Murder in the Rough

by Otto Penzler

  As Annie and Bix walked toward the tee, Annie took a deep breath. No Voice.

  Acknowledging polite applause, she approached the green and Bix handed her her putter. Comfortably warm for the first time since the round began, she slowly moved toward the hole, lining up the putt as Janet, Gail, and Kelly joined her. Annie felt a slight breeze on her back and turned around to let it cool her face.

  Not twenty feet away, the man in the madras shirt waved again.

  He looks like someone, Annie thought, turning away and ignoring him.

  Look again, said the Voice.

  Reflexively obeying, Annie turned and found herself staring into the once blue eyes of David Strickland.

  But the eyes were no longer blue. They were gray, almost black, and his complexion was a pasty, sickly hue.

  I’m here. It’s me. You lose.

  “Bix,” Annie called, beckoning. Bix broke into his easy, purposeful trot and was by her side in seconds.

  “Want the new putter?” Bix asked.

  “Look behind me, over my shoulder,” Annie urged quietly, her eye seemingly on her ball. “Two o’clock.” Bix obeyed. “Is that… David?” she asked.

  “David?” repeated Bix, confused, still looking where she had indicated. “As in… Strickland?”

  “Maybe it just looks like him. Is it?”

  “There’s… nobody over there who even looks vaguely like David, boss.”

  Annie turned around to see. The man was gone. She blinked and watched as Kelly Castile stroked her putt, from thirty feet and off the edge of the green. The green was incredibly fast, and for a second Annie felt relieved, knowing that the putt would have to be perfect not to overshoot the hole.

  But the ball found the center of the cup for a birdie and Kelly was only three strokes behind Annie. The crowd roared.

  “Hold on to your hats, folks!” exclaimed Bret Shayne on national TV. “I don’t hear any fat lady singing yet.”

  Of the three remaining putts, Annie’s was farthest from the pin. She moved in, determined not to overthink. Stepping right up to the ball and squaring her feet, she went into a deliberate backstroke.

  Miss it!

  Her putter caught a piece of green just before making contact with the ball. The clubhead twisted slightly, and the resulting glitch sent her putt to the right of the hole and rolling down the quick grass.

  The crowd oohed.

  “Man! It looked like a possible birdie for leader Annie Bridget, but something happened—the slightest hitch in her swing—and instead she’s got herself a tricky uphill putt—I’d say ten feet—to save par.”

  Still away, Annie stepped up again, eyeing the precise route she wanted the ball to travel. She took a slow, even breath and gently stroked it.

  I’ll see you on the seventeenth. In the pond. I’ll be waiting.

  Her putt rolled straight for the pin, whirled around the rim of the cup, and dribbled out. Annie winced and reflexively looked back, but the man in the madras shirt was nowhere to be seen.

  She tapped in for a bogey, after which Janet and Gail each came through with birdie putts.

  Annie was suddenly just a single stroke ahead.

  “Bix,” said Annie as he took her putter and walked her to the fifteenth tee. “Stay close. Talk to me. Okay?”

  “You always tell me to keep my mouth shut, boss.”

  “Beautiful day, huh?” she said, shifting her tone, smiling and waving to a gaggle of teenage boys who whistled when she looked their way. “Just keep talking.”

  “Okay… yeah… beautiful,” said Bix, who hadn’t become indispensable to Annie because of any sort of easy way with words. “Beautiful,” he repeated, still wondering what was going on. “The, uh, greens seem to be running faster.”

  “This is one beautiful day,” Annie said, ignoring him, speaking as though she had just noticed for the first time.

  “You okay, boss?”

  “Four hundred and fifty-five yards, par 5, huh?” she said.

  “Yup.”

  “Whatta you think, Bix? Nine-iron? Sand wedge?”

  Bix tried to smile. In his years with Annie, she had never once attempted a joke during a close match. Renowned for his cool, he felt a trickle of perspiration run down his side, as though a tiny faucet had opened. As they reached the tee, he handed her a driver.

  Annie waited as each of the other three hit. Janet’s sliced a bit, but Gail’s and Kelly’s were beauties, and all three were far onto the fairway. Annie bent over and placed her ball on the tee. She noticed now that she was trying not to look at anyone in the crowd. Not thinking of something was, she knew, tantamount to thinking of it.

  “It’s like a frickin’ pink elephant,” she said, unaware that she was speaking out loud. “Try not to think about that.”

  “Beg pardon, boss?” said Bix, bewildered.

  The man in madras did not appear. She sensed him hovering in the wings, but she took a deep breath and hit a spectacular drive, outdistancing her rivals by thirty yards.

  Keeping her head down and making nonstop conversation with Bix, Annie managed to par 15 and 16. But so did Gail and Janet, keeping them one stroke behind, with Kelly losing another stroke.

  At the seventeenth tee, Annie looked out. There it was. The pond.

  Come on. I’m waiting.

  Trying to decide whether to hit a 3-wood or a 2-iron, she was interrupted again—but not, it seemed, by the Voice. It was strained, and higher-pitched than what she’d been hearing.

  They just cut the grass on the green. Wait till you smell it!

  Annie swung around to face Bix.

  “Did you say something?” she asked, her voice rising more than she could control.

  “No.”

  Without thinking, Annie turned to the crowd.

  “Listen,” she called out impulsively. “I have to ask you to please keep quiet. I know most of you are really polite, but will whoever is talking to me please give me a break!” The crowd shifted its collective weight. People glanced at each other, confused. A few looked angry. Annie blushed and tried to keep from losing any more control.

  “Just play your game, Annie! We’re with you,” called a voice.

  A real voice.

  A woman’s voice. Annie turned, smiled, and made a little wave. The woman waved back, giving her a thumbs-up.

  You want to know why I sound different?

  Annie shook her head, trying to will away the sound, and placed her tee.

  I was castrated.

  She stepped back and looked down at the pond. All I have to do, she insisted to herself, is get my drive over the water. Please, God, let it go over the water.

  Bix handed her a ball, a tee, and her 3-wood.

  “Two more holes, boss, and I’ll buy you a lemonade,” said Bix, backing away, as matter-of-fact as he could manage.

  She rubbed the ball against the side of her skirt and looked at the pond as though concentrating on it might make things all right. She placed the ball onto a tee in one hand and plugged the tee into the soft turf as the crowd grew mercifully quiet.

  Come what may!

  Her head snapped toward the crowd.

  Was it her mom? Her dad? The Voice? Don’t be ridiculous, she thought. No thinking. Just step up and hit it.

  She coiled into her backswing and let go.

  The second her club struck the ball, she knew the contact was poor. She’d topped it. The ball spurted off the tee, low to the ground, bouncing hard, making straight for the pond.

  “Uh-oh!” called out Bret Shayne on national TV. “She didn’t want to do that! She’s headed for the water hazard…”

  The ball bounced a few yards in front of the pond, rolled, hit a small boulder that rimmed one side of the water, bounced again, and plunked into the sandy mud, an inch from the water’s edge.

  “Wow,” sighed Jack Maddox. “I tell you, Bret, you hate to see this. This is a hole that Annie Bridget parred in each of the first two rounds and birdied yesterday. She’s
always owned this hole, but today, when she probably just needs to par these last two holes, well… she’s got herself in real trouble. Her ball looks to be at the very edge of the water hazard—I guess you could say she’s lucky there—it isn’t actually in the water. But now the question becomes, do you take a drop and lose a critical stroke, or do you try to hit out of a terrifically bad lie?”

  “She’ll get wet if she decides to hit out of there, Jack. Let’s see how she handles it.”

  Gail, Kelly, and Janet each hit drives well over the pond and onto the fairway beyond. The crowd cheered them, torn, it seemed, between rooting for their shaky leader or for the three possible spoilers.

  Annie followed Bix down the slope toward the pond.

  Come on, come on. I’ve been waiting.

  The crowd was silent. As though marching to her execution, she felt another chill. The smell of fresh-mowed grass was everywhere as she approached the water. Was that a good sign? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. She saw her ball, gleaming wet, lying in a little crater it had dug for itself at the pond’s edge. She’d have to put one foot in the water to hit out. Her decision was quick. There was no way she could take a penalty stroke. She’d have to play it. If she could choose the right club and somehow make a great shot—get close to the green—she could chip, then one-putt to save par.

  “I’m thinking, dammit!” she said out loud. “Stop it!”

  Bix looked at her, not knowing what to say. There were murmurs from the crowd.

  “Uh… sand wedge, boss?” asked Bix carefully.

  “Try your 9-iron, kiddo,” advised a quiet voice out of nowhere. Annie turned, terrified. Her father approached, politely moving through the crowd, which parted for him.

  Perfect! Both of you right here. Right where I want you.

  “That’s Johnnie Bridget,” announced Bret Shayne. “We’ve seen him do this in the past when his daughter’s been in a tight spot. He’ll say a word or two to her, and it seems to calm her down. It’s unusual, but, hey, what’s usual about today? We saw him huddle with her during the first round when Annie Bridget’s drive put her behind a tree on the thirteenth. Johnnie came out of the crowd, whispered something, and Annie proceeded to hit a beauty of a shot to par that hole.”

  “Well, let’s see if Dad can help her now,” said Jack Maddox. “Bix McCloud, Annie’s caddie, is stepping aside. Some caddies wouldn’t like this, but he and Annie seem to have an understanding. Let’s watch…”

  As Johnnie moved toward her, Annie tried to read his eyes.

  Look down at your ball, Annie. I have a surprise for you.

  Annie looked down as Johnnie reached her side. Her face went white and she recoiled.

  “Oh, God! Oh, dear God!” she called out to her father, almost in a sob. “What have you done?” Johnnie stopped and looked down.

  In the water next to her ball, Annie saw part of a man’s hand and arm, slightly exposed beneath the surface of the shallow water. She screamed and looked up at her father. Just over Johnnie’s shoulder, she again saw the even-more-emaciated face of David Strickland. He stood, leering, the flesh of his face rotting, his teeth black or missing, the madras in rags and barely clinging to his lean frame. He looked a hundred years older. He wasn’t smiling.

  Ask him. Ask your dad why he did it.

  “How could you do this, Dad? I never asked you to do this!”

  “Do what?” sputtered a bewildered Johnnie Bridget, trembling.

  Bix looked on, holding Annie’s club in his hand, unable to speak.

  “Get out,” she screamed at her father. “Get away from me! Get him out of here!” A tanned, powerfully built Asian security officer appeared from the sidelines and approached hurriedly.

  “Is there a problem, Ms. Bridget?” he asked, keeping calm.

  “Get out of here, Dad. I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

  “Honey—what is it?” begged Johnnie, tears in his eyes.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, sir,” said the security man, carefully taking Johnnie’s arm.

  “Okay. Okay,” said Johnnie, shaking, not wanting to make more of a commotion. “I’ll… see you inside, sweetie. It’s okay. It’s okay. Just… take a deep breath.”

  “Get away!” Annie screamed again as the crowd completely quieted. She looked down at the hand in the water. Was it moving? No. Yes. No.

  Bix took a few steps toward her. “What can I do, boss?” he asked gently.

  Annie looked down, terrified that Bix or, God forbid, the camera might see what she saw. Her head was swirling. How do I get through this? she asked herself. No thinking, she answered.

  Get it off your chest, Annie.

  “I want to stop play!” she called out suddenly. No one moved. She stepped away from her ball, turned, and looked directly into a TV camera.

  “Cut to a commercial,” she ordered in simple, deadly earnest.

  The red light on the camera, however, stayed lit.

  Bret Shayne knew that no TV director in his right mind would cut away from this.

  Confess. Do it now.

  Annie started to shake. “I’m going to… hit this shot,” she said into the camera, “this motherfucker of a shot, and I’m going to finish this match, and then…” She broke off and took a breath.

  No thinking!

  “And then… I… have a statement to make. Someone might want to call… the police. There’s something I’ve been carrying, for too long—and I need to talk about it. Come what may. I can’t do this anymore.”

  She felt her shaking subside a little.

  See? You’ll feel better when you tell them.

  She took the club from Bix, waded partway into the water, moved astride her ball, and, with one foot on dry land and one in the sand where she’d last stood on prom night, she closed her eyes and imagined where she needed the ball to go.

  She inhaled, brought her club back slowly, and swung. Mud splattered her legs and skirt.

  “What a shot, Bret! Oh, baby, is it possible that she did it?”

  The ball traveled up and up, seeming almost to hover before it began its fall, bouncing twice, rolling, and finally stopping ten feet shy of the green, about twenty feet from the cup. The crowd stood silent for a moment, then broke into frenzied applause.

  “Wow. Whatever Johnnie Bridget whispered to his daughter,” said Bret Shayne, “whatever made her lash out at him—whatever happened, that young woman just reached down somewhere and came through with the shot of a lifetime. And you are watching it all live, folks. Stay with us!”

  “We’re back live from the world-renowned St. John’s Golf Club where Annie Bridget has just made history, tying Tiger Woods’s record of four straight major PGA wins, and earning herself a place in the annals not just of women’s golf but in the sport of golf. If you’re just joining us, Annie Bridget parred the seventeenth hole and just birdied the eighteenth on a spectacular eighteen-foot putt to win this event by a mere stroke over Janet Deeter, who led a brave charge that was joined by Gail Fahr, who finished two strokes off the pace. We’re in the clubhouse now, where Ms. Bridget is on her way, apparently to make some kind of statement. As you can see, it’s quiet here, not the kind of celebration you’d expect after such a remarkable achievement. While we wait, I’m told we have Tiger Woods with us via satellite from Tacoma, Washington, where he, like the rest of the world, has been watching. Tiger? Tiger, can you hear me?”

  “Hey, Bret. You’re loud and clear.”

  “Tiger, how do you feel?”

  “Well, Bret, days like this just bring out the fan in me. I mean, what a round of golf, what a show of character—I don’t know what else is going on, but Annie Bridget showed the world what she’s made of today. It just speaks for itself, and, hey, I’m proud to share this record with her. I think she—”

  “I’m sorry but we have to break away, Tiger. Thank you for your gracious remarks, but Annie Bridget, as you can see, has entered the clubhouse and is ready to make her st
atement. Down to you on the floor, Jack.”

  “Thanks, Bret. I think they’re just adjusting her microphone, and yes, here we go…”

  Pale, her eyes bloodshot but determined, Annie cleared her throat. Silence fell over the room. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped, shaking her head.

  “We love you, Annie!” called a voice from the back, and the room broke into scattered applause that grew louder and more insistent. Annie took a deep breath and nodded, her face grim as she put up her hands for quiet.

  “Thank you. Thank you. I wish I could enjoy this moment. But… the truth is that I haven’t been able to enjoy much of anything really, not any moment of my life for the past six months since my husband… disappeared.” She fought back tears, trembling. “I’m sorry, Dad. I wish this could just be my statement, my… confession. But it has to be yours, too.” Her mouth twisted and her whole body seemed to vibrate.

  “I… can’t tell you how David Strickland died. But I can’t live with this anymore. I thought I could just… not know. If I didn’t ask, I wouldn’t know. So I didn’t. And that makes me almost as guilty as if I had done it. I can’t talk anymore. I’m fucking delirious. Excuse me. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m so sorry. But… if you just… go down to the pond, the water hazard, on the seventeenth fairway, you’ll find him. You’ll find David. Sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.”

  An LPGA official with a uniformed cop and a plainclothes officer stepped forward. The officer gently took Annie by the arm and started to lead her out of the room. Several reporters surged forward to follow. As the policeman held the door for Annie and turned his head to block the quickly following Jack Maddox and his camera crew, Annie saw in an instant what she knew would be her only chance.

  No thinking.

  Without a trace of hesitation, she reached for the policeman’s pistol, jerked it from his holster, brought the service revolver to her head, and pulled the trigger.