Final Round

In the 1947 Masters, as Freddie Haas lined up a putt on the eighth green, Johnny Bulla (who was in the group behind him) hit a ball onto the green. This was not only a breach of golf etiquette but a safety hazard. “Hey man,” Haas said to Bulla, “you hit into me. Someone could have gotten hurt.”

Club chairman Cliff Roberts immediately summoned not Bulla, but Haas, to his office. Haas had violated the Augusta National rules by raising his voice above a conversational level. “Fred, we don’t tolerate that kind of attitude around here.” Roberts promptly yanked his credentials and tossed him out of the tournament. “If you will write a letter of apology,” Roberts added, “we might have you back again.” Haas thought he was more sinned against than sinning, but he learned an important lesson. At the Augusta National, it seemed, it was more important to be well behaved than to be right.

Haas wrote the letter. To the surprise of many, he was invited back the next year.

The Day Before…

1

Monday

“It’s Silly Putty,” Conner Cross said with an air of finality that defied anyone to disagree with him. “I’m certain of it.”

“It is not,” John McCree replied. He’d been defying Conner since they were kids and had no trouble doing it again. “It’s a specially treated ball of monofilaments, packed and compressed for maximum durability and flexibility.”

“Monofilaments! Give me a break. It’s Silly Putty.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not. This is a subject on which I have a certain expertise.”

“You can’t even spell expertise.”

“I’m telling you, it’s Silly Putty. I was reading a magazine article about this just last week.”

“I find that highly unlikely, unless maybe it was mentioned as some playmate’s pet peeve.”

Conner raised his hands to his mouth and shouted. “Fitz!”

An older man sporting a shoeshine-boy cap and toting a large bag of clubs strolled toward the two men at the first tee. “You called, Master?”

Conner Cross smiled. “Look, Fitz, we need you to settle an argument.”

“Caddies don’t settle arguments.” Fitz, ever the dapper dresser, was attired in a Lacoste golf shirt, a Lyle & Scott cashmere sweater, and Italian gabardine light wool slacks-quite a contrast to Conner himself, who sported a bright floral Hawaiian shirt, yellow bicycle shorts, and a tattered Panama straw hat. “We counsel. We strategize. We tote. But we don’t settle arguments.”

“Be a sport.”

Fitz folded his arms across his chest. “No,” Fitz said emphatically. His full name was Daniel Fitzpatrick, but he’d been caddying forever, and everyone had long ago reduced his name to the single syllable.

“C’mon. For me?”

“Definitely not.”

“What, are you afraid you’ll be fined by the caddies’ union? Look-if you’ll just settle this dispute, I promise I won’t make fun of that silly yellow sweater.”

“What a charmer.”

“Puh-leeze?” Conner wheedled.

Fitz twisted his craggy, weathered face. “I caddied for Gary Player for six years and he never once asked me to settle an argument.”

“Then you’re overdue. Here’s the thing: what do you think they put inside golf balls-Silly Putty, or super-compressed monofilaments?”

Fitz rolled his eyes. “I assume you stand in the Silly Putty camp.”

“I shouldn’t say. It might prejudice your decision.”

“For your information, you dimwits, they put rubber inside golf balls. That’s all it is. Rubber.”

Conner Cross and John McCree looked at each other. “Rubber?”

“That’s right,” Fitz said emphatically. “Plain ordinary rubber.”

Conner and John continued staring.

“He says it’s rubber,” Conner said.

“I heard that,” John replied.

Conner’s eyes crinkled. “Nah. Can’t be.”

“Definitely not,” John agreed. “No way.”

“Can’t be,” Conner said, making a clicking noise with his tongue. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“Agreed,” John said. “If golf balls had rubber inside, they’d bounce all the way down the fairway. Or in Conner’s case, the rough.” The two golfers exchanged a look.

Fitz threw up his hands in despair. “I don’t know why I even bother talking to you two reprobates!” He marched past them toward the first tee. “C’mon. If you don’t get your practice round started, you’ll lose your tee time. And if you don’t log enough practice hours, they’ll toss you out of the tournament.”

It was possible, Conner groused, as he followed his caddie to the tee. Anything was possible at the Masters. This annual event, hosted by the Augusta National Golf Club, was one of the most prestigious, if not the most prestigious, of the tournaments on the tour. But it was also a pain in the butt. The Masters was full of rules, regulations, and hoity-toity guidelines of decorum, all of which drove Conner crazy.

During his three years on the tour, Conner had developed a reputation as the PGA’s bad boy. According to the press, he was the “gonzo golfer” who delighted in flouting convention. This had made him the hero of some-but not the PGA authorities and officials, and definitely not the top dogs at the Augusta National Country Club. Safely ensconced in the deep South, the Club-which still only accepted male members-was determined to maintain the high standards of a more genteel era. It made Conner want to barf.

John nudged him in the side. “Smell that?”

Conner inhaled deeply. “Cheeseburgers?”

John looked at him pitiably. “Honeysuckle.”

Conner sniffed again. John was right, of course. The sweet scent of honeysuckle permeated the course. Much as the Masters tournament got under his skin, Conner grudgingly had to admit that the Augusta National course was magnificent, particularly when the tournament was held each year in April-often culminating on Easter Sunday. He gazed out at the flowering crabapples, the graceful dogwoods, and the blazing streaks of azalea, all set against a magnificent green expanse of turf and trees. It was a spectacular view.

“Not much like back home, huh?” John said, grinning.

Conner silently agreed. He and John had grown up together in the wheatfields and tall-grass prairies of western Oklahoma. They were inseparable throughout junior high and high school. They did everything together-bombed the same classes, got bombed on the same six-packs, and, of course, played golf. Back then, golf had held a special allure for Conner, who’d grown up with his father on a not-very-prosperous farm near the small town of Watonga. Its scruffy nine-hole course was an enchanted oasis in the midst of the red dirt and yellow plains that surrounded it. He and John both fell in love with the sport there.

After high school, John went off to college in California, while Conner stayed near home and went to OU. After college, John made the PGA tour. Conner didn’t-but John did everything imaginable to get him in, including loaning him money and arranging private golf instruction from Harvey Penick and other golf giants. Ultimately, Conner won his PGA card. John lived in Georgia now and was a member of the Augusta National Golf Club-whereas Conner probably couldn’t gain membership with a recommendation from Robert E. Lee. John was in nearly all respects the antithesis of Conner, but Conner liked him anyway. Fact was, even though Conner hated to admit it, he pretty much owed John for everything good in his life.

Today was Monday; Conner had flown into Georgia last night. The actual tournament would not begin until Thursday, with a par three mini-tournament on Wednesday. Between now and then, he needed to get in as much practice as possible.

Conner winked at his caddie. “Shall we get started?”

Fitz stared at him, appalled. “You mean, you want to play golf now?”

“Isn’t that what I normally do on golf courses?”

“Matter of opinion, I suppose.” His eyebrows knitted. “You can’t play golf dressed like that.”

“And why not?” Conner asked. “All my private parts are properly covered, aren’t they?”

Fitz’s lips tightened. “Conner, when are you going to get it through your thick skull that being on the PGA tour is a big deal? You should dress in a dignified manner. Not like some… Polynesian hobo.”

“I like this outfit,” Conner said, touching the brim of his battered Panama hat. “I think it has panache. I think it says, ‘Here’s a man who’s at peace with himself.’ ”

“I think it says, ‘Here’s a man who’s about to be thrown off the tour.’ ”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m not! You know the PGA has strict rules on decorum and appearance. They don’t even allow pros on the tour to have facial hair, for Pete’s sake. And this club has even more rules than the PGA. You can’t dress like a bum.”

“I’ll dress any damn way I want to.”

“And you can’t swear, either. That’s an automatic $250 fine.”

“Enough chatter,” Conner said, turning away. “I’m ready to hit the ball.”

Fitz pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, as if suffering from a severe migraine. “Great. Just great. Try to remember what I told you, okay? Stance. Swing. You’re putting too much weight on your left foot. And you’re not bringing your backswing high enough.”

“Stop being such a mother hen.”

“Jack Nicklaus paid me big bucks to be a mother hen!”

“Then go cluck in his coop for a while. You’re making me crazy.”

“You were born crazy.”

Laughing, Conner poked the tee into the ground and removed a club from his bag.

Fitz grabbed his hand. “What do you think you’re doing now?”

“I’m getting a golf club. I know that must seem strange, but the ball goes farther than if I just blow on it.”

“You took out a wood. You can’t use a wood on this hole.”

“I can and I will.”

“The tee markers haven’t been moved back. It’s not that far to the hole. That’s way too much power.”

“I’m warming up, okay?”

“Conner, you can’t-”

“Stop telling me what I can’t do!”

“But you-”

“Fitz!” Conner raised a finger.

Fitz fell silent.

“All right then.” Conner squared himself before the ball and drew in his breath, preparing to swing.

“Stance,” Fitz murmured audibly. “Swing.”

“Fitz!”

“All right, all right.” He buttoned his lip.

Conner brought back his wood and swung. The dimpled white ball soared beautifully into the air, up, up, up… and well over the green. The ball dropped onto the cart path, bounced over a retaining wall, and fell into the greenskeeper’s storage shed.

“Aaarghh!” Conner shouted at the top of his lungs, thrashing about with his club.

John fell to his knees, convulsed with laughter.

Conner glared at him. “And what may I ask is so damn humorous?”

John rolled on the ground, propping himself up with one arm. “What… do… you… think?” he said, squeezing the words out between guffaws and gasps for air. “You.”

“Damn, damn, damn.” In a sudden fit of temper, Conner whirled the wood around again and inadvertently pulverized the tee marker-which was a lovely miniature of the Augusta National clubhouse.

“I tried to tell you,” Fitz said quietly. “God knows I tried. But would you listen? Nooooo…”

Conner pivoted. “Fitz, I’m warning you-”

He was interrupted by the rapid advance of a short man with a whistle around his neck. “Excuse me,” the man said, puffing intermittently on his whistle. He was a bit overweight and appeared to have worked up a sweat just crossing the tee. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Excuse me,” Conner shot back. “Who the hell are you?”

“Derwood Scott. I’m the associate tournament director.”

Conner mouthed a silent oh. Fitz looked as if he’d like to disappear into the rough.

“Mr. Cross, you are in violation of four different tournament regulations.”

“Only four? Jeez, I wasn’t even trying.”

John cleared his throat and tried to look serious. “And which four offenses would those be, sir?”

“One, his embarrassing attire. Two, his indecorous language. Three, his shockingly unprofessional conduct. Four, his destruction of club property.”

John nodded. “That does add up to four, doesn’t it? All right, officer-take him away.”

“This is not a joke!” The more insistent Derwood became, the higher his pitch became. Soon only dogs would hear him. “This is the Augusta National! We will not brook with insubordination!”

“Look,” Conner said, “why don’t we just forget this happened?”

“I don’t think so!” Derwood snapped. “First of all, you will be charged for replacement of the tee marker you destroyed.”

“Fine, that’s fair…”

“Second, you will receive a formal reprimand for your indecorous behavior.”

“Okay. Consider my wrist slapped.”

“Third, because you moved an immovable obstruction-the tee marker-you must take a two-stroke penalty.”

Conner’s face became fixed and stony. “What’s that?”

“You heard me. Two strokes.” He snapped his fingers at Fitz. “Write it down.”

Conner stared at the associate tournament director with dead eyes. “Let me remind you, Derwood, that I know where you live.”

“What’s that, some kind of threat?”

Conner took a step closer to him. “Yeah, some kind. The deadly kind.”

“I’m not afraid of you, you tin cup ruffian.”

Conner kept walking until he was practically hovering over Derwood. “I could change that.”

“Two strokes,” Derwood repeated firmly. “Plus a third for that shot you lobbed into the storage shed.”

“Three shots?” Conner growled, his eyes wide and crazed. “I haven’t left the tee yet!” His curled fingers reached for Derwood’s throat.

“All right, all right,” Fitz said, cutting in between them. “Let’s break this up. We’ll take the penalty strokes.”

Conner looked as if he might have a stroke. “But-”

“What do we care? It’s just a practice round.”

“But it’ll be reported-”

Fitz put his arms around Derwood’s shoulder and steered him away from Conner. “This has all been a terrible misunderstanding. You know how it is sometimes. The pressure of playing the world’s greatest golf course. No offense was intended, I assure you.”

Derwood frowned. “Nonetheless, he-”

“By the way,” Fitz continued, “may I say that you look particularly distinguished in that snappy green sweater? What is that, cashmere?”

“Uh… no. Camel hair.”

“Well, it looks magnificent on you. Truly magnificent.”

Derwood looked down at his sweater. “Really? You like it?”

“It’s brilliant. Brings out the green in your eyes.”

“I thought my eyes were blue.”

Fitz squinted. “Huh. Must be the light.” He guided Derwood off the course. “Anyway, thanks so much for dropping by…”

Derwood stopped. “He’ll still have to pay for the tee marker.”

“Of course he will.”

“And I’ll have to report this to the tournament director.”

Fitz drew in his breath. “If you must.”

Derwood headed back toward the clubhouse. “And tell him to watch the language.”

Fitz sighed. “I do every day.”

After Derwood had disappeared, Fitz rejoined Conner at the first tee. “I told you-”

“Don’t say it,” Conner said, as he lined up his next shot. “Just don’t say it.”

Fitz folded his arms and sniffed. “This never happened to Arnold Palmer.”

2

“Silly Putty?” Freddy E. Granger said, blinking. “I thought it was a blue glutinous liquid. You know, like the stuff they put in the bottom of Magic 8-Balls.”

“You’re all dead wrong,” Harley Tuttle responded. “It’s BBs, tightly packed and held together with a thin polymer plastic.”

“I thought they were filled with spider eggs,’ Barry Bennett said, looking puzzled.

“No, no,” John corrected him. “That’s Bubblicious Bubble Gum.”

“Can’t you clowns keep your urban legends straight?” Freddy shot back. “That’s McDonald’s Quarter Pounders. But only if you get the cheese. I read all about it on the Internet.”

“Speaking of spider eggs,” Barry said, “have you seen that weird stars-and-moon logo on the back of Procter and Gamble products? I think it’s satanic.”

Conner’s eyes rolled skyward. “And you guys wonder why you don’t get product endorsements.”

After the practice round, Conner and John and Fitz had strolled down world-famous Magnolia Lane to the white-columned Augusta National clubhouse. The grounds were in their most beautiful season. Conner felt bombarded by flowering flashes of pink and white set against the unbroken green backdrop. The warm April wind whispered through the pines, just enough to cool, never so much as to disrupt the game. Conner recalled that the Augusta National had been constructed on an ornamental-tree nursery. When everything bloomed, it was impossible to forget.

Almost all the pros in the tournament were inside at the bar-big names and up-and-comers alike. It was the communal gathering place, the perfect spot to swap stories, tell lies, or drown sorrows.

Conner pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and plopped a bill on the bar. “Twenty bucks says it’s Silly Putty.”

His challenge was met by a chorus of “You’re crazy!” and “I’m in!”. Conner dutifully recorded the bets on the back of his scorecard.

He didn’t have any better use for it. He’d played a miserable practice round, as Fitz ardently kept reminding him. He’d gotten off to a bad start-the brouhaha with Derwood Scott-but usually he could ig-nore that sort of distraction. Today, his game had gone from worse to worst. Which was bad news in the extreme. Because a score like today’s wouldn’t get him past the Friday night cut. Hell, a score like today’s wouldn’t have earned him a PGA card.

This couldn’t come at a more improvident time. At the moment, he was sixty-seventh on the money list-hardly a stellar showing. He’d managed to scrape together a living by playing every weekend and occasionally placing, but after three years on the tour, he still hadn’t won a tournament, major or minor. Granted, he was only twenty-seven. But golf was not an endeavor in which years of experience were seen as an asset. Golf, like most sports, favored the young. These should be Conner’s prime years. Should be-but weren’t.

“Can I get a piece of this action?” Harley Tuttle asked quietly.

Conner nodded. Harley was having a great debut year on the tour, but seemed reserved about engaging in the social life. Conner was trying to break him in. “Got it. John, have you met Harley Tuttle yet?”

“Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure.” John shook the man’s hand. “But I’ve been taking a little sabbatical from tournament life this year. How long have you been on the tour?”

“Just since the start of the year.”

“Harley’s a bit on the shy side,” Conner explained.

Harley shrugged awkwardly. “Like my daddy always said, Better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

John grinned, then leaned close and whispered in Harley’s ear. “Always bet against Conner. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to a sure thing.”

“All right, this window is closed,” Conner said, after he collected all the bets. He reviewed his notes with a practiced eye. He was used to this sort of thing. Golf pros, he had learned, love to bet. “Freddy is in for ten. Barry is in for ten. Harley is in for twenty, and”-he glanced up at his best friend-“John-boy is in for a whopping hundred smackers. You must have a passion for pain, pal.”

“It’s easy money,” John replied, not batting an eye. “Silly Putty. What a ridiculous idea.”

“Say, Fitz,” Freddy Granger said, shouting across the bar. He had a pronounced Southern accent-a reminder that he was not just a visitor, but a resident of Augusta. “You’ve been around for a while.”

“That would be a nice way of putting it,” Fitz said, not looking up from his beer.

“What do you think they put inside golf balls?”

“As I’ve already told these two coma victims,” he answered, gesturing toward Conner and John, “it’s rubber. Plain ordinary rubber.”

“Rubber?” The five golf pros stared at one another. “Rubber?”

They spoke as one body. “Naaaah.” The verdict was echoed by the assembly: “Can’t be!” and “No way, Jose!”

Fitz shook his head. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

“Hey,” John said. “Change of topic. Top ten things in golf that sound dirty but aren’t.”

Freddy leapt to the occasion. “Nuts-my shaft is bent.”

Barry joined in. “Look at the size of his putter!”

“Or,” Freddy offered, “how ’bout: nice stroke, but your follow-through leaves a lot to be desired.”

“I bet you’ve heard that a lot,” Conner suggested.

“You boys are amateurs,” John said. “Try: keep your head down and spread your legs a little more.”

Conner jabbed him in the ribs. “You are so vulgar.”

“Oh, yeah? I haven’t heard anything from you yet.”

Conner pondered a moment. “How about… mind if I join your threesome?”

Everyone at the bar burst out laughing.

“Listen up,” Barry said, with the authority of a seasoned pro. “Let’s get back to the serious betting. Fifty bucks says they serve roast beef at the champions dinner tomorrow night.” As they all knew, by tradition, the defending champion got to dictate the menu-and pick up the tab.

“No way,” Freddy answered. “Chicken. Has to be chicken.” Dollar bills flew like feathers in the wind.

“How ’bout this,” John said. “Let’s bet on what corporate client Tiger Woods will do a commercial for this week.”

“Nike,” Harley said. “Gotta be Nike.”

“He wears Nike,” Barry said, shaking his head. “I say Ping.”

“ Ping can’t afford him,” Conner opined. “What about American Express?”

“Wheaties,” Freddy suggested.

“Budweiser,” John rejoined.

“Naaah,” Conner said. “Might sully Eldrick’s squeaky-clean image.” That brought a fresh explosion of laughter from all around the table.

Freddy joined in the fun. “I got fifty bucks that says Tom Kite three-putts the eighteenth hole.”

Conner liked Freddy, in part because he didn’t take himself as seriously as most of the men on the tour, and in part because he was one of few players who ranked even lower on the money list than Conner did. “That’s cold, man.”

“But intriguing,” John said. “How could we verify? He’s not likely to tell us.”

“We can see it from here,” Freddy said, pointing out the northern bay window toward the eighteenth green.

“I got a better proposition,” John said, winking. “I got three hundred bucks that says Conner will not win this tournament. And I’m giving five hundred-to-one odds.”

The room fell silent. No one took the action.

“Funny,” Conner said through thin lips. “Very funny.”

“I was just trying to inspire you,” John said, slugging his friend’s shoulder amiably. “I think it’s about time an Oklahoma boy made good at this tournament. Maybe this will be the year.”

“Maybe so,” Conner echoed, but his heart wasn’t in it. Certainly if he continued playing like he had today, it wouldn’t be him. And John had not been playing well all year.

Conner watched as John rose from the table and began circulating around the room. John was extremely friendly and well-liked. He was a social marvel. He never forgot a face, and he could instantaneously recall anyone’s name, their wife’s name, and the names of their kids. Conner was lucky if he could recognize himself in the mirror each morning.

Conner pushed himself away from the bar and joined Fitz at the far table where he was sitting alone. “So,” Conner said, inviting himself into an available chair, “am I wasting my life?”

Fitz barely looked up. “Are you referring to your occupation or your wardrobe?”

“Occupation,” Conner replied, taking a long swig from his Corona. “Golf.”

Fitz shrugged. “You’re better than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of all the people on earth who play the game.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But I can’t hold my own against the top players.”

“Correction,” Fitz said emphatically. “You could hold your own. You choose not to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know as well as I do. Your pure golf skills are as good as anyone’s on the tour. Better than most. I don’t know of another player who can drive as long and as hard and as accurately as you can. Hell, you could hit a dime at two hundred yards. These wide-open fairways should give you an edge, just like they did for Tiger Woods in ’97 and ’01. You’ve got tons of promise; that’s why I agreed to take you on in the first place. Your major problem”-he tapped the side of his head-“is up here.”

“My major problem is my putting game,” Conner scoffed.

“Because”-Fitz said, not missing a beat-“that’s when the mental game takes precedence. It isn’t brute force that matters on the putting green. It isn’t strategy; it isn’t style. It’s the mind.” Fitz returned to his drink. “So, naturally, your game falls apart.”

Conner made a snorting noise. “You’re just sore because I don’t blindly follow your instructions like some golf robot.”

“Listen to me, Conner. I’ve been around a long time. I go back to the golden years, before television and big money changed everything. I was around for golf’s greatest year-1960-when Hogan, Nicklaus, and Palmer made golf the phenomenon it is today. I’ve caddied for some of the biggest names in the business. Men who understood the importance of courtesy and honor and decorum.”

Conner fell back in his chair. “Here we go again…”

“Don’t check out on me yet, Conner. I’ve got something to say and I want you to hear it. This is important.”

“I know, I know,” Conner said, waving his hands. “I need to adjust my swing.”

“You don’t need to adjust your swing,” Fitz shot back. “You need to adjust your attitude.”

Conner turned away. “Aw, go soak your head.” He pushed out of his chair.

“Don’t run away,” Fitz said. “Every time I try to tell you something, you either deflect it with some wiseass remark or run away.”

“I’m not running away,” Conner insisted. “I’m running toward.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of an attractive brunette sitting alone at the bar.

Fitz’s eyes drooped wearily. “Does this relate to golf?”

Conner winked. “Definitely. I’m going to show her some of my best strokes.”

Fitz could only sigh.

Sussy’s Bar and Grill was located about thirty miles from the Augusta National Golf Club, following a series of dirt and gravel roads that no Georgia boy in his right mind would travel unless he was in his Jeep Cherokee or, better yet, his mag-wheel pickup. The neon sign in the window with three letters missing (SUS Y’S BA & G ILL) claimed there was a grill on site, but if any food other than beer nuts and pretzels had ever been served there, it was so long ago that no one living had any memory of it. The place was popular with locals; unfortunately, out here in the middle of nowhere, there weren’t many locals.

Tonight there were patrons, though-two of them, huddling in a back booth facing one another. The bartender, the only other man on the premises, had never seen them before. And they apparently didn’t want to attract any attention. Why else would they choose the most out-of-sight booth in the darkest corner of the bar? They weren’t looking for fellowship, and they weren’t trying to pick up tail. They wanted to be left alone. So, like any good bartender, he gave them what they wanted.

One of the men was much taller than the other; he seemed to be in command of the discussion. When the two customers finally waved the bartender over to refill their Scotches-neat-he overheard enough to gather that the tall man was making the other fellow some sort of proposition. But exactly what was being proposed he couldn’t say. And he didn’t ask, either. Because whatever it was, it was clear they didn’t want anyone else to know about it.

The bartender returned to his station and pretended to be toweling off glasses. It was only about ten minutes later, when he made a necessary visit to the men’s room, that he heard more. Turned out the men’s room was the perfect place to eavesdrop on that booth; the sound came in through the air vent just above the sink. He still didn’t hear enough to know what they were talking about. But he heard enough to pique his curiosity.

“What if we get caught?” the shorter of the men said. His voice had a tendency to squeak when he was nervous. And at the moment, he sounded very nervous.

“Who’s gonna catch us?” the tall man said confidently. “The police? The tournament officials? I don’t think so.”

“I don’t know if I have the stomach for this. I’ve never had anything to do with-violence.”

“Don’t be squeamish,” the other man said. His voice was reassuring in a way that made the bartender’s skin crawl. “I promise you-I’ve thought of everything. There will be no mistakes.”

“Suppose I say yes-what’s in it for me?”

The bartender heard the tall man taking something out of his pocket, followed by a fast rippling noise. Money, he reckoned. Lots of it.

“This is just a down payment,” the tall man said. “Think of it as earnest money.”

The bartender heard another noise, a shuffling sound-as if the bills were being transferred from one hand to another.

“Then you’ll do it?” the tall man asked, with a bit of a twinkle.

There was no merriment in the other man’s voice when he replied. “I don’t have any choice.”

3

Tuesday

Tuesday morning Conner was back on the course, hoping to complete as many practice strokes as possible before the official tournament activities began the next day. Conner tried everything he could think of to improve his score. Nothing worked. He was playing like some duffer who got out twice a year for the Rotary Club scramble, not someone with a PGA card in his back pocket.

“Glad to see you changed your attire,” Fitz muttered, as he and Conner and John approached the third tee.

Conner grinned. Today he was wearing black golf shoes, purple calf socks, overalls cut off as shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt with cigars stuffed in the pocket.

“Personally, I like it,” John said, suppressing a smile. “Although I miss the Panama hat.”

Conner’s eyebrows rose. “You thought it brought out the sparkle in my eyes?”

“I thought it covered up your bald spot.”

“I do not have a bald spot.”

John looked at him nonchalantly. “Thinning, then.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fine, fine. Have it your way.”

Conner whirled around. “Fitz, am I balding? Or thinning?”

Fitz couldn’t have looked less interested. “Relax, Conner. You’re still the macho stud of the PGA. A girl in every port-isn’t that what the sportswriters say? Women drool when they see your handsome visage.”

“But seriously.”

“It might be time to start wearing a cap.”

Conner bounced back to John. “This is an elaborate joke, right? You two cooked this up in advance. Your idea of sick humor.”

John smiled beatifically. “If it makes you feel more secure to believe that, then fine.”

Conner folded his arms across his chest. “You guys are just jealous because you can’t wear purple calf socks.”

“I am not jealous of anything about you, sonny,” Fitz retorted, “but I am worried that you’re going to be sacked from the tournament before you have a chance to play. Which will not only make you look like a fool, but will reduce my earnings to seven percent of nothing!”

Conner selected a club and approached the tee-off. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not! You think this hasn’t happened before? You think you’re the first smart aleck who ever made it into the PGA? Think again. The Augusta National tossed out Jack Whitaker for referring to the fans as ‘a mob.’ They banned Gary McCord for that stupid remark about the fairway being so smooth it looked bikini-waxed. They yanked Freddie Haas for raising his voice! And you’re working overtime to see if yours can be the next name on that distinguished list.”

“Excuse me,” Conner said, stepping aside. “I have a game to play.” He took a deep breath of the sweet nandina in the air. “And I’m not going to zombify myself just to please a doddering pack of country-club snobs.”

“Even though they follow the official golf rankings, participation at the Masters is by invitation only.” Fitz huffed. “You should respect the privilege you’ve been given.”

Conner raised the head of his club beside his ball. “I’d respect it a lot more if I were making more money.”

“You’d be making more money if you improved your attitude,” Fitz shot back.

“No, I’d be making more money if I could get this stupid dimpled ball to go in that tiny hole.” He started to swing.

“Wait!” Fitz shouted.

Conner jerked around in mid-swing. The head of his club drove into the grass. “What?” he said through clenched teeth.

Fitz crouched down and retrieved Conner’s ball from its perch on the tee. “What is this you’re playing, anyway?”

Conner’s expression did not improve. “As I recall, it’s a Magfli 6.”

“Magfli 6? I thought you were playing a Pro Z1 Titleist. Titleists are the best golf balls in the world. Each one is precision-tested and balanced for premium performance. I bought you a whole box of them.”

“Yeah…” Conner averted his eyes. “I, uh, gave those to Barry Bennett, actually.”

“To Bennett? Why?”

“Well… I lost a bet and I, uh, didn’t have the cash on hand…”

“You’re joking.”

“See, I bet that Tom Kite would three-putt the eighteenth, but wouldn’t you know it, the old shanker ended up pulling it off in two. So…”

Fitz’s face reddened with fury. “So now you don’t have any balls?”

“Of course I have balls. Well, a ball, anyway. You’re holding it.”

Fitz glanced at the palm of his hand. “A Magfli 6? That’s a duffer ball. Where’d you buy this thing?”

“Didn’t. Found it in a sand trap yesterday.”

Fitz slapped his hand against his forehead. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

Conner continued playing his practice round, but the game didn’t improve, not for him or John. Neither of the two pros was in the zone. Conner knocked the ball into the rough so often he wished his bag contained a machete. John had been in the water traps so often he considered investing in scuba gear.

“Damn this stupid game, anyway,” John groused, as they marched toward the fifteenth tee. “Who’s idea was it to start playing golf?”

“As I recall, it was the only way we could get out of trig with Mr. Imes.”

John laughed. “Right, right. Good ol’ Imes-stein.”

“Just think,” Conner said. “If we’d stuck with him, we might be, like, nuclear physicists.”

The two men exchanged a long look, then spoke with one voice. “Or not.”

After the laughter faded, Conner jabbed his friend in the side. “Look. Up ahead.”

Halfway up the fairway, they both spotted another pro on the tour: Abel “Ace” Silverstone. Ace was the sobriquet awarded by the sports press after Abel racked up an impressive series of titles his freshman year on the tour. Now, in his fifth year in the PGA, he was still racking them in, creating the biggest buzz in the golf world since Tiger Woods.

“Why is he moving so slowly?” John wondered.

“Over there,” Conner answered, pointing just a bit north toward the green. A three-man camera crew was setting up, adjusting lenses and tripods.

“Why are they shooting him?” John asked. “The tournament hasn’t even begun yet.”

“Probably doing filler spots,” Conner guessed. “Getting some pregame background material. Possibly doing a profile. After all, he’s favored to win.”

Conner turned toward his friend. “You know, I hate people who are favored to win.”

“That’s just as well. Because as I recall, he hates you.”

“That business at Pebble Beach was a total misunderstanding. How was I to know that girl was his daughter?” He glanced back at the camera crew. They looked ready to roll. “Anyway, I don’t think this glory hog needs any more exposure. So what are we going to do about it?”

“Don’t ask me. I’m just a good ol’ boy from Oklahoma.” John paused. “I count on you to come up with the evil stuff.”

A malevolent grin infected Conner’s face. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He unzipped a special compartment on the side of his bag and retrieved a single golf ball. “Those camera boys want a show. I say we give them a show.”

When they caught up to Ace, he was on the lip of the water trap, barely ten yards from the green. Ideally, he could chip the ball over the water onto the green and then one-putt into the hole. With luck, he might even skip the putt and score with his chip shot.

“Ace, my man. How goes it?” Conner said as he strolled into Ace’s face, hand extended. “How lucky to run into you.”

The instant Ace saw Conner, his face twisted into a bitter grimace. It was several seconds before he appeared to remember that the cameras were rolling and tried to feign some semblance of cordiality. “Uh, yeah. Lucky.” Ace forced up a smile and shook Conner’s hand. Even if he hadn’t hated Conner’s guts, Conner suspected Ace wouldn’t be all that thrilled to see someone else invading his spotlight, but there wasn’t much he could do about it with the cameras on.

“Looks like you’ve attracted a bit of attention,” Conner said, winking and jabbing the man in the ribs.

“What? Oh, them. Right.” Ace shrugged haplessly. “It wasn’t my idea. They’re from CBS. They wanted some background footage on me, just in case… well, you know.”

“Of course we do,” John said, taking the man by the shoulder. “And we just want you to know we’re rooting for you.”

Ace blinked. “You are?”

“Course we are. You’ve always been our favorite. Of the top dogs, I mean.”

“Jeez, that’s nice to hear. When a man rises to, well, you know, my place on the money list, he starts to worry that there might be some resentment from… well…”

“The peons?”

“No, no, of course not. I just thank God every morning that he made me one of the winners. We can’t all be winners, you know. I learned that back in the first grade, playing dodgeball in gym class. There are winners and losers. It’s true on the tour, too. Winners and losers.”

“Or,” John said, “taking Conner into account, winners and wieners.”

Ace laughed. He started to walk on, but John grabbed his shoulder and held him fast. “Say, I’ve been wondering if you could do something for me-”

Ace’s eyes narrowed. “Jeez, I’m really busy right now. After this shoot, I’ve got a meeting to talk about a cable TV special, then I’m talking to the Ping people about a possible endorsement-”

“This won’t take a minute. See, I’ve been having this trouble with my backswing, and since everyone knows you’re the master, I thought maybe…” He winked. “Just a few pointers?”

“Oh. Oh. Sure.” Ace’s face brightened. “Well, you know, the key to the backswing is the grip. I know some people say it’s the stance, but let me tell you-it’s the grip. It’s really simple. See, most people hold the club like they’re swinging a baseball bat upside down. But what you want to do…”

While Ace gassed on about backswing, behind him, Conner surreptitiously replaced Ace’s golf ball with the ball he had taken from the compartment in his bag. The cameramen picked up what he was doing, but to Conner’s relief, none of them said a word.

“… then you gotta loosen up, you know? Hold the club firmly, but relaxed. Then carefully bring your club back around and-pow!”

John smiled. “Pow! That’s it, huh?”

Ace gave his familiar aw-shucks shrug. “That’s it. Pretty simple, huh?”

“Heck, yeah. I just wish someone had told me before.” He shook Ace’s hand with great vigor. “Well, I’ll get out of your way so you can hit the ball.”

“Thanks,” Ace said. “Course, I’d love to chat but-you know.” He jerked his head toward the camera crew. “ America is waiting.”

“Right, right.” Smiling and waving, Conner and John backstepped briskly away from him.

“Think he saw me make the switch?” Conner whispered, once they were out of earshot.

“Nah. All he can see is his name in lights.”

Back at the water trap, Ace made a great show of addressing the ball. He frowned, crouched down, then gazed studiously at the hole in the center of the green. He placed his club on the ground to check the lie of the course, then brushed some leaves and other debris away. He held his thumb forward, as if measuring the distance, then licked a finger to check the wind.

“Cripes, just hit the ball already,” Conner muttered. John jabbed him in the side.

Finally, Ace was ready to swing. With a brow creased by fierce concentration, he took his stance, adjusted his grip, gave his ball a steely-eyed look, then swung…

The instant the club hit the ball, it exploded into a cloud of white talc. Ace cried out-something between “Ahhh!” and “Yikes!”, Conner and John could never agree-and jumped at least a foot in the air. His club flew backwards out of his hands, narrowly missing Conner’s skull. Ace landed off balance and started teetering precariously forward.

“No,” Conner whispered silently. “This is just too good to be true.”

Ace flailed his arms madly, trying to recover his balance, but it was not to be. With no means to stop himself, he tumbled face first into the water trap, like a diver belly-flopping. After thrashing about in the water for several seconds, he reared his head up, dripping wet, algae around his neck, a lily pad clinging to the side of his head.

And of course, every moment of this performance was recorded for posterity by CBS.

John turned toward Conner. “You think we should help the man out?”

“I think he’d prefer to be alone right now.”

“You’re so sensitive, Conner. That’s what I like about you.”

“Yeah.” The impulsive grin criss-crossed his face. “Let’s see if we can bribe the cameramen for a copy of the tape.”

Shortly after dark, a head appeared in the rough off the fairway for the eighteenth hole. The eyes scanned the surrounding area. Then, when they were sure no one was in sight, an arm emerged and pushed the body out of the ground. He’d made it!

He replaced the manhole cover and quickly ducked behind a tree. It had taken hours of crawling through narrow, claustrophobic tunnels, but eventually, he’d found himself inside the Augusta National compound. And no one was the wiser.

When at last he decided it was safe to move, he stayed low, clinging to the ground. He knew that the Augusta National employed a significant security team, and that their numbers were tripled during the week of the Masters tournament. It was not impossible that someone might be out here, even after dark, even this far from the clubhouse and the cabins.

He scanned the course and, sure enough, a few moments later, he spotted a man cruising the course in a golf cart. He didn’t appear to be going anywhere special or doing anything in particular. Definitely security. He waited until the guard was well out of the way, then made a break for a thick patch of trees nearby.

He suppressed a smile, barely able to contain himself. For all he had heard about the much-vaunted ultratight security measures of the Augusta National, he’d made it inside. He wrapped a green flak jacket around his skinny frame, covering his black heavy metal T-shirt. He brushed his long stringy hair away from his face, then checked his pack to make sure he hadn’t lost any of his gear. All the essentials still seemed to be in place. Good. Very good.

Slowly, he eased out of the rough, checking in all directions for security. He could probably make it to the clubhouse without being spotted. Course, even if someone did spot him, he would just whip out the false credentials he was carrying. According to his wallet card, he was a member of a CBS film crew. Just out for a walk, he would say. Scouting locations.

As he crested a hill, he spotted for the first time the gleaming white edifice of the Augusta National clubhouse. All the pros would be in there now, he knew, swapping stories, buying drinks. Getting ready for the annual champions dinner later tonight. They would all be there. Including his target.

And after the dinner, they would all move to their cabins. It would be a simple matter of keeping his eyes open and staying out of sight to determine which cabin was John McCree’s.

And once he knew that, he would be able to complete his mission with ease.

He smiled, then headed toward the clubhouse. He zipped up his flak jacket, insulating himself. A strong wind was coming out of the west, and he was beginning to feel a chill.

John McCree, he thought silently to himself. Soon, he would be face-to-face with the man.

And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

4

Conner and John stood just inside the doorway of Butler Cabin and whistled.

“Man,” John said, “have you ever seen so many golf pros crammed together? It’s like the audition room for the new Titleist commercial.”

“Or a meeting of Gamblers Anonymous,” Conner suggested.

The large banquet room was packed with golf pros of all ages, from all eras. Scanning from left to right, Conner saw a distinguished pantheon of players, the latest and the greatest, everyone he had worshiped as a kid and everyone he envied as an adult.

The Tuesday night Masters champions’ dinner was a huge affair, possibly the most prestigious event on the pro golf social calendar. Founded by Ben Hogan in 1952, it was the greatest event at the greatest of tournaments-small wonder everyone wanted to be there. Beforehand, in accordance with tradition, an autograph session took place in the Champions Locker Room while the past champions enjoyed a pre-dinner cocktail; no autographing was permitted at the formal dinner itself. John, as usual, was immaculately attired in a new sports jacket and tie. Conner was wearing blue jeans with a T-shirt that looked like a tux.

“Over there,” John said, pointing toward the dais. “Table One.”

Conner followed John’s finger toward the long rectangular banquet table at the front of the room. It was Table One, all right. All the giants were there, past and present-Ben Crenshaw, Nick Faldo, Fuzzy Zoeller, Tiger Woods, David Duval, Arnold Palmer, Ray Floyd-just to name a few.

“Check it out,” John said, gazing with awestruck amazement. “Jack Nicklaus!”

“Really?” Conner started forward. “I’ve got a bone to pick with him. He still owes me from the eighteenth hole at St. Andrews.”

John grabbed Conner’s arm and held him back. “The man is a living legend. Give him some respect.”

“It’s hard to respect a living legend who welshes on a hundred dollar bet.”

“He did not welsh on the bet. There was a difference of opinion about whether your ball moved the first time you swung.”

“I never even came close to that ball! It was the wind. You know what those Scottish winds are like!”

“Yeah. So does Jack Nicklaus.”

Conner frowned, then relented. There would probably be a better time to try to collect the debt. Like maybe when the Golden Bear was giving a press conference. “I don’t suppose we’re sitting at Table One.”

John glanced at the seating chart. “Not hardly.” He pointed toward another table in a recess against the south wall, the table furthest from the dais. “Table Twenty-Four. That’s us.”

“Swell.” Conner made his way toward Table Twenty-Four, John just a few steps behind him. He threaded his way through the labyrinth of tables, pausing to chat with the players he knew, who for the most part were not those wearing green jackets. The green jackets were the exclusive attire of the past champions of the Masters tournament. This was their one night of the year to wear them. And no one was allowed to take them home.

Halfway across the room, Conner saw Ace Silverstone making his way toward them. He grabbed John’s arm. “Detour.”

They steered hard aport, trying to give Ace the slip. Unfortunately, the press of so many bodies made escape impossible. Within a few moments, Ace had caught up with them.

“Conner! John!” Ace called out behind them. “Wait up!”

As flight was now clearly impossible, Conner turned to face the inevitable.

“Conner!” Ace repeated, as he caught up to them. “I want a few words with you!”

Conner braced himself. “Look, Ace… we were just having a bit of fun…”

“I want to shake your hand, friend!”

Conner blinked. “You do?”

“Damn straight.” Ace grabbed Conner’s hand and pumped it like a well handle. “How did you know exactly what I needed?”

Conner’s eyes darted to John for help, which was not forthcoming. “I… um…”

“Those camera boys had been following me all day, but they hadn’t gotten a thing they liked. They didn’t say it, but I know what they thought-that I was boring. Too conservative. Not camera-worthy. But you changed all that, didn’t you?” He laughed heartily. “Boom!”

“Uh… yeah. I guess I did…”

“They loved that bit. Said they got great footage. They’re going to use it not just this week, but all year long, as one of those video replays before they cut to a commercial. All year long! I’ll get more exposure than I ever could’ve from some single-play feature piece. I really owe you for this one, buddy.” He grabbed Conner’s hand again and resumed pumping.

“I truly don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say a word, my man. All is forgotten. And anytime you need something, I’m the one you call. Kapeesh?”

Conner forced his lips into action. “Uh… sure. Kapeesh.”

Ace slapped him hard on the shoulder. “You’ve got a friend for life, buddy boy. Excuse me now, okay? Gotta get back to Table One.”

Conner and John watched as Ace receded into the crowd. “Well,” John said, “congratulations. You’ve got a friend for life, buddy boy.”

Conner nodded. “I liked it better when he hated me.”

Conner felt an arm grab him from behind. He turned to find Barry Bennett standing there, fists on his hips. “Hiya Barry. Are you gonna be my friend for life, too?”

Barry ignored him. “Pay up, Conner.”

“Pay…?”

“The Tiger Woods bet.”

“Oh, right.”

“You owe me a hundred smackers. And don’t try to pay me off in golf balls, either. This time I want cold hard cash.”

“And you’ll have it, Barry. But I’m a bit short at the moment…”

“Don’t give me any excuses, Conner. You owe me!”

Conner wrapped his arm around the big man’s shoulder. Getting that close made Conner’s eyes water. Barry must’ve been in the locker room earlier; he had something strong and alcoholic on his breath. “Look, Barry, how about if I gave you something even better than cash?”

“And what would that be?”

Conner’s eyes twinkled. “A lien against the Golden Bear.”

Conner and John finally made it back to their own table. Fitz was seated in a chair just across from Conner; John’s wife, Jodie, was facing him.

Conner made eye contact with Jodie and smiled. “I hope you won’t think me forward if I say that you look radiant tonight.”

Jodie pressed her hand against one cheek. “Conner Cross. You old flatterer, you.”

Conner jerked his head toward John. “You know, this clown really doesn’t deserve you.”

“I know,” Jodie answered. “But someone had to save him from his life of sin and degradation.”

“When was that?” Conner asked.

“When he was hanging around with you.”

Conner smiled. He had known Jodie even longer than he had known John. The three of them had all lived near Watonga. They had spent many a late hour together, chugging beers at Roman Nose State Park, or checking out the flicks at the Liberty Theatre. The Three Musketeers, some of the locals called them. Others favored The Three Stooges. Jodie had originally been Conner’s girl, way back when, and there was a time when he thought…

But it was best to put that out of his mind. She was John’s now, and she had a gigantic diamond ring on her finger to prove it.

“Jodie,” Conner said, “why don’t you dump this chump and run away with me?”

She blushed. “I’d like that, Conner. Really. But to tell you the truth-I’ve kinda grown to like Georgia. I’ve even started to speak Georgian. Listen.” She adopted an exaggerated Southern accent-sort of like Scarlett O’Hara on steroids. “Somebody puh-lese bring me mah grits!”

“That’s all that’s keeping you with this man? A bad accent?” Conner glanced at John; he was barely listening. He was accustomed to Conner and Jodie’s banter; he’d been hearing it for most of his life. “That’s not enough.”

“Well, there’s also the tiny matter of money. I hate to admit it, Conner, but I’ve become a wee bit fond of being rich.”

“What am I, chopped liver? I’ll get you anything-”

“You still living in that trailer park, Conner?”

Conner stopped a beat. “Well…”

“Still gambling away most of your spare dough?”

“Only when I feel lucky.”

“Still trying to pick up every chick who wanders into the bar?”

“Well…” He squirmed. “Certainly not every chick.”

She patted her husband’s hand. “I think I’ll stick with my Johnny.”

After the salad course was served, Derwood Scott rose to the podium. Conner tried not to snarl. “I can’t believe that pissant stuck me with a three-stroke penalty.”

“It was only two,” Fitz hissed back. “You brought the third one on yourself. Actually, you brought them all on yourself.”

Conner frowned. “Have I told you to go soak your head?”

“Not in the last half hour.”

“Then go soak your head.”

Derwood began the proceedings, which of course started with the introduction of every man in the audience wearing a green jacket. Champions running as far back as the 1950s rose and recaptured a brief moment of the limelight. After the roll of champions was completed, Derwood started thanking all the “little people” who made this tournament possible.

“Where does he think he is?” Conner whispered. “The Oscars?”

The thank yous continued for at least ten more minutes. Then Derwood began a panegyric on the “special ambience” of the Masters tournament. “There are many golf tournaments,” he proclaimed, “but there is only one Masters. Here, beneath the shady reaches of the spreading magnolias, men from all walks of life can come together to remember a simpler time, a better time, and to engage in the sport of gentlemen throughout the world.”

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Conner said, sotto voce. John jabbed him in the stomach.

“What is this thing, this grand endeavor we call golf?” Derwood continued. “Yes, it’s a game, but somehow, in the hands of the men in this room, it becomes something much more. It’s an exhibition of excellence, a playing field where men of good cheer can come together in the name of brotherhood.”

“Brotherhood?” Conner said, not quite as quietly as before. “Hell, I’m just trying to make a few bucks.” Fitz and Jodie and John all gave him harsh looks.

While Derwood droned on, the waiters began serving dinner. When Conner’s plate was placed before him, he eyed the mashed potatoes, peas, and asparagus spears encircling a modest pink clump.

“What is this?” Conner said, staring at his plate. “Spam?”

John gave him another shaddup already glare. “It isn’t Spam. It’s baked ham.”

“Looks like Spam to me,” Conner said, oblivious to the distraction he was creating. “You know where Spam comes from?”

John tried to ignore him. “Shhh.”

“It was invented by a guy up in Winnetka. Roy was his name, I think.”

John stopped, obviously torn between his desire to tell Conner to hush and the irresistible impulse to correct another Conneresque line of bull. “It was invented during World War II as a way of preserving and shipping meat for soldiers.”

“No,” Conner insisted, “I read a magazine article about this. It was definitely a guy called Roy. Roy Spam, I believe.”

John rolled his eyes. “Spam is short for spiced ham. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I most certainly do. It was invented by Roy Spam.”

“I’m sure. And you probably think he made it from Silly Putty.”

“I’m telling you, I read about this in some scholarly journal.”

“Like what? The National Enquirer?”

With each rejoinder, their voices grew louder. Eventually, there were more people listening to the Spam debate than listening to Derwood.

“I’m telling you, this is something I know.”

“Right,” John said. “I remember in the third grade, you knew that babies came from overeating.”

“It was Roy Spam!”

“Baloney!”

Conner scooped up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and flung it across the table at John.

John’s eyes went wide. “You sorry little-“ He grabbed his own spoon and retaliated, sending a clump of potatoes back across the table. Conner fired again, and soon the mashed potatoes were criss-crossing the field of battle. When he ran out of potatoes, John flung his Spam/ham. A big saucy piece slapped Conner on the side of his face.

Enraged, Conner began flinging peas. A few of them veered off and hit Jodie, who then picked up her own spoon and began slinging away. Before long, all of Table Twenty-Four had joined in the warfare. A full-fledged food fight ensued.

At this point, Derwood was no longer able to ignore the disruption in the back of the room. “Excuse me,” he said, pounding his gavel. “If I could have your attention.”

Derwood didn’t get anyone’s attention. Conner was under the table, ducking his head to avoid food fire from both directions.

“Excuse me!” Derwood said, pounding even louder than before. “Please come to order.”

From Conner’s vantage point, half the room appeared to be in culinary combat. Young and old alike crouched beneath their tables, flinging asparagus spears and mushy peas halfway across the room. Someone found the Jell-o dish that was going to be served for dessert, and then the battle really got messy.

Conner looked back at John, who had an asparagus spear in each nostril. “Now this is an exhibition of excellence.”

John nodded. “In the name of brotherhood.”

“Naturally.” Conner removed the ladle from the gravy boat. “Now watch this.”

“People!” Derwood shouted, desperately trying to regain control. “We can’t do this! This is the Masters. The Masters! We must-”

He had more that he wanted to say, but what it was no one ever knew, because he stopped talking for good after the fistful of gravy splatted him in the face.

5

Conner was not entirely surprised when he received his summons to the chairman’s office. Given the way Derwood had stomped out of the champions’ dinner, some attempt at reciprocity seemed inevitable. The only questions in Conner’s brain were when and how. When turned out to be that very night. How turned out to be a command performance in the vice-principal’s office.

It was impossible for Conner to predict what would happen next, because the Masters-and its powers-that-be-were like no other. The Masters was neither connected with, nor accountable to, any professional association or organized league. It was administered by a private fraternity-virtually a secret society-of well-heeled, conservative duffers. They did not discuss the inner workings of the Club; what had been described as the Augusta National omerta was always maintained. And at the Masters, their word was the law.

Two tournament officials escorted Conner back to the clubhouse. Without even allowing him to pause at the bar, they led him downstairs, past the public areas into the inner catacombs of the building. Conner trailed them down a long hallway where the staff offices were located. The hallway seemed enormous; Conner wondered why they hadn’t installed an airport people-mover. Only as they approached the end of the dimly lit corridor did Conner realize there were doors there. Two dark mahogany, magnificently carved doors.

As they approached, the doors swung open, as if moved by a higher power.

“Please come in.”

Following the instructions of the voice from within, Conner and his two escorts stepped inside.

The office was magnificent, every corner filled with golf memorabilia and curios. One entire wall appeared to be covered with photos and awards relating to Bobby Jones and Cliff Roberts (always referred to by Club members as Bob Jones and Mr. Roberts), the founders of the Augusta National who oversaw the construction of the golf course (designed by Dr. Alister MacKenzie, M.D.) and carved it out of 365 acres that were once an indigo plantation. The walls were all rich, dark wood, floor-to-ceiling. The furniture reflected the dark motif, right down to the plush upholstered chairs. But the most magnificent piece was the desk-as immense as some conference tables. Behind the desk, leaning back in the chair with his fingers steepled, was a distinguished white-haired gentleman Conner knew all too well: Artemus Tenniel-chairman of the Augusta National Golf Club.

Conner nodded politely. “Evening, Artemus.”

Conner could see the man burn at the casual use of his first name, which of course was exactly why Conner had done it. “You will address your remarks to Mr. Spenser.”

“Ah. Forgive me.” Apparently being summoned by the chairman was akin to having an audience with the queen. You could only speak when spoken to, and then only through an intermediary.

Conner pivoted slightly, enough to take in the middle-aged, middleweight figure of Andrew Spenser, the Masters tournament director. And cowering behind him, his associate Derwood Scott.

“Let me ask you a question,” Spenser said, in a slow, deep Southern accent. He paced around the room, slowly encircling Conner. “You are Conner Cross. A three-year member of the PGA tour.”

“Guilty.”

Spenser continued his slow circles, as if he were trying to recreate the torture and brainwash scene from The Manchurian Candidate. “What do you think the Masters tournament is?”

“A chance to make some really big buckos?”

“No. The Masters tournament is about much more than big… buckos.” He gave a mock shiver. “The Masters tournament is a celebration of mankind’s finest qualities. When the tournament was established in 1937, it was perceived as the pinnacle of-”

“I’ve read the brochure,” Conner said.

“The Masters tournament represents the best of all mankind-”

“If it represents the best of all mankind, how come the Masters didn’t have any African-American players until 1975? How come the Augusta National didn’t have any black members until 1990?”

Spenser studiously ignored him. “Over the years, this tournament has come to represent much more than simply a sports competition. At the Masters, we try to establish an exemplar for athleticism, ethics… and behavior.”

Conner had the distinct feeling that behavior was the exemplar they were going to be discussing tonight. “Aren’t you guys taking this all a wee bit too seriously? I mean, we’re talking about a golf tournament here, not the end of Western civilization.”

Spenser drew in his chin. “What we are trying to do is set a standard-”

“No, what we are trying to do is knock a silly white ball into a tiny hole in the ground. It ain’t international diplomacy.”

Spenser raised a knobbly finger. “Your behavior has been inexcusable.”

“I was strafed with Spam. I had to defend myself.”

“Tonight’s debacle at the champions’ dinner was only the culmination of many violations that have come to our attention.”

“Such as what?”

“Destruction of tournament property.”

“I said I’d pay for the tee marker.”

“Use of foul and offensive language.”

“You try talking to Derwood without-”

“Disorderly conduct.”

“Well, maybe a little…”

“Violation of the tournament dress code.”

“The tournament hasn’t even started yet!”

“Need we remind you, Mr. Cross, that a strict code of dress and conduct applies to the entire PGA tour?” This came from someone behind him. Conner turned to face a man who was altogether too familiar to him.

“Richard Peregino,” Conner said, exhaling. “The PGA morals cop.”

“Vice president of Decorum and Image, thank you.”

“But it isn’t even a PGA tournament!”

“As the on-site representative of the PGA,” Peregino continued, “I must tell you that we take these charges very seriously.” Peregino wore a suit that was too small, too old, and was tacky even when it was new. Perched in the midst of this high-class office, he was like a walking-talking What’s Wrong With This Picture? “We’ve had you under close observation for some time now because we’ve suspected you of improper conduct.”

“Is that why you’ve been watching me everywhere I go? And here I thought you had a crush on me.”

Peregino’s jaw tightened. “You know perfectly well that the PGA demands that its members uphold high moral and ethical standards. Our regulations prohibit illegal or offensive behavior, improper or insufficient attire, sexual misconduct, profanity. We carefully screen all entrants to prevent any rogue bull from tarnishing the PGA image.”

“Someone must’ve been snoozing when I got my card,” Conner muttered.

“That mistake can be easily corrected,” Peregino replied, drawing himself up to his full height, which was still about six inches lower than Conner’s. “And believe me, if your conduct doesn’t change, it will be. You won’t finish the tour.”

“You won’t finish this tournament,” Spenser chimed in. “Here in Augusta, we have rules. And if those rules are not observed, you will be excused from the competition.”

“Wait a minute,” Conner protested. “I was personally invited to participate. You can’t toss me out now.”

“I can and I will,” Spenser shot back. “I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. One more disruption or violation, and you will be escorted off the property.”

Conner remembered what Fitz had told him earlier about Haas and the others. When the Augusta National wanted someone gone, he was gone. Which would definitely put a crimp in Conner’s plan to win big and pay off his trailer home.

Conner paused a moment before speaking. “I’ll try to behave myself.”

Spenser preened triumphantly. “See that you do.”

Derwood stepped out of the shadows. “And your attire?”

“Whatever.”

That wasn’t good enough for Derwood. “I will be at the first tee tomorrow morning to personally inspect your clothing. If you’re not dressed in compliance with our standards, I won’t let you on the course.”

Conner frowned. “Does this mean that Easter bunny suit I was planning to wear is out of the question?”

His remark was met by a room full of stony expressions.

“Damn,” Conner muttered. “I’m gonna lose my deposit.”

Later that night, a different conversation took place in another office in the clubhouse. The office was dark except for the illuminated glow radiating from a single desktop Tiffany lamp. The low lighting silhouetted the two figures standing on opposite sides of a desk. The expressions on their faces and the tone of their voices revealed that the discussion was anything but amicable.

“I want an explanation for this!”

“I’m afraid… I have none to give.” The man standing behind the desk had a slight catch in his voice. “Perhaps if you could give me some time…”

“Your time is up.”

“If you could just give me a week. A day, even.”

“I want an explanation now. Because if this means what I think it means-”

“Please.” The man behind the desk began to fidget with a paperweight. “I promise you. It’s not what it seems.”

“Then what is it?”

“It-It-It’s just a terrible misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I think I understand. I think I understand perfectly.”

“But-don’t-“ His head fell into his hands. “If you could just give me some more time.”

“I’ll give you until tomorrow morning.”

“But that’s not nearly enough-”

“Tomorrow morning. And if you can’t clear this up by then, I’ll go public.”

“No!”

“Yes. Then you can make your explanations to everyone.” He turned and started toward the door.

“Please wait-“ But it was too late. Before the man behind the desk could finish his sentence, his companion had left the office.

He collapsed into his chair. How had he gotten himself into this mess? It had all seemed so innocent at first, so harmless. And now-

But there was no point in wallowing in those ruminations. He had to do something. To do something quick. But what?

There was no way he could rectify this mess before morning. If the other man was as good as his threats, he would be ruined. Absolutely ruined.

His only hope was that the other man didn’t go public, that he kept his mouth shut. Not just tomorrow morning, but forever. Something had to happen. Something had to change his mind. Or something had to make it impossible for him to tell what he knew.

An idea flickered in the corner of his brain. A wild idea-a crazy one.

But just possibly the only one he had left.

He pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to fight back the throbbing inside his head. He had no hope unless John McCree kept his mouth shut. Permanently.

6

Conner gazed out at the vast stretch of darkness surrounding him. The sky blanketed the horizon, creating an inky satin backdrop interrupted only by dim moonlight reflected by the white-columned clubhouse. Looked as though the stars could use a little help tonight, he thought to himself. Glad to oblige. He swung his club back, and the glistening white ball soared out across the driving range, adding, however briefly, another reflective speck to the sky.

The ball etched a perfect parabola before cascading down in front of the 300 marker-exactly where Conner wanted it. It was a beautiful stroke. The only problems were (1) strokes on the driving range don’t count toward your score and (2) there was no one around to appreciate it. Why the hell couldn’t he have done that today on the course?

There was no point in berating himself with that question. If he knew the answer, he would have acted on it long before now. He had barely snuck onto the tour three years ago, had a so-so first year, and had gone downhill since. Sure, he was still playing well enough to keep his card, even well enough to make a few bucks here and there. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was falling short of his potential. He couldn’t shake it because Fitz kept hammering it into his brain at every opportunity.

He checked his watch. Where was John, anyway? Conner had expected him to show up more than an hour ago. It was a tradition with them, knocking the balls around in the moonlight the night before a tournament began. They were the only ones he knew who did it, although everyone on the tour had some tradition, some good luck ritual. Perhaps because golf skills were so unpredictable, because the causes for the constant fluctuations in quality of performance were so elusive, golf pros tended to be a superstitious lot. On the night before a tournament began… Freddy Granger washed his lucky red socks… Ace Silverstone read from the Bible… Barry Bennett got drunk… Tiger Woods called home. As far as Conner knew, he and John were the only players who actually practiced, which was considered a radical idea in some quarters.

Truth was, knocking the balls down the driving range was not so much about practicing as relaxing. In the still of the night, hidden away under the cover of darkness, Conner and John shared some of their closest moments. It was one of the rare times when the superficialities disappeared and the two men could talk like they did when they were kids. It was these quiet moments, much more than the public carousing and debauchery, that kept their close-knit friendship going.

Or used to, anyway. Where the hell was he? This was totally unlike John. He was theoretically the reliable one. If Conner was late to arrive, no one would think anything of it, except perhaps to put in a call to the local hospitals and whorehouses. But when John was late, that was something else.

Conner heard a rustling on the patio directly behind him. Someone was moving his way. About time. “What happened? Jodie demand a quickie? Or did your-”

He stopped abruptly. The silhouette moving toward him was too short, too wide. Whoever it was, it wasn’t John.

“How’s it hangin’, Conner?”

How’s it hangin’? Wait a minute…

Conner strained his eyes, peering through the darkness. Freddy Granger.

“I’m fine, Freddy. Just trying to get in some practice strokes.”

Freddy nodded. “I heard about your score today. I don’t blame you.”

Conner tried to remind himself that he actually liked Freddy. “So what are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in your room chanting your mantra? Or maybe in the locker room, hexing the other players’ clubs?”

“I’ve made a discovery,” Freddy announced, in his thick Southern drawl.

“A discovery? What kind of discovery?”

Freddy’s eyebrows danced up and down. “The best kind.”

“Meaning-?”

“The raunchy kind.”

Conner felt his lips involuntarily curving into a grin. He was reminded of why he liked Freddy: he didn’t take himself too seriously, which was a refreshing change after being lectured about how golf was the cornerstone of Western civilization. And Freddy was an actual member of this “bastion of tradition,” as was John, for that matter. Apparently it was possible to join the Augusta National and still not think of yourself as the “exemplar of excellence.”

Conner slid his club into his golf bag. “Well, lead on.”

Freddy led Conner off the driving range. A few minutes later, they were inside the clubhouse, heading down the central staircase toward the men’s locker room.

“I don’t want to disillusion you,” Conner said as he followed along, “but I’ve seen the locker room before. Smelled it, too.”

“I’ll bet you haven’t seen this.” Freddy led him past the lockers, past the stalls, past the showers, almost to the door that exited near the first tee. They jogged sharply to the left, where Conner saw a group of pros pressed against the tile-covered wall. Barry Bennett was there, as well as a few of the other PGA stalwarts. The wall was bare; as far as Conner could tell, they were all staring at nothing but blue bathroom tile.

“Didn’t there used to be a mirror there?” Conner asked.

“Yup,” Freddy agreed. “Carefully placed by some reprobate to hide the treasure that lay beyond. Till I had the sense to move it.”

“And you discovered-mildewed tile?”

“No. A peephole.”

Conner’s lips parted. Suddenly, all those pros pressing their faces against the wall took on an entirely new perspective.

“We think it was drilled for a phone line or something,” Freddy explained. “But you can see straight through to the ladies’ locker room!”

Conner rolled his eyes. “What a pack of juvenile delinquents you guys are. Get a life already!”

“When did you become such a stick-in-the-mud?” Freddy asked. “I thought you were the ‘gonzo player of the PGA.’ ”

“This isn’t gonzo. This is Porky’s II.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So you disapprove. I’ll note that on the record.” Freddy winked. “Wanna take a look?”

“Well, if you insist.” Conner pushed the other pros aside and pressed his left eye against the tiny hole in the wall. “I’m having a hard time seeing anything…” He blinked and refocused, trying to let his eye relax. “Wait. I’m getting something. It’s… It’s…” He drew in his breath. “It’s the puke green doors to the women’s stalls! Be still my heart!”

Freddy jerked him away from the wall. “If you’re gonna be sarcastic, just leave.”

“Sarcastic? I’m serious. I saw the inside of the girl’s bathroom! Now I can die happy.”

“Yeah,” Freddy shot back, “you’re playin’ the wiseass now. But wait till some women show up. Then you’ll be beggin’ for a chance to peer through my peephole.”

“It’s going to be a long wait.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

Conner patted Freddy on the shoulder. “No women in the Masters tournament, remember? I think they give that locker room to the caddies.”

Freddy was crushed.

John paced around the green of the eighteenth hole. A damn fool place to be in the middle of the night. Conner must think he fell off the edge of the earth by now. He should have just said no and left it at that. Hadn’t he had enough aggravation for one night? And there was still that puzzling sight from yesterday to ponder. The last thing he needed was to be marching around the golf course after hours. Still, the note said it was urgent…

He turned around in a small circle, scanning the horizon, all 360 degrees. Why did it have to be such a dark night? The moon was mostly hidden behind the clouds. That could be a bad sign. Rain could really mess up a golf tournament, especially one as tightly scheduled as the Masters.

The thought brought a chuckle to his lips. What was he thinking? They couldn’t have rain at the Masters. The board of directors would never allow it. There were undoubtedly several regulations expressly forbidding it.

He heard a soft footfall several yards behind him. Or thought he did…

He whirled around. Was something moving? Or was it just the clouds behind the trees, creating the illusion of movement? It was so difficult to tell.

John suddenly realized he didn’t like being here and didn’t want to be here any longer. He should have known better than to come. The whole thing was starting to give him the creeps. He was going inside. Right now.

He started marching down the fairway. Maybe it still wasn’t too late to catch up to Conner, although odds were by now he’d picked up some floozy and fed her that song-and-dance about how he’d “waited all his life for a woman who could make him forget golf and dedicate his life to medical science…”

“Leaving so soon?”

John froze in his tracks. The voice came from somewhere behind him.

“Seems a shame. We haven’t even had a chance to chat.”

Slowly, John turned to face the person speaking to him. Why was he suddenly so damn scared? There was a trembling in his knees that he didn’t seem to be able to stop. It had been a mistake coming out here. A stupid, stupid mistake-

“So it’s you,” John said, when he saw who had joined him.

“Indeed it is. And we have the fairway to ourselves.”

“How lovely.” John pursed his lips, trying to mask his growing panic behind a shroud of anger. “What’s the point of all this, anyway? Why did you drag me out here?”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

“I suspect we have nothing to talk about.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll bet you are,” John replied. He strained his eyes, trying to get a better look. The person standing only a few feet away from him was holding something. Something that glistened faintly. “But I don’t think talking would accomplish anything.”

“Surely we can come to… some sort of arrangement.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is there nothing that would tempt you?”

“Not in the way that you mean.” John drew up his shoulders. “Look, if it’s just the same to you, I’d like to get out of here-”

“Please don’t rush. I’ve only just arrived. And it’s such a long walk back to the clubhouse.”

“All the more reason to start now.”

“Please-give me one more chance.”

John didn’t have to pretend any longer. His fear really was starting to be replaced by anger. This had gone on too long already. “One more chance for what?”

“To help you understand. To see things from my perspective.”

“That, my friend, is never going to happen.”

“You’re certain about that?”

“Absolutely certain.”

A sigh. “Then I guess there really is nothing more to say.”

John started to turn away. “Glad you’re starting to see things my way.”

“But there is one more thing I must do.”

The glistening shape rose up so quickly John didn’t know what was happening. He heard a sudden slicing sound, like someone was swinging a scythe through the air just beside his head.

And after that, John heard nothing at all.

7

Wednesday

After ten minutes of frustration and futility, Fitz tired of pounding on the door.

“I’m coming in! Like it or not!” Fortunately, Conner had failed to lock the door to his cabin. Fitz shoved the door open and pushed inside.

He was not particularly surprised to find that Conner’s cabin was a mess. Conner had, after all, been lodged here for over twenty-four hours. Coffee tables were overturned; chairs were upended. The floor was littered with dirty clothes, open pizza boxes, spilled beer cans.

Fitz kicked the pile of clothes nearest him. It capsized, spilling out a shirt, three socks, a belt, soiled boxers, a muddy golf shoe, and a bra.

A bra?

Fitz picked up the frilly black lace undergarment and let it dangle from his fingertip. He was beginning to understand why Conner hadn’t shown up in the locker room to collect his clubs.

Fitz stomped over to the closed bedroom door and pounded. “Conner! Are you there?”

A strained, barely audible voice responded on the other side of the door. “No.”

“Conner, get out here!”

“Don’ wanna.”

“Then I’m coming in.”

“You can’t. I’m not decent.”

“What else is new?” Fitz shoved the door open and kicked through the clothes and debris to the double bed. There were no heads visible, just two lumps under the top sheet-Conner, and a more petite lump to which Fitz didn’t believe he’d been formally introduced. “Conner, get your butt out of bed.”

“Don’ wanna,” the larger lump replied. “What time is it-five?”

“Five! It’s nine-thirty, you lunkhead! You’ve already missed the players’ roll call. And if you’re not on the first tee in twenty minutes, you’ll be disqualified from the par-three tournament.”

Suddenly, the larger lump sat bolt upright. Conner’s bronzed face and hairy chest poked out from the covers. “Twenty minutes?” He glanced at the lump on the other side of the covers, then ducked back under the sheet. “Sorry, sweetie.” Fitz heard a kissing noise. “Gotta go.”

“You’re leaving?” a softer voice under the covers squealed. “But you said I was the one who could make you forget golf and devote your life to medical science.”

“And you believed him?” Fitz shook his head. “The closest he’s ever gotten to medical science was when he bought a box of Band-Aids. He faints at the sight of blood. And when he has to get a shot-”

“That’s about enough of that,” Conner said, diving out from under the covers. He made a beeline for the bathroom and disappeared. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Ten?” Fitz raised his eyebrows. “To get ready? Normally only takes you two.”

Conner’s head reappeared in the bathroom doorway. “Today’s a special day. I want to look my best.”

Twelve minutes later, Conner emerged from the bathroom. Fitz almost didn’t recognize him.

“Wow,” Fitz said with admiration. He let out a slow whistle. “I’m impressed.”

“You should be.” Conner was wearing traditional golf attire-cotton Polo shirt, khaki pants, golf shoes. Even a sporty red baseball cap. “Took me two precious minutes to iron this stuff.”

Fitz pulled a face. “Yeah, right.”

“Okay, it took me two precious minutes to find this stuff. Happy now?”

“I heard you got called to the woodshed last night. I see they made an impression.”

“Yeah,” Conner mumbled. “They definitely made an impression.” He checked his watch, then followed Fitz out of the cabin toward the clubhouse. “We don’t have much time. Have you gotten my clubs out of the locker room?”

“You left them on the driving range last night, you nincompoop.”

Conner slapped his forehead. “Damn. I was practicing, then Freddy lured me down to the locker room. Then on the way back up, I bumped into this coed golf groupie from Emory and one thing led to another…”

“I’ll bet.” Fitz offered his best disapproving look. “Don’t worry. I always check on your clubs before I turn in at night. When I saw they weren’t in the locker, I started looking around. I know you like to drive the night before a tournament, so they weren’t hard to track down. Once again, I pulled your butt out of the frying pan.”

Conner pushed through the clubhouse door and exited onto the walkway that led to the first tee. “That’s why I pay you the big money.”

Fitz grimaced. “Believe me, kid-seven percent of your winnings is not big money.”

Conner approached the first tee marker, which was flanked by officials anxiously looking at their watches. “Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I’ve made it, just in time. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

Conner inched forward, but the officials didn’t budge.

“Pardon me, boys,” Conner said, retaining his sunny demeanor. “See, I’m a player. Except it’s hard to play if you won’t let me on the course. So am-scray.”

The officials didn’t move. They looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“They don’t move till I say so.”

Conner’s face fell. “Derwood. How miserable to see you again. Why are you here?”

“I told you last night. You don’t play unless I say so. These officials have been instructed that you are not to approach the first tee until you are authorized to do so. By me.”

“Derwood, you are experiencing serious delusions of grandeur. A Napoleonic complex. But you have nothing in common with Napoleon, except of course your height.”

Derwood’s teeth clenched together. “Laugh all you want, clown boy. But you don’t play till you pass my inspection.”

“Fine. Inspect away, Little Corporal.”

Derwood did a slow circle around Conner, taking him in head-to-toe. “Shirt is regulation, slacks are regulation,” he muttered as he passed. “Shoes are tattered and tacky, but regulation. Even the cap is regulation.” He nodded officiously. “Very well, gentlemen. This entrant is authorized to participate in today’s tournament.”

The officials appeared keenly relieved.

Before he moved away, Derwood pressed close to Conner and smirked. “I knew we could whip your gonzo-ass into line,” he whispered.

Conner didn’t reply. He pivoted silently, took the club proffered by Fitz, passed through the gauntlet of officials, and approached the first tee. He placed his ball on a tee, pulled on his right-hand glove and, almost as an afterthought, removed his cap.

Gasps sounded in the spectators’ gallery.

Derwood’s eyes went wide. “He’s shaved his head!”

Indeed he had. Not only buzzed it to the scalp, but created a discernable zigzag pattern across the back, sort of like an Iroquois on speed.

“That is not acceptable!” Derwood shouted. “Someone stop him-”

Too late. Conner swung, and the white dimpled ball flew down the fairway. An instant later, Conner and Fitz had entered the course in pursuit.

Derwood threw his hat down and stomped on it. “You won’t get away with this!” he shouted. “You haven’t heard the last of me.” But in fact, Conner had heard the last of him, at least for the moment, because he was already well out of earshot.

Safely ensconced on the third tee, Conner thought he could slow down and engage in a bit of conversation. “Where’s John, anyway?” he asked Fitz. “Aren’t we playing together?”

Fitz shook his head. “He drew an earlier tee time. Problem is, he didn’t show up.”

“Didn’t show up? That’s not like John.” He paused. “Come to think of it, he never showed up last night.”

“I searched all over the grounds. Couldn’t find him. Even checked his cabin. His wife said she hadn’t seen him since last night.”

“You mean he didn’t come back to the cabin last night? John? That doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Like when? During that languorous stretch between when you got out of bed with your coed and when you appeared at the first tee?”

“Well, sometime.”; Conner dug the head of his club into the ground. “This is totally unlike John. I’m concerned.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

“Yeah, but still-”

“Concentrate on your game. We’ll find John later.”

Conner frowned. “I suppose.” He scanned the fairway. “I don’t think I need the wood for this. Hand me my nine-iron.”

“Are you joking? That hole is four hundred and fifty yards away. Plus there’s a water trap. Plus the dogleg left.”

“I like the nine-iron. It’s my best club.”

“You’re making a mistake-”

“Fitz. I’ve made my decision. Pass me the club.”

“Your wish is my command, sire.” Fitz passed the requested club.

Conner shielded his eyes and gazed at the distant green, mentally recalculating the distance. There was a water trap about two thirds of the way up the fairway, but if he hit hard, shot over it, avoided the rough…

He turned to his caddie. “Fitz, how do I get to the green in one?”

“Practice.”

“But seriously.”

“You don’t. Especially with a nine-iron. Lay up.”

Conner groaned. “I hate that cheesy play-it-safe crap. I think I can make it to the green in one. I’m going for it.”

“Conner, don’t be a fool. It’s a sucker pin.” Meaning the pin had been placed such that only a sucker would try to get close to it.

Conner held a finger against his lips. “Please. A master is at work.” Conner shook himself down, adjusted his stance, brought back his club, and fired.

The golf ball flew into the air, taking a tremendous lift and forming a beautiful line right down the center of the fairway… then took a sudden veer to the right, crashing to earth deep in the rough.

“Damn!” Conner swore. “What happened?”

“You swung,” Fitz answered.

The two men tracked down the ball, killing a good ten minutes of course time.

“I could still make the green in two,” Conner opined. “I’m going to blast it out of here.”

“With the nine-iron?”

“It’s my best club.”

“That’s what you said-”

Before Fitz could finish his commentary, Conner had swung. Once again, the ball took off beautifully… and once again, it took a sudden and dramatic turn to the right.

“A fatal slice,” Fitz commented, under his breath. “Fatal for you.”

Conner tried again, on the fourth hole, the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh. Each time, the story was the same. Beautiful launch, followed by a sudden slice to the right.

“What’s going on?” Conner said, as he searched for his ball in the rough off the seventh fairway. “My drive used to be the best part of my game. You said I could hit a dime at two hundred yards.”

“That’s what you get for listening to me.”

“I’m serious. You’re my caddie. You’re supposed to help me out when I’m in trouble.”

Fitz shrugged. “Sorry, Conner. If I could help, I would. But I’m as mystified as you. This is just weird.”

“Thank you, Harvey Penick.”

“Look, this is going to require some study. After you finish, we’ll go out on the driving range and take a look at what you’re doing. Maybe I can figure something out.”

Conner reluctantly agreed. By that time he was already seven over par. During the next ten holes, he managed to make some improvement, but not nearly enough. As he approached the eighteenth tee, he was four over par, and he knew perfectly well that wasn’t good enough to finish in the money in a par-three tournament.

“Fitz, I’m going to try the nine-iron again.”

Fitz closed his eyes. “You know, I was just thinking, ‘How could this boy possibly make things worse than they already are?’ And presto-right on cue-you answered the question. You must be psychic.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Conner snatched the club from his bag. “Don’t give me any crap or I’ll dock your day’s pay.”

Fitz snorted. “As if there’s going to be any pay after this performance!”

Conner ignored him. He placed the ball on the tee, rocked himself into position, and swung. The ball rose into the air and, once again, swerved right, descending into a deep and wide sand trap.

“Goddamn it!” Conner shouted.

“Stop swearing!” Fitz commanded. “Officials are everywhere.”

Conner silently trudged down the fairway, finally finding his ball buried in the sand.

“I know better than to imagine that you might consult your caddie on how to get out of this tough scrape,” Fitz said. “So I’ll ask you. What’s your plan?”

“Thought I’d use a wedge. If I pop it high enough, it might go all the way to the green.”

“Do you see the sheer wall of this trap, Conner? There’s no way-”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

“It would be smarter to just get yourself out of the trap. Get to the green on your third.”

“You always want to play it safe. It’s like golfing with my grandmother.” Conner addressed the nearly buried ball, crouching slightly for his scoop shot. He swung the wedge. The ball bounced up against the high wall of the trap and ricocheted back into the sand.

“Goddamn it!” Conner shouted, then looked sheepishly at Fitz. “No one heard me,” he grunted.

“I did.”

“I meant no one who would report me.”

Fitz arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Conner squared himself once more before the ball half-buried in the sand. He took a deep breath, said a silent prayer to the patron saint of golfers, whoever that was, and swung. The club ground out in the sand before it hit the ball.

“Did the ball move?” Fitz asked, inching forward from his safe berth outside the trap. “If the ball moved, you have to take a stroke, even if your club didn’t hit the ball.”

“The ball didn’t move,” Conner said. There was an eerie quiet to his voice. “But something else did.” Conner poked the tip of his club into the sand. There was something down there, just below the surface of the sand. Something… blue.

He crouched down for a closer look. Using the handle of his club as a probe, he dug around, brushing the sand off the surface. The blue-something was a piece of fabric. A shirt, he realized. A shirt sleeve, to be precise.

Conner shot up in the air, his face stricken.

“What?” Fitz asked, moving forward quickly. “What is it?”

Conner found he couldn’t speak. He could barely manage to point down toward the sand.

There was an arm in the shirt sleeve.

A horrible sensation coursed through Conner’s body. His brain was beginning to put two and two together, and he didn’t like the sum. Taking a deep breath, he bent down and began brushing away the sand surrounding the tattered shirt sleeve.

The shirt was attached to a body, all buried beneath the sand. Grabbing it with both hands, Conner pulled the body out and rolled it over to get a look at the face.

Conner heard Fitz drawing in his breath, just behind him. He was finding it hard to speak himself.

His worst fears were confirmed. It was his best friend, John McCree, with his mouth filled with sand. And a fist-sized bloody gash on the side of his head.