have a long bunker shot and the ball was sitting on an upslope. Chet slammed the club into the bag and didn’t bother to look at Hitchens’ approach shot. By the sound of the gallery a few seconds later, he could tell that he had found the green.
Deep Rough - A Thriller in Augusta Page 19