Final Round

In 1968, Bob Goalby and Roberto De Vicenzo dueled for the Masters championship. As they approached the final hole, De Vicenzo was ahead by a stroke. Goalby sliced on the tee shot and barely made par. De Vicenzo overshot the green and bogeyed. The score was tied. But De Vicenzo’s scorekeeper, Tommy Aaron, had made a tragic error. Aaron gave De Vicenzo a four on the seventeenth hole, even though a worldwide television audience had just watched him do it in three. De Vicenzo didn’t catch the error and signed the scorecard. Therefore, the official score showed Goalby winning by a stroke, even though everyone knew better.

At first, the Augusta National powers-that-be didn’t know what to do. The Masters is not a USGA or PGA event, so they weren’t bound by their rules. Should they abide by the letter of Rule 38, Paragraph 3, or allow equity and justice to prevail? Perhaps there should be a sudden-death playoff, some suggested. They huddled in the clubhouse, meanwhile forbidding the CBS sportscasters from announcing a winner. At last, Bobby Jones himself was called upon to resolve the controversy, while the TV people stalled for time.

“We are the Augusta National Golf Club,” Jones ruled, “and we will abide by the rules of golf.” De Vincezo had signed the card, and that was that. Goalby was declared the winner.

20

Afterward, Conner lost all sense of time, all notion of where he was and what he was doing. It was as if he’d fallen into a curvature in the time-space continuum; he was aware that the world was proceeding apace, but he wasn’t a part of it anymore. Somehow, he’d disconnected himself; the people swarming around him were like actors in a play-a horrible, gruesome play-and he was safely ensconced in the audience. Or so he wanted to believe.

Jodie. With a hideous oozing slash across her throat.

People buzzed all around him, droning on, creating a dull roar at the edge of audibility, like bumblebees swarming in the distance. He heard himself answering their questions, but the answers came from somewhere else, some separate brain, some distinct consciousness. Only when he saw a friendly face did he slowly start coming back to his head.

“Cross? Hey, Cross?” It was Lieutenant O’Brien. “Are you going to be all right?”

Conner blinked several times rapidly. His consciousness attempted to recollect itself. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

“Good. You clowns clear out. Give him some air.”

Conner was only vaguely aware of everything that happened after that. They asked him more questions and he tried to answer them. He heard them asking others questions, too, but no one seemed to know anything. There were no leads, no witnesses. Somehow, the killer had managed to murder Jodie in the fountain, or at least deposit her body there, and no one saw it happening. No one who was talking anyway.

All the reception guests were required to stay on the premises until late into the night-even the bride. Despite all the preparations and programming consultants and the investment of monumental wads of cash, Freddy’s party was ruined.

Around one in the morning, Conner somehow managed to stumble to his car and drive back to his cabin, where to his infinite relief, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Saturday

He was awakened by an insistent pounding on the door of his cabin. Given his current state, it felt as if someone were ringing a gong inside his cerebellum. Groaning, Conner rolled out of bed, stumbling against the nightstand in the process. He abruptly realized he wasn’t wearing anything. He checked the closet, but couldn’t find a robe, so he settled for a towel.

He heard the front door of his cabin pop open. Damn! he thought. Guess I forgot to lock the door again. He heard the footsteps crossing the outer room. A few moments later, the clamourous pounding resumed at the bedroom door, even more insistent than before.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, Conner plodded to the door. “Damn it, Fitz, can’t you ever give me-”

He stopped cold. It wasn’t his caddie standing on the other side of the door. It was Lieutenant O’Brien.

“Nice outfit,” she said, as she marched into the bedroom. “Is it monogrammed?”

Conner clutched the top of the towel. He didn’t want any comic accidents. “Good morning, Lieutenant. I knew I’d get you into my bedroom eventually.”

“You’re a riot, Cross.” She stared at the unmade bed, the tangled sheets, the pillows strewn across the floor. “How the hell are you?”

“Not as good as I was a few minutes ago. When I was in bed. I think I’ll go back now. You can come, too, if you like.”

“I’m here on business.”

Conner pressed his fingers against his forehead. “Surely you don’t have more questions. Haven’t I already answered every question that could possibly be asked? Especially given that I don’t know a damn thing.”

“I’m assuming you don’t know who killed Jodie McCree. But surely you learned something last night.”

“Not really.”

“I was keeping tabs on you, Cross. You disappeared for a good while. And later, a witness told me you were racing across the room, pushing people out of the way. Heading toward the fountain. As if you knew what had happened. Or was about to happen.”

Conner held up his hands. “Hey, now-don’t get any crazy ideas.”

“It looks pretty damn suspicious.”

“I can explain.”

“Then you’d better. As quickly as possible.”

“Right.” He fell onto the edge of the bed. “After I saw Jodie floating in the fountain… I guess I forgot all about it.” Slowly, dredging up the memories, Conner recounted how he had trailed Freddy up the stairs, how he had overheard a mysterious conversation with an unidentified second person, how he had followed them but lost them.

And then found Jodie instead.

“I don’t know what the hell Freddy was talking about, or who the other guy was, but it has to relate to these murders.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What else could it be?”

“How should I know? Maybe he was having an argument with the caterer. Maybe one of the violinists broke a string. Maybe they bet on a golf game. It could’ve been anything. We can’t assume that because there was a murder, every weird conversation beforehand related to it.”

Conner appeared unconvinced. “Whatever they were discussing, it was crooked. And very secret. If I were you, I’d arrest Freddy. Before he leaves.”

“I don’t have grounds to arrest him. And he’s been told not to leave town.”

“At least bring him in for questioning.”

“What would be the point? Do you think he’s going to confess to murder? Much better to leave him alone. Let him think no one suspects-but keep a close eye on him.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Conner pounded his fists together. “But I’d still like to know what Freddy was talking about.”

“Did he mention Jodie?”

Conner mentally traced back through the conversation. “I don’t think so. Not as such, anyway.” He snapped his fingers. “But Ace did.” He related their brief conversation at the reception to O’Brien. “He said something about Jodie. That she was sweet or nice or something like that.”

O’Brien arched an eyebrow. “Did he say sweet or nice?”

“I don’t know.” He tried to recall the exact phrasing. “Come to think of it, I think Ace said precious. Yeah, that was it. Precious. Definitely. I think. What difference does it make?”

“A hell of a lot.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Ace Silverstone is from the South, isn’t he?”

“Yeah… so?”

“Well, down South we have our own vocabulary. If he said she was precious-that’s a compliment. But if he said she was sweet-that’s the kiss of death. And if he said she was nice-that’s the kiss of death with the coffin sealed.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Conner glanced at the clock radio beside the bed. “Look, I hate to break up this fascinating etymological discussion, but see, I’m in this golf tournament thingie. And I’m not even dressed.”

“You can get dressed. But you’re not going anywhere near the golf course.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t worry. You’ve been given a late tee time. For a reason.”

Conner tapped his foot impatiently. “And that would be…?”

O’Brien looked at him gravely. “Sorry. I got distracted. There’s been another development in the case.”

Conner felt his blood go cold. “And that would be?”

“Get dressed. You can see for yourself.”

O’Brien led Conner into the office of the club chairman. But sometime between his last visit and the present, the entire room had been transformed. People were scrambling all over the place-mostly men in black suits and white shirts and thin black ties. He spotted a reel-to-reel recorder and some high-tech communication equipment. And he couldn’t miss the stiff-necked men with solemn expressions lining the wall closest to the door. Security officers, he surmised.

“This doesn’t seem like Tenniel’s usual decorating style,” Conner remarked. “What’s going on?”

“Mr. Tenniel’s office has become FBI Headquarters South.”

“Because of the murders?”

O’Brien shook her head. “There’s more to it than that. Let me introduce you to someone.”

She waved a hand in the air. A few moments later, a woman about O’Brien’s age walked toward them.

“This is Special Agent Liponsky,” O’Brien explained. Liponsky was wearing a close-fitting gray suit with a scarf tie. To Conner’s disappointment, she looked nothing like Scully on The X-Files. “She’s one of the FeeBees in charge. We’re liaisoning.”

Conner looked at the two women. “Is that legal in Georgia?”

O’Brien gave him a wry grin. “I’m her local contact.”

“Contact on what? Isn’t someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

O’Brien glanced at Liponsky, who returned a curt nod. O’Brien retrieved a piece of paper from a nearby desk, then passed it to Conner.

“Mr. Tenniel received this fax about two this morning. It was sent from a local convenience store. The clerk doesn’t remember the sender, who was probably wearing a disguise anyway, and the security camera wasn’t working, so don’t bother asking.”

Conner quickly scanned the one-page fax. It was typewritten, all in block capital letters. The fax copy was dim; he couldn’t make out all the words. But it didn’t much matter; he could get the gist of it. He scanned the note quickly, drinking in the salient facts-and the big number at the bottom.

The author of the fax claimed to have killed John McCree and his wife. He-or she-further stipulated that unless the tournament officials paid one million dollars in unmarked bills-there would be more murders.

“This can’t be real,” Conner said, clutching the paper in his hands. “Must be a copycat. Someone trying to cash in on the murders.”

“We considered that.” Agent Liponsky’s voice was flat and direct. “But as you’ll see when you read the letter, so did the killer. He’s provided numerous details about the first killing-how John McCree was killed, what was the weapon, where on the body it struck. None of this information has been released to the public. No, we don’t think there’s much doubt. Whoever wrote this letter is the killer-or at the least, is working with the killer.”

“Why does he think the tournament officials will pony up?” Conner asked, reading as he talked.

“The negative publicity has already hit them hard. Imagine if a third person is killed, and word gets out that the tournament officials could’ve stopped it, but didn’t, because they didn’t want to part with any of their profits.”

“That would be devastating.”

“That would be the end of the Masters. Tenniel and the rest of the board don’t have any choice, and they know it. They’ve already started assembling the cash.”

“And you’re going to let them pay?”

“It’s the safest course of action,” Liponsky explained. “We don’t want to see anyone else get killed, either. Of course, when the drop goes down, we’ll be watching.”

“That goes for the FBI and the Augusta PD,” O’Brien added.

Conner’s eyes returned to the faxed message. “There’s still one thing I don’t understand. Why are you telling me about this?”

Liponsky and O’Brien exchanged another look.

“Read the fine print,” O’Brien advised.

Conner’s eyes darted down the page. Details about the murder… threats and intimidation… demands for unmarked bills…

“Down here,” O’Brien said. She pointed to the key line at the bottom of the page.

Conner read the sentence in question, then gasped.

The killer demanded that the million in cash be delivered to a yet-to-be-designated location late that night-

By Conner Cross.

Alone.

21

“Wow,” Conner said, staring at the paper clutched in his hands. “Double wow.”

“That was pretty much our reaction,” O’Brien replied.

“But why me?”

“Actually,” Liponsky said, “we were hoping you might be able to answer that question for us.”

“I’m clueless,” Conner said.

“Our first thought was that you’re the killer, and you’re planning to take the money and run. But Lieutenant O’Brien assures that that is… well, only one possible explanation.”

Conner looked at O’Brien. “You did that for me? I’m touched.”

Artemus Tenniel emerged from somewhere in the rear of the office. To Conner’s surprise (and partial horror), the man smiled faintly and placed his hand on Conner’s shoulder.

“I know we’ve had our differences in the past,” Tenniel said quietly. “But I’m hoping you’ll be able to put that aside for the time being and do what’s right.”

Conner shrugged his shoulder free. “What’s right, meaning-helping your sorry butt out of a tight spot. Being the bag man for the Augusta National.”

Tenniel was unfazed. “Needless to say, if word of this situation gets out-it could destroy the tournament. Permanently.”

“That would be a tough end for the bastion of tradition and excellence.”

“Yes, it would. So we’ll pay the money. But it must be kept confidential. The club has been having some serious financial problems of late.”

“Say it ain’t so.”

“I’m afraid it is. Our funds are unaccountably lower than average this year, and thus far we have been unable to determine why. Believe me when I say we can’t afford the losses we’d suffer if the tournament were canceled.”

As astonishing as it seemed, Conner knew it was possible. Whatever other faults and foibles the Masters might have, it was well known to be one of the few major professional sporting events in the universe that hadn’t succumbed to greed. The tournament resolutely refused to compromise itself to obtain a corporate sponsor or celebrity huckster. And it forewent millions in potential television dollars in order to restrict commercials and dictate standards to broadcasters. The Masters had a long and unbreachable litany of commandments announcers were required to observe. Thou shalt not refer to the gallery as a mob-or even a crowd. Thou shalt not refer to golfers’ earnings. Thou shalt never liken the holes at Augusta to those at any other course.

“Don’t you have insurance?” Conner asked.

Tenniel seemed taken aback. “Yes. I mean… I suppose we do.” For the first time in Conner’s experience with the man, he seemed unsure of himself. “Of course, that’s not the preferable way to proceed but… now that I think of it, we do have some insurance. Quite a generous policy, as I recall.”

“As you recall?”

“Haven’t looked at the thing in years.” Tenniel turned abruptly and returned to his desk.

“So,” O’Brien said to Conner, “are you on board?”

Conner looked at her, then at the fax, then back at her. “You’re asking if I’ll risk my neck and go out all by myself to make this drop, possibly facing the killer on my own against impossible odds and getting myself killed in the process?”

“That probably isn’t how I would’ve phrased it, but… yeah.”

“Sure,” he said, handing the fax back to her. “Sounds like fun.”

By one in the afternoon, Conner was ready to tee off for the third-and penultimate-day of the tournament. He spotted Fitz several yards before they actually met. He was running a fast interception course, obviously intending to cut Conner off before he made it to the first tee.

Conner checked his watch. “Almost one, Fitz. We’d better get to the tee-off.”

The caddie’s lips were pursed tight. “I’d like a word with you in private first.”

“I’d love to, Fitz, but see, I’m in this golf tournament-”

“That’s why I want to talk to you.”

“-and if I don’t show up on time, they’ll disqualify me.”

“If you don’t play any better than you have so far, you’d be better off disqualified.”

“That would be humiliating.”

“It would be a mercy killing. Now, listen up, buster, and listen up good.”

Conner scrutinized the stern expression on Fitz’s face. “Is this another trip to the woodshed?”

“You’re damn right. And long overdue, too.”

“Look, Fitz-I’m in no mood for a lecture.”

“Just shut up and listen.”

Conner did precisely that.

“How long have you been on the tour now?”

As if Fitz didn’t already know. “This is my third year.”

“And in that magnificent stretch of time, what exactly have you accomplished?”

Conner tilted his head to one side. “I like to think I’ve developed a sense of personal style.”

Fitz grimaced. “And what exactly has that gotten you?”

“I have a following.”

“Charles Manson had a following. So what? What else has it gotten you?”

Conner frowned. “Hearty chuckles?”

“I’ll tell you what it’s gotten you. Absolutely nothing.”

“I have my own personality, Fitz, and I plan to keep it. I’m not going to turn into one of those PGA zombies.”

“I’m not talking about your attitude, sorry though it is. I’m talking about your game.”

“You said I have one of the best drives in the business. As good or better than Tiger Woods.”

“Yeah, but your putting game stinks. Because putting requires concentration, focus, resolve-all the qualities you’ve held back. And for that matter your driving game is erratic, because it can’t overcome your unfailing tendency to make stupid decisions!”

“Aren’t you being a bit harsh?”

Fitz ignored him. “This tournament is a perfect example. Your performance has been abominable.”

“Now wait a minute. There have been some pretty damn extenuating circumstances, Fitz. My best friend died!”

“I know that. Why do you think we’re having this talk?” His eyes were narrow and electric. “John McCree made a lot of personal sacrifices to get you on the tour. And you’re throwing it all away!”

Conner’s lips parted wordlessly.

“Sorry to be blunt, but that’s the reality of it, kid. John gave you a lot, and you haven’t given him anything in return.” Fitz whipped off his shoeshine boy cap. “Look-I don’t know what it is with you, Conner. I don’t know what made you the way you are. I don’t know if it’s because you lost your mama so early or because your dad was too hard on you. Maybe you’re just some kind of genetic mutant, which is the theory I personally favor. But whatever it is-you need to get over it.”

Conner wanted to defend himself, but there was a distinct catch in his throat. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately,” he finally whispered.

“Stop making excuses. It’s make or break time, pal, you’re a lightning rod, like it or not. If you don’t show these people what you can do today, you might as well hang up your golf shoes for good.”

“What exactly is it you want me to do?”

“Stop wasting your talent. Stop screwing around. Listen to your caddie. Push yourself. Before it’s too late.”

“And you expect me to do all this for you?”

Fitz drew in his breath. “I was hoping you might do it for John.”

Conner felt a distinct itching in the back of his eyeballs.

“His fondest wish was that an Oklahoma boy would make good at the Masters. Why don’t you see if you can make his dream a reality?”

Conner didn’t know what to say.

“Well? Say something! Will you do it?”

Conner pivoted around, his face expressionless. “I think it’s time to start.”

Fitz trailed behind him as they made their way to the first tee. Conner pulled a golf ball out of the zippered pocket in his bag; Fitz selected a club.

Conner gripped the club, his hand just above Fitz’s, then froze. “I-I don’t know what to do,” he said, barely audibly.

“Course you do. What do you mean?”

“I mean-I don’t know how to be any… better.”

“That’s fine. I do.” Fitz pushed the club into Conner’s hand. “Now go hit the damn ball.”

“I was thinking I might use the other-”

“Conner!”

Conner took the proffered club and prepared to shoot. He popped the ball onto the tee and fell into position.

“Loosen your grip,” Fitz said.

Conner frowned-but he did it. He focused, concentrated, then started his backswing…

“Adjust your stance.”

Conner’s teeth ground together-but he did it.

“Now swing.”

Conner let ’er rip. The ball sailed up beautifully, forming a graceful rainbow arc, then landing not five feet from the green.

It was a perfect shot. The spectators applauded with enthusiasm.

Conner gave Fitz a long look, then, at last, smiled. He threw his arm around the older man’s shoulder. “Fitz, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

22

Conner finished each of the first six holes either one or two under par. He established a new personal best, and did a great deal to rehabilitate his previously pitiful standing.

By the seventh hole, a buzz began to circulate throughout the tournament. By the time he was ready to start the back nine, Conner had acquired his own gallery, following him from hole to hole. The word was out-Conner Cross was where the action was.

At first, it was a tough adjustment. Conner was not accustomed to having spectators follow him so attentively. But he had to admit-it was kinda fun.

“Just ignore them,” Fitz said, clamping a firm hand down on Conner’s shoulder. “Block them out of your mind.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Conner said, grinning and waving as he approached the seventeenth. “They love me.”

“They won’t if your game starts sucking again.”

That brought Conner down to earth in a hurry.

“You’re here to play a game, so play it. Focus all your energy, all your attention, on the game. That’s what matters.”

“Right. Got it.” It was tempting to put on a show for the spectators. In fact, his class clown instincts almost demanded it. But Fitz was right. The game was what mattered. He was playing well and he was relishing the moment. He was in the zone, as the sportscasters say. Something had clicked.

And he knew what it was, too. For the last many years, he’d been playing for himself-someone who wasn’t all that demanding. But now, for the first time, he was playing for someone else. Now he was playing for John.

And Jodie.

And he wasn’t going to let them down, either.

Conner scanned the fairway. “Do they still have that stupid tree in exactly the wrong place on the left of the fairway? Obstructing the green?”

“They do,” Fitz confirmed.

“Do you think they’d have that thing removed, if I put in a formal request to the Augusta National committee?”

“Let me put it this way, Conner. Back in the Fifties, President Eisenhower put in a formal request that the tree be removed-and it’s still there.”

“Well, sure. But he didn’t have my winning personality.”

“Go around the tree, Conner. Lay up.”

“I hate laying-”

Fitz raised a finger. Conner never finished the sentence. He laid up.

And finished the hole two strokes under par.

Conner finished the day’s play with exuberance. He’d never played so well-and he knew it. He spent half an hour gassing on with the reporters under the spreading maple tree, talking about his game-and how the day’s performance had been for John. He also credited Fitz, which was certainly a new page in his playbook.

By the time he reached the clubhouse, he was sky-high. “Hail the conquering hero!” someone shouted, as he entered, and there was a spontaneous round of applause. Some of the players cheered.

Actually cheered, Conner thought silently. For me.

Vic the bartender slid him a glass of his favorite-on the house. This treatment was so unusual Conner felt he should slug himself just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Everyone swarmed around him; everyone wanted to be his friend. And he had a pretty good idea why, too.

He didn’t need to see the day’s postings to know where he stood. He would still be behind Ace, the leader-but the gap was much narrower. If he played tomorrow-the last day of the tournament-like he had today, he could catch up. He could even conceivably win.

Conner steadied himself against the bar. Just the thought of it made his head reel-literally reel. Conner Cross, champion of the Masters, sipping mint juleps in his green champions jacket.

It was too wonderful to imagine. But it was possible.

“Hey, Conner, way to play, man.” It was Harley Tuttle.

“Thanks, Harley. How’d the day go for you?”

“Oh, ‘bout like always. I think I’m still running fourth or fifth.” He shrugged modestly. “Like my daddy used to say-always the bridesmaid, never the bride.” He took a sip from his drink.

Conner grinned. “I’m sure your luck will turn around soon.”

“Maybe. But the way you played, man-that was spectacular. I saw what you did on the seventeenth on the closed circuit.”

“You mean the cameras were following me?”

“Didn’t you know? Hell, yeah-I think CBS covered your entire back nine.”

Conner didn’t know what to say. He was flabbergasted.

Some of the other pros offered congratulations. Conner chatted with everyone in sight, anyone who came near. Whether they were in the tournament or not. He was feeling generous and egalitarian. He did notice, however, that his chief competition, Ace, didn’t seem to be in the clubhouse.

Probably out on the driving range, Conner mused. When he heard how well Conner was playing, Ace probably panicked and realized he needed some more practice.

Well, it was a nice daydream, anyway.

Fanboy Ed wasn’t anywhere in sight. Did he just leave, since John wasn’t in the tournament anymore? Or was he doing something else? Conner wasn’t sure why he cared, but for some reason, Ed’s absence bothered him.

Barry, on the other hand, was present, even though he had absolutely no reason to be. He was out of the tournament, and it showed. He looked as if he hadn’t budged from his barstool all day. He was barely able to sit upright. Conner actually felt sorry for him. He didn’t know why-possibly because for once, Barry had his mouth shut. But it was becoming increasingly apparent that Barry had a serious drinking problem, and needed help.

Conner knew it well; he had a stockpile of paternal memories on the subject.

And where was Freddy, come to think of it? Sure, he’d been planning to leave town, but now that the cops had made that impossible, Conner thought he might show up at the clubhouse. But there was no sign of him. He wondered if O’Brien had exchanged any heated words with the man yet, or if she was still laying back. Hard to know. She was a very cool lady-very cool, and very several other things as well.

And speak of the devil…

He saw O’Brien entering the clubhouse, carrying a large black valise.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t know whether to snap the cuffs on you or buy you a bottle of champagne.”

“I know which I’d prefer,” Conner replied.

O’Brien grinned. “Didn’t take you for a champagne drinker.”

“I’m not. But that thing with the cuffs could be kinda kinky.”

“As I recall, you didn’t enjoy it that much last time.” She edged closer to him and lowered her voice. “Are you ready to go?”

“Go where?”

“I see your triumph has addled your wee brain. The sun has set, Conner. And you have a date tonight, remember?”

“Cool. Your place or mine?”

“Neither.” Leaning close, she opened the valise a crack, so only he could see inside. It was filled with cash. More cash than Conner had ever seen in one place in his entire life.

“Get some coffee for the road,” she said, snapping the bag closed. “It’s show time.”

23

Night had fallen, and it seemed appropriate somehow that there was no moon. In stark contrast to the glistening hustle-bustle of the day, the Augusta National course was now dark and gloomy, somnolent. Much too quiet. Almost spooky.

Conner strode into the darkness, O’Brien on one side, Agent Liponsky on the other.

As they marched toward the fifteenth green, Liponsky gave him a last minute briefing. “The faxed instructions just say that you’re to be on the fifteenth green with Tenniel’s cell phone,” Liponsky explained. “Evidently the killer already knows the number. Once you’re in place, we have no idea what he might have in mind.”

Somehow Conner didn’t much like the sound of that. “Care to speculate?”

“Either he plans to meet you there, which I doubt, or he plans to send you somewhere else. We’ll be using scanners to try to pick up the conversation on your cell phone, of course. And we’ll try to trace the call, although that can be tricky with mobile phones. And we won’t be far away.”

“Didn’t the fax say I had to come alone?”

“Yes. And you will, too. We just won’t be far off, that’s all.”

Conner frowned. “Sounds dangerous.”

“It’d be a lot more dangerous to send you out there with no backup, believe me.”

“What if this guy gets pissed off?”

O’Brien cut in. “We won’t give him any reason to get pissed off. We’ll keep our distance, and we’ll stay hidden.”

“Then what’s the point of being here at all?”

“Because eventually, this blackmailing murderer is going to instruct you to put the money somewhere. And then he’s going to try to get away with it. Once he does-and you’re safely out of the way-we’ll make our move.”

Conner nodded, just as they arrived at the fifteenth green. “Just remember that part about ‘safely out of the way,’ okay? That’s the most important point.”

Liponsky didn’t smile. “Look, we’re talking about a killer who’s already taken two lives and is threatening to take more. We have to do everything possible to apprehend this person.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“I think I’ve made myself clear. I want to bag this creep. So follow my instructions and don’t screw it up. Got it?”

As soon as he could tear himself away from Liponsky’s fiery glare, Conner took O’Brien aside. “I’m not sure I like this Special Agent Liponsky.”

She nodded. “That’s because you have a problem with women in positions of authority.”

“No, that’s because I think she’d tear my heart out and eat it if it allowed her to catch this killer.”

O’Brien smiled wryly. “I’ll try to keep her talons in check.”

“Don’t forget to wear your Kevlar.”

The group reassembled. Liponsky pushed a small black palm-sized device into Conner’s hands. “Keep this in your pocket. No matter what happens. Don’t let the killer see it.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a PDA.”

Conner blinked. “A Public Display of Affection?”

“A Personal Digital Assistant.” Liponsky paused. There was no light of recognition in Conner’s eyes. “Think of it as a souped-up pager. A signal device. It works via satellite, so even if the killer manages to disrupt phone transmissions or ties up the line, you can still get through.”

Conner stared at the tiny plastic box with its myriad buttons. “Looks complicated.”

“It isn’t. Here’s all you need to know. As soon as you’ve made the drop, push the red button.”

“Red button. I can do that.” He looked up. “As soon as I see the killer.”

“Wrong. Pay attention. You may never see the killer. As soon as you’ve deposited the bag wherever it is he wants it, you push the button. That’ll be our signal to close the cordon-to make sure no one gets out.”

“All right. Red button. Got it.”

“Keep it in your pocket the whole time. If the killer is watching, he doesn’t need to know you’ve signaled.”

“If-“ Conner looked up abruptly. “You mean you think the killer could be watching?”

“It’s possible.”

“You mean-“ He turned his head skyward. “Even now?”

“It’s possible.”

“How?”

Liponsky shrugged. “How should I know? Maybe he’s up one of those trees. Maybe he’s planted video cameras. Maybe he’s in a hotel hot tub laughing his head off at our expense. I can’t know.” Her voice dropped. “But I have to be ready for all contingencies.”

Liponsky pushed the black bag filled with loot into Conner’s hands. “Here’s the McGuffin. Take good care of it.” She raised an eyebrow. “And by the way, I feel compelled to say that if you’re having some cockamamie thoughts about taking off and keeping the cash yourself-forget it.”

“Me?” He stared at O’Brien. “What have you told her about me?”

“Everything.”

“Well, that explains it.” He opened the bag, just to establish in his mind that the money was still there.

It was. A million dollars in cash. Amazing.

O’Brien checked her watch. “Almost time. We’d better scram.”

Liponsky nodded. “Right. We have to stay out of sight.”

O’Brien laid her hand on Conner’s shoulder. “Good luck, slick.”

Liponsky laid her hand on his other shoulder. “Don’t screw it up.”

Twenty minutes later, Conner remained all by himself at the fifteenth hole, leaning against the flag. It was painfully dark out here, and painfully quiet as well. He would’ve given a great deal for some company-as long as it didn’t involve getting whacked on the head with a golf club.

Inevitably, his mind reeled backward through the sights and sounds of the last few days. He remembered that stupid food fight at the champions’ dinner. A harmless bit of revelry. Who would ever have thought that would be the last time he’d see John alive? He couldn’t imagine a world that didn’t have John McCree in it.

And he didn’t particularly want to, either.

That train of thought led him in no time at all to Jodie. Sweet Jodie. His first love. An aching in his heart that never quite subsided.

He closed his eyes tight, wincing at the memory of that last sight of her, floating in the fountain, a thin tissue of blood issuing from her throat. God-who could have done such a thing? And why? Who could possibly be so cruel? It was like tearing the wings off a butterfly. Taking such a beautiful creature and-

His reverie was abruptly interrupted by a harsh beeping noise. He had drifted so far away, it took him a few moments just to register what the sound was.

The cell phone. The one Liponsky had given him. In his pocket.

The killer.

Conner pulled the phone out of his pocket and pushed the Talk button. “Hello.”

The voice that came back at him was harsh and metallic. It echoed, like someone was putting their lips too close to an electronic bullhorn. Obviously, the killer was using a voice disguiser. “Hello, Conner. Having a good think?”

Conner looked all around him-the course, the trees, the green. He didn’t see anything. No signs of movement; no signs of life. Was he out there? “Who is this?”

“Your worst nightmare. Ready for a quick jog?”

“I gave up exercise years ago. Just before I took it up.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I want you to run, Conner. I want you to run like the devil himself is chasing you. I want you to be on the third green in five minutes.”

“The third green? Do you know how far away that is?”

“Of course. That’s why I chose it.”

“Forget it. I’m not doing it.”

“If you’re not on the third green in five minutes, someone else will die. Someone you know personally. Maybe closely.”

“You son-of-a-”

“Watch the language, Conner. On your mark-”

“Just explain to me why-”

“Get set-”

“But first, tell me-”

“Go! Try not to leave a divot on the green. Five minutes and counting.”

Conner snapped the phone shut, shoved it in his pocket, and ran. Thank goodness he was wearing his sneakers. If he could make it to the third green in five minutes, it would be nothing less than a miracle.

He bolted across the fairway, criss-crossing in a southwesterly direction. Fortunately, he’d been playing this course since Monday, so he had a pretty good idea how to shortcut to the third. But five minutes? Was the lunatic serious about killing someone else, or was that just a threat he hauled out so Conner would play his sick little game? Conner couldn’t be sure-but he couldn’t take the chance, either. If running would save someone’s life, then run he would.

Conner raced up a steep slope near the tee-off for the seventh, bounded over a short fence lining the cart trail, and kept on running. He didn’t know what he was running for or running to, but he was determined to make it. Huffing and puffing, he careened across another fairway, then raced up toward the flag for the third hole. He collapsed on the ground, then checked his watch.

Seconds to spare.

The cell phone buzzed again.

“Congratulations, Conner,” the scrambled voice said. “You’ve outdone yourself. Really. I’m genuinely impressed.”

“You have no idea how happy that makes me,” Conner gasped.

“I can see I’m going to have to make this more challenging for you.”

“That’s really not necessary-”

“I want you at the eleventh tee-off in five minutes. No, make it four.”

“Look, you sorry sack of-”

“If you don’t make it, Monica Cartwright dies.”

“Monica-“ Conner paused, his mind racing. “Who’s she?”

“She’s the woman you picked up in the bar and slept with Monday night, you heel. Didn’t you even ask her name?”

“Must’ve slipped my mind.”

“Would you prefer I choose someone you know better?”

Conner gritted his teeth together. “No.”

“Fine. On your mark, get set, go!”

Conner flew. He raced back the way he had come, this time jogging left on the seventh fairway, making a beeline for the start of the eleventh. He crossed a water trap with a flying leap… and almost made it. His sneakers came down in the water, wet up to his knees. Didn’t matter. He didn’t have time to stop, much less complain.

He had to keep running. His throat felt dry; sweat was flying off his brow. He felt a painful stitch in his side, but he forced himself to keep going. He could see the end in sight. The tee-off was just around the corner.

Conner pulled up to the tee-off, gasping for all he was worth. He was drinking in air in huge gulps, feeling as if he might faint at any moment. But he had made it, damn it, with time to spare. He’d made it-

His eyes wandered to the sign posted at the top of the tee-off spot. The big sign with a red twelve painted on it.

Twelve? His heart sank.

He’d taken a wrong turn.

Without stopping to think, Conner flew backwards through the twelfth fairway. How much time did he have left? He couldn’t be sure; he’d forgotten to check his watch before he left. But it couldn’t be much.

His chest pounding, his feet aching, the stitch in his side ready to split, Conner finally loped to the eleventh tee-off. He collapsed on the ground, face first. He had no energy left. Not even enough to stand.

The cell phone beeped. “Yes?” he gasped.

“Not bad, Conner. Not bad at all.”

Conner swore silently. Could the creep really see him? Or was this just a charade to make him think so?

“Look,” Conner said forcefully, “I’m tired of playing games. Tell me where you are and I’ll bring you your damn money.”

“Sorry, old boy. That’s not the way we’re going to play it.”

“I’m tired of running around!”

“A pity. Because you see-we’ve only just begun.”

“Forget it. I’m not doing it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Conner. Though not as sorry as Monica Cartwright will be.”

“Listen to me. You can’t-”

“I can and I will. I haven’t killed anyone for almost twenty-four hours. I’m overdue.”

Clenching his jaw, Conner forced himself to his feet. “Fine, you sorry son-of-a-bitch. Where do we go now?”

24

Lieutenant O’Brien hunched over Agent Liponsky’s shoulder, watching her work. Liponsky had headphones on, plugged into the cellular scanner.

“Are you getting anything?”

Liponsky shook her head. “Not much. Scattered words. It was coming in clear at first, then it dissipated.”

“How can that be?”

“Can’t be certain. Conner is moving a lot. Maybe they both are. That makes it harder to catch the signal. It’s also possible the killer is using a frequency scrambler.”

“Where would he get one?”

“Are you kidding? Pawn shops, Internet, wherever. This is the United States. You can buy anything you want. Pick up a couple of Uzis while you’re at it. Hell, next week you’ll probably be able to get them at Wal-Mart.”

“Surely this creep isn’t smart enough to use a frequency scrambler.”

“Don’t be so sure. He hasn’t made any mistakes so far. And he’s the one who decided to communicate by cell phone, remember. It’s not as if this happened by accident. And it’s not as if he wouldn’t know the FBI would be involved at this point.”

O’Brien frowned. “You know where Conner is?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t know it, but that PDA is emitting a constant signal. We know his position at all times.”

“Is that wise? What if the killer picks up the signal?”

“He won’t. And this way, my team can follow Cross from a distance. As soon as he signals that he’s made the drop, they can surround the area instantly. The killer will have no chance to escape.”

O’Brien shook her head. “Still seems risky to me.”

“Relax, Lieutenant. We’re professionals. We know what we’re doing.”

“Easy to say.”

Liponsky observed the note of concern in O’Brien’s voice. “Look, Cross knew there was an element of risk.”

“An element of risk? Is that what you call it? He’s putting his life on the line out there! And you’re screwing around, assuming the killer won’t know you’re breaking his rules. Sure, Conner knew there was risk. But he didn’t know you were going to be giving the guy an excuse to blow him away.”

“Lieutenant, it might be best if you waited somewhere else. I promise I’ll keep you posted.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please, Lieutenant. Don’t make me pull rank.”

“You’ll have to pull a lot more than that to budge me.”

“Don’t fight me on this, Lieutenant. If you won’t go of your own volition, I’ll have to remove you.”

O’Brien arched an eyebrow, her feet planted firmly in place. “You and what army?”

After the tee-off for the eleventh, Conner was ordered to the pin of the fourth green in six minutes, the cart trail between the first and the second in five, and the north rough of the eighteenth in three. Each time, he was certain he had nothing left; he couldn’t possibly move any faster. And each time he managed to get back on his feet and force his sneakers into action.

He collapsed under a spreading magnolia in the designated rough, his throat dry, wheezing, gasping for air like he couldn’t recall ever doing in his life. Why was that sick bastard on the other end of the line doing this? What was the point? Just to get his jollies? Or was there something more, something Conner hadn’t begun to imagine yet?

He wondered where his backup was now. They couldn’t possibly be keeping track of all this hustle-bustle across the course. Maybe that was the point. All Liponsky and O’Brien could do was wait for his signal and try to surround the area quickly. There was no telling whether they’d make it in time to catch the creep. Much less in time to prevent him from drilling Conner, just for the fun of it.

Conner wasn’t surprised when he heard the phone in his pocket beep. He flipped it open and shouted: “Look, you sick son-of-a-bitch! I’m tired of your stupid games!”

“Temper, temper,” the electronic voice said. “There’s a two hundred and fifty dollar penalty for harsh language.”

“The PGA can go screw itself. And so can you.”

“Do I detect a note of irritation? Aren’t you enjoying our little game?”

“No, I’m not. And I’m not going to do it anymore.”

“Really. Then I’m afraid I’ll have to deal with your sweetheart Monica.”

“Yeah, and I’ll have to pour your money into the fucking water trap, you asshole! How would you like that?”

The metallic ringing subsided. The line was silent for several seconds.

“That would be a mistake, Conner. I need that money.”

“For what? Another trip to Fiji?”

There was a pronounced pause on the other end of the line. It had been a long shot, but it seemed to have hit home. “I need the money,” the voice repeated.

“Then come and get it, you bastard!”

“Calm down, Conner. Calm down. Perhaps it is time to get on with it. Do you know which direction is north?”

“At the moment, I don’t even know which direction is up.”

“Sorry. After the way you’ve been playing this week, I thought you’d know the roughs like the back of your hand.”

“Why don’t you go-”

“Toward the tee-off, Conner. Get up and walk toward the tee-off.”

“Then what?”

“Just do it. And don’t disconnect the line. Let’s chat awhile.”

“Oh, goody.” Conner pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dirt and debris off his pants. He didn’t get the half of it, and when it came right down to it, he supposed it didn’t matter much, either.

“All right, Conner. Keep walking till you’re about halfway down the fairway.”

“I already am.” Why didn’t Mr. Murder know that? Did that mean he couldn’t see Conner? That he’d been bluffing all along? Or that he could see Conner before, but now he’d gone somewhere he couldn’t? Conner couldn’t make any sense of it; it made his head hurt, just trying.

“Fine. Veer west at the post. That would be to your left. Do you remember which is your left hand, Conner? That’s the one you keep too stiff when you swing.”

Conner gritted his teeth and prayed to heaven he got ten seconds alone with this creep before the cops showed up. “I’m turning.”

“Good. Keep walking. You’ll go about a hundred feet.”

“Fine. Should I pace this off?”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” The metallic voice faded for about twenty seconds. “See anything unusual?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Staring straight ahead, Conner saw a white golf cart-parked in the middle of the rough. “What’s that thing doing out here? The cart track isn’t even nearby.”

“I made special arrangements for you, Conner.”

“What now-you want me to drive the cart backwards down the freeway?”

“Nothing nearly so elaborate. Just put the money on the seat and disappear.”

Conner stopped a few paces from the cart. “You mean-leave the money? Here?”

“What do you know-you’re brighter than you look.”

“But I thought I was going to give it to you.”

“And you will, Conner. You will. Drop it on the cart.”

Damn. What was this fiend planning? He hated to let go of the loot until he knew where the man was. “I don’t feel good about this. What if someone else gets it?”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. A vagrant, maybe.”

“At the Augusta National? Put the money on the damn seat!”

Conner did as he was told.

“Now scram.”

“What-that’s it?”

“You heard me. Clear out. Fast.”

“But I thought-”

“If you’re anywhere near here in one minute, the deal’s off. And Monica’s dead.” The line disconnected.

Damn! He didn’t have any choice. Conner slipped his hand in his pocket and pushed the red button on the PDA. Then he started running.

“We got his signal!” Liponsky shouted.

O’Brien pressed close to the viewscreen. “Where is he?”

“On the eighteenth hole. Just south of here.” She stared at her screen for a moment. “The signal’s moving. He probably dropped the cash and ran.” She flipped a switch and spoke into her microphone. “All right, boys and girls-move. Double time.”

Somewhere in the darkness of the Augusta National golf course, a team of twelve FBI agents began closing in.

“I want a cordon around the eighteenth in place in thirty seconds,” Liponsky shouted. “Start big, then close. Whatever you do, don’t let anyone escape. Got it? I don’t want any screw-ups. I want this killer caught!”

She removed the headphones, then turned to O’Brien. “Well, Lieutenant? Shall we go see what we’ve bagged?”

Conner was still running fast when he saw Liponsky and O’Brien approaching from the opposite direction. O’Brien stepped forward, taking Conner by the arms. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Exhausted, but unharmed. My leg muscles are aching.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Well, a shiatsu massage followed by a full-body oil rubdown might do the trick. Or if you’d like, we can skip the massage.”

O’Brien shoved him away. “Pervert.”

“Well, you did ask.”

Liponsky stepped between them. “Did you see the killer?”

“Sorry, no. Just heard him. And he was using some kind of voice disguiser.”

Liponsky grimaced. “That’s what I thought. Doesn’t matter. We’ll grab him when he comes for the mil.”

“Good,” Conner said. “Mind if I hang around?”

“I suppose not.”

Conner’s eyes turned back toward the eighteenth. “I have a message to deliver.”

O’Brien arched an eyebrow. “With your lips? Or your fist?”

Conner looked away. “No comment.”

The FBI cordon remained out of sight but kept a tight lock around the golf cart sitting in the west rough off the eighteenth fairway. The team had settled into place mere seconds after Conner sent the signal. They were certain no one could have gotten in or out. Moreover, they could see that the black money bag was still resting on the seat of the cart.

“He has to come sometime,” Liponsky said, peering through high-powered infrared binoculars. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Maybe the killer spotted your team and made himself scarce,” O’Brien suggested.

“No way. These are some of the best-trained agents in the business. They know how to be invisible. Particularly on a nearly pitch-dark golf course in the dead of night.”

Fifteen minutes had passed since Conner had made the drop, and the bag was still on top of the seat, just where Conner had left it. Despite all his elaborate preparations, the killer didn’t seem to be in any hurry to collect his prize.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Conner said. “The time to grab the bag was immediately-before I had a chance to call in the reinforcements. Why would he do this if he doesn’t want the cash? Besides, he told me he did. He said he needed the money.”

“He’s just being cautious,” Liponsky whispered. “Making sure the coast is clear before he makes his move. As soon as he’s sure no one’s watching, he’ll go for it. That’s why we have to stay quiet-and stay out of sight.”

“Fine,” Conner said, folding his arms. She was the professional; they’d play it her way. But for some reason, he wasn’t convinced. A glance at O’Brien told him she wasn’t particularly convinced either.

Fifteen more slow, tedious minutes passed. Conner wondered if all stakeouts were this exciting. Sitting in the dark, doing nothing. Not exactly a thrill-packed adventure. He wasn’t even angry at the creep anymore. He just wanted this night to be over.

On cop shows, stakeouts never lasted more than a minute or two before the culprit appeared. It seemed reality was something else again. Conner supposed it hadn’t actually been that long. In truth, he’d only been waiting a little over half an hour, but he was ready to call it a day and run to the clubhouse for a sandwich. Maybe a margarita to wash it down. From their position near the eighteenth, Conner could see the clubhouse. He could even smell the food-or so he imagined. It was just too tempting to resist.

“Look,” he said quietly, “not that this isn’t the most exciting time I’ve ever had with my clothes on, but I think I’m going to call it a night.”

“Shh,” Liponsky whispered. She was peering through infrared binoculars.

“No, seriously, I can’t take it any longer.” Conner started to push up to his feet.

Liponsky grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him back down. “I think I see someone.”

Conner froze. Could it be? Finally-?

Liponsky whispered into her mouthpiece, which transmitted to the earpieces each of the agents was wearing. “See ’im? Yeah, me too. On my signal.”

A few moments passed. Conner began to perceive a tall silhouette weaving its way across the fairway. It was hard to be certain, but-

Yes! The silhouette took a sudden veer to the left. It was definitely moving toward the golf cart.

“That’s it,” Liponsky whispered breathlessly. “One… two… three… move!”

All at once, a dozen figures appeared out of nowhere, surging forward, forming an increasingly tight circle around the mysterious figure.

The man stopped suddenly. He’d spotted them. But he didn’t turn away, didn’t run. He just stood still, as if staring in disbelief.

“Get him!” Liponsky shouted.

The agents rushed forward, tackling the man. Without resistance, he fell to the ground like a wet sack of potatoes.

Conner couldn’t stand the suspense. He ran forward, desperate to see who it was. He pulled away a few of the agents on top, straining to get a better view of…

Barry Bennett. And he was potted. Totally.

“Whass goin’ on?” Barry slurred. His eyes were wild and he seemed dazed, which was not all that surprising, given the circumstances.

“Cuff him!” Liponsky shouted, just over their shoulders. One of the agents rolled Barry onto his stomach, pulled back his wrists and slid on the cuffs.

“Look, Liponsky,” Conner said, “I think possibly you’ve-”

“Did someone read him his rights?” Liponsky shouted. “I don’t want any procedural errors screwing up my collar. We’ve got to read him his rights.”

The same agent who’d done the cuffs whipped a card out of his shirt pocket and began to read. “You have the right to remain silent…”

“Look,” Conner said, trying again, “I think maybe you’ve made a mistake.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Liponsky fired back. “Criminals make mistakes.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. But I don’t think Barry is your man.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I know him. He’s on the tour.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t be the killer.”

“Look at him, will you? He’s smashed!”

“What?” Liponsky’s head jerked down toward the ground.

“He’s drunk! If you don’t want to take my word for it, smell his breath.”

“I can smell it from here,” O’Brien said, somewhere behind them.

“Iss thiss my cabin?” Barry said with a hiccup. “I been trying to find my cabin…”

Conner rolled his eyes. “You’re a little off-track, Barry.”

The tiniest trace of concern flickered across Liponsky’s brow. “This could be a front. An acting job to put us off.”

“No one’s that good an actor, Liponsky. He’s wasted. Probably been drinking all day. And there’s no way the man I was talking to on the phone was drunk.”

Liponsky bit down on her lower lip. “There must be some explanation.”

“Yeah, there is. You screwed up.”

A look of horror suddenly spread across her face. “Oh, my God. If he’s not-”

“What?” Conner said. “What is it?”

Without another word, Liponsky raced toward the parked golf cart. She ran like there was no tomorrow, probably doing twice the time Conner had out on the course. She didn’t stop running until she practically collided into the cart.

“Oh, no!” she cried. “No, no, no!”

Conner and O’Brien followed close behind her. “What is it?” Conner asked.

She didn’t need to answer. One look was all it took.

She was holding the black bag in her hands. And it was empty.

25

An hour later, Conner was back in the clubhouse listening to O’Brien try to explain what had happened.

“But how did he get the money? You had the place surrounded.”

“Above ground, yes,” O’Brien said. “Below ground, no.”

“Below ground? I don’t get it.”

“Turns out there’s a fairly extensive sewer system under part of the golf course. Including the part the eighteenth hole is on.”

Conner nodded. “That’s true. I remember Fanboy Ed telling me about it. That’s how he got in.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Seems the Augusta National has heavy water demands-for watering the course and whatnot. So they built this underground sewer system. Tunnels are small-but passable.”

“So I hear from our dear friend Agent Liponsky. She’s got agents crawling through every branch of the system. But they haven’t found the culprit. And I don’t think they’re going to, either. He probably grabbed the money seconds after you put it down, then hightailed it.”

“But how did he grab the money without being seen?”

O’Brien reached out across the small round table, then popped a handful of beer nuts into her mouth. “Turns out the golf cart was just a decoy. It was parked over a manhole cover-an access tunnel to the sewer system. The insides of the cart had been hollowed out so a person could crawl up through it, pull the seat cover off, cut the bottom of the bag, take the money, and disappear-without ever being seen above ground. The bag never moved-but our extortionist got the cash just the same.”

“That’s pretty damn smart.”

“I would have to agree with you on that point. He outfoxed us but good.”

“A genius golfer. Who the hell would that be?”

O’Brien gave him a sharp look. “Do you know something I don’t? What makes you so sure the killer is a golfer?”

“It was my conversation with him,” Conner explained. “While he was running me all over creation. He talked like a golfer-talked about divots and bogies. And stuff not just any golfer would know-like about PGA penalties. And he was familiar with my golfing performance this week-even though the TV people never got close to me before today.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I’m sure of it. Our killer is a golfer. Or at the very least, someone intimately connected to this tournament.”

“Any suspects?”

“I already told you what I thought-you need to talk to Freddy.”

“Funny you should say that. I was thinking pretty much the same way you are, that the time had come, even if I didn’t have anything on him and it might tip him off that he was under suspicion. So after we got back from our moonlight fiasco, I gave Freddy a call. He’s disappeared.”

“What? As in-?”

“As in, no one knows where the hell he is, even though he was specifically instructed to stay put.”

“This is very curious.”

“It’s more than that. Get this, Conner-no one knows where he was tonight.”

“O’Brien, I think you need to pick him up.”

“Way ahead of you. I’ve got an APB out. We’ll get him.”

“Good. So… how is Liponsky taking the news?”

“Not well. Her home office is all over her for botching the nab.” A smile spread across her face. “As a fellow law enforcement officer, of course, my hearts bleeds for her.”

“I can see that. Mine, too.”

O’Brien pushed herself out of her chair. “I’ve got to check in with my office. I’ll be in touch.”

“Sure I can’t buy you a drink?”

O’Brien hesitated. For half a second, Conner almost thought she might go for it. “Rain check,” she said. She left the clubhouse.

Well, Conner asked himself, what next? What exactly does one do as a follow-up to acting as the bag man for a million-dollar extortion scheme?

Fortunately, he didn’t have to think about it for long. The question was answered for him when the PGA’s main man Richard Peregino entered the bar and made a beeline for Conner’s table.

Conner braced himself for another lecture about PGA standards. What had he done this time, he wondered? Mussed a sand trap while discovering a corpse? Worn the wrong color socks to deliver the payoff?

Without waiting to be invited, Peregino pulled out a chair and sat at his table. “Can I talk to you, Conner?”

Conner, Conner noted. Not Cross. “It’s a free country. Unless you’re in the PGA, of course.”

Peregino didn’t smile. “I need your help.”

Conner tried not to appear astonished. “You need my help?”

Peregino nodded. “We think there’s a leak.”

“What, in the plumbing?”

“No, you-“ He cut himself short. “To the press.”

“A leak about what?”

“About the extortion scheme. The threat from the killer.”

Conner shrugged. “Shouldn’t they know? It seems like a matter that might be of some public interest. Isn’t that what the press is for?”

“No, it isn’t. There’s already been way too much turmoil surrounding this tournament, what with one murder on the course and another not far away. If they find out about this, it could be the end of the Masters.”

Conner nodded. That was a distinct possibility.

“At the least, there’ll be a call for us to terminate the tournament. They’ll accuse us of risking lives to keep the income flowing.”

“Aren’t we?”

“No. We’re demonstrating that we won’t be pushed around by some bully with a big knife.”

The distinction seemed pretty thin to Conner. “Tenniel told me he couldn’t afford to cancel the tournament, regardless of how big the knife was.”

Peregino ignored him. “This issue has ramifications that go well beyond the Masters tournament. This could affect the whole PGA.”

“How so?”

“The PGA has an image to maintain. We have a tradition of excellence, of athleticism pushed to-”

“Stop, stop,” Conner said, holding up his hands. “I’ve heard this rhapsody before. What you’re saying is, you want the PGA to be associated with middle-aged guys in knit leisurewear, not psychopaths whacking players in the head with their Pings.”

“That would be one way of putting it, yes.”

“So what do you expect me to do about it?”

Peregino tapped his finger against the aromatic candle centerpiece. Conner could tell he was dreading asking him for a favor, a fact which gave him a great deal of pleasure. “Given your performance on the course today, you’re likely to have some press swarming around you tomorrow. In fact, a great deal of press. You’re now considered a contender. A strong contender.”

Conner’s head reeled. A strong contender? Him? Talk about music to your ears…

“I’m sure they’ll be firing questions at you-including questions relating to the murders. I would… um…” His fingers absently twiddled a sugar packet. “I would take it as a personal favor if you would not mention what happened tonight. You know. About the… the…”

“The payoff?”

“Well, yeah…”

“The extortion scheme?”

“Yeah…”

“The bungled FBI operation.”

“Yes, Conner. All of those. Is there any chance you could keep your lips sealed? At least until we have a chance to get the killer behind bars?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Why did I know it would come to this? All right, here’s the deal. You keep mum about the blackmail, and I’ll wipe your slate clean.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m talking about your lengthy record of PGA infractions and violations. I’ll erase the whole ugly mess. Like it never happened.”

Conner gave him an indignant look. “Peregino, I’m surprised at you. You’re the PGA Ethics and Morality cop. And now you’re trying to buy me off.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way…”

“Tell me, Peregino-is this ethical?”

A familiar look returned to Peregino’s eyes-the look of contempt. “It’s necessary. So-are you in?”

“I don’t know. What do I care about my PGA record? It hasn’t done me any harm so far.”

“Get with the program, Cross. I’ve got enough material to kick your butt off the tour two times over. And don’t think I won’t do it, either.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “It would be a shame if that happened now, wouldn’t it? Just when it looked as if you might actually win a major tournament.”

“You’re going to kick me out on the last day of the tournament, for alleged violations that happened well before? No way.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“I’ll go to the press. I’ll tell them everything. Including that you tried to blackmail me into silence.”

“Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. But even if you do-you won’t finish the tournament.”

Conner felt a hollow spot in the pit of the stomach. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“I need an answer now, Cross. So I know whether to approve you for play tomorrow.”

Conner pondered before answering. “Well, here’s the straight scoop, Peregino. I made a promise to Jodie McCree, and if I’m going to keep that promise, this tournament needs to continue-with me in it. So I don’t see any reason to volunteer any information to the press.”

“Good thinking.”

Conner held up a finger. “I won’t lie. But I won’t volunteer anything.”

“Good enough.” Peregino pushed himself up from the table. “Uh… thank you. For doing the right thing. You’ll feel good about this.”

I feel, Conner thought, like I’ve been dickering with the devil. But that’s life on the PGA.

“If you’d like, we could hold a mock press conference. Let you practice dodging questions.”

“Gosh, that does sound-“ Conner’s eyes were diverted by a figure moving rapidly down the corridor outside the bar. “Excuse me, Peregino. Gotta run.”

Conner jumped out of his chair and bolted down the hallway. “Wait!”

The figure at the end of the corridor stopped. Conner increased his speed, catching him near the outside door.

It was Ed Frohike, the President of the John McCree Fan Club. “How ya been, Ed?”

Ed’s face was a mix of surprise, confusion, apprehension. “I’m fine.”

“I haven’t seen you around the last day or two. Where ya been?”

Ed answered awkwardly, diverting his eyes toward the floor. “Well, you know. Without John in the tournament… it hasn’t been so… interesting for me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What are you doing here today?”

“Oh…” He craned his neck. “I… just had to get my things.”

“Your things?”

“Yeah. My backpack. Clothes and stuff. I’ve got ’em stored in a cabinet in the men’s room.”

“Really?” As far as Conner could tell, he was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing all week. “Is there something wrong? You seem nervous.”

“It’s just-I don’t want to be caught. I’m not really supposed to be here, remember. Hidden in a crowded bar is one thing, but out in the hallway, exposed…”

The more they talked, the more uncomfortable Ed seemed to become. “You mentioned to me that you used the underground tunnels to get onto the grounds.”

“Did I?”

“As a matter of fact, you kind of bragged about it. So let me ask you a question. How did you find out about the tunnels?”

“How did I find out?”

“That was the question, Ed. Got an answer?”

There was a brief pause. “I found a diagram on the Internet.”

Conner did a double-take. “What?”

“On a Web page run by an underground golf groupie. Calls himself the Ping.”

“The Ping?”

“Yeah. After the once-tournament-illegal clubs. He loves golf, but he’s got kind of a counter-culture approach to it.”

“I guess so.”

“Anyway, he published the schematics on his Web page and encouraged people to use them to break into the oh-so-exclusive Masters.” His face fell. “Guess I’m the only one who did.”

Conner declined to enlighten him. “Did you tell anyone about the tunnels?”

“No. Well, other than you.”

And Conner hadn’t told a soul.

Ed took a step toward the door. “Well… if you don’t mind… I really should make myself scarce…”

Conner stepped aside obligingly. He didn’t really want to, but he supposed he had no grounds-much less authority-for holding Ed any longer.

After Ed disappeared, Conner decided to walk outside. There was no point in hanging around the bar any longer, and after all he’d been through, he was ready to call it a night.

The sky was still as dark as it had been earlier. But for a few halogen lamps dotting the landscape, it would be just as dark as it had been out on the golf course. He still had to focus hard to see anything.

How had it come to this? he silently pondered. How had buddying up with John led to investigating his murder a million years later? How had falling in love with golf led to delivering a bag full of money at the Masters? How had falling in love with Jodie led-?

He stopped himself short. There was no point in going there. No cheese down that tunnel. It was all over. All over and done-

His thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched noise buzzing just beside his ear, followed by a crackle of thunder.

He whirled around. What-?

He reached up and touched his left ear. His hand came back with blood on it.

Someone had taken a shot at him.

26

All at once, Conner’s brain sputtered into action. He dove forward, seconds before another shot fired somewhere north of him. He took cover behind a hedge, then scrambled close to the front of the building.

A moment later, he heard footsteps moving rapidly away from him.

Conner bit down on his lip. There was almost nothing stupider than chasing someone who was trying to shoot him. But if he didn’t-

He might never find out who it was.

He didn’t have time for protracted analysis. He pushed himself around the corner of the clubhouse and ran in the general direction where he’d heard the shots and the footsteps.

There was something moving over there, toward the cabins. He could just barely see the outline of a figure moving fast. Conner steered himself toward it, bracing himself for the next crash of thunder.

Conner took a hard left around the first cabin and continued barreling forward, panting and wheezing. He had almost forgotten how much exercise he’d already had tonight, until his aching thighs reminded him. He felt winded before he’d crossed the first hundred feet; he broke out in a cold sweat long before that. But he forced himself to keep moving.

The shadowy figure was well ahead, but Conner was gaining on him. Come on, Cross, he told himself. Pedal to the metal. Don’t let this creep get away. He was still telling himself that when something big and solid slammed into his face.

Conner hit the ground hard. His head hit the grass; fireworks went off before his eyes.

What the hell-? His hands groped for the glistening steel object that had knocked him over.

A golf club. The SOB had thrown a golf club at him!

Conner pulled himself together and started running, ignoring the intense throbbing he now felt in his head. If there were any chance he could catch this creep, he wasn’t going to let it slip away.

He’d passed three more cabins when he spotted the silhouette. Hah!-the fool had made the mistake of stopping, checking to see if the coast was clear. He was history now.

Conner poured on the speed. Hell, a few more nights like this, and he’d be ready for the triathlon.

The figure ahead saw him coming and started sprinting, but it was too late. Conner tackled him like a pro quarterback, wrapping himself around the man’s legs and bringing him down with a thud.

Conner sat on top of the squirming man, then rolled him over onto his back to see who it was.

“Ace? Ace Silverstone? Why did you do it?”

“Conner Cross!” the other man fired back. “Why the hell are you sitting on me?”

Conner kept a firm arm on Ace’s throat. “You were trying to kill me!”

“You’re even crazier than I thought.”

“You were firing a gun.”

“I’ve always suspected you had some mental problems, Cross, but you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

“Don’t feed me that. I saw you. I heard the shots.”

“I heard those shots, too. That’s why I came outside. What was going on?”

Conner stared at the man’s wide, seemingly innocent eyes. Was it possible he’d made a mistake? If it had been Ace, where was the gun? He began frisking him.

“This your idea of a good time, Cross?”

Conner patted him down all over, but he didn’t find a weapon. “What did you do with the gun?”

“What gun? I’ve never had a gun. What are you babbling about?”

“Someone took a couple of shots at me. I’ve been chasing him all the way from the clubhouse.”

“Well, it wasn’t me. Assuming this isn’t all some bizarre psychosis created by your paranoid brain. May I get up now?”

Conner hesitated. Was it true? Had the killer slipped away after he’d been decked by the golf club? “How long have you been outside?”

“Barely a minute. If that long. Since I heard the first shot.”

“If you just came outside, why are you sweating?”

“I’ve been exercising. You should try it sometime, Cross. You are an athlete, in theory, anyway.” He pushed up with his hands. “Now get off me, you oaf.”

Reluctantly, Conner rose, releasing Ace. It was just possible, he supposed. The killer could’ve escaped. Ace could’ve gotten caught in the crossfire.

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t file a complaint with the PGA,” Ace said, brushing himself off.

“Don’t bother. The PGA loves me. Today, anyway.”

“You ought to consider getting some counseling, Conner,” Ace said, as he hastily made his way back to the cabin. “You really do have a screw loose. Maybe several.”

Ace went inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

Conner wanted to kick himself. Once again, he’d had a chance to catch the killer. And once again, he’d somehow managed to screw it up. How much longer could this go on?

He pointed himself north, toward his own cabin. It’d been a hell of a night, and he needed rest. He was playing in a tournament tomorrow, after all. The last day of the Masters. The Big Enchilada. If he could keep his head together, could keep on playing like he had today, it was just possible he could be heading back to Watonga in a spiffy green jacket.

But somehow, he couldn’t get his brain to focus on the tournament. No matter how hard he tried, his mind kept wandering back to the same thought.

The killer was still at large.

And it seemed his current target was Conner Cross.

27

The next morning, Conner lathered himself up as he sang at the top of his lungs: “Some enchanted evening… you will meet a stranger…” Funny, he thought, how much better your singing voice sounds in the shower than in real life.

A good night’s sleep had washed away the fatigue and frustration of the night before. This morning, he was determined to focus his energies on the tournament. It was the last day of the Masters-and he was in fourth place. It was possible… just barely possible…

He stepped out of the shower, still high as a kite. He took the towel handed to him and began to dry off, humming a happy tune. He could envision the entire victory scene-the ball drops into the hole on the eighteenth, a stunning hole-in-one, the crowd grows wild, screaming and throwing confetti on the course, the other pros scoop him up and hoist him aloft, pouring champagne over his head. “For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good-”

Wait a minute. He took the towel handed to him-by whom?

Lieutenant O’Brien stood by the bathroom door, her arms folded, visibly unimpressed. “Are you about done, or should I call for a backup band?”

In a panicked flurry, Conner whipped the towel around his waist. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“I knocked. No one answered.”

“I was in the shower!”

“I gathered that.”

Conner grappled with the towel, trying to secure it. “You don’t have any business being in my cabin! Much less my bathroom!”

“Excuse me. Didn’t you tell me I could”-she tried to simulate his seductive voice-“drop by anytime?”

“Yes, but I meant-”

“Get your clothes on, cowboy. We’ve got work to do.”

“I’ve got work to do,” Conner said, pushing past her. Where did he leave his clothes, anyway? “I’ve got a golf tournament. And I don’t want to be distracted.”

“Relax, your tee time isn’t until afternoon. And in the meantime, we need you.”

“You need me?” Conner picked up his boxers and a pair of pants. He started to drop his towel, then realized she was still watching. “Could you possibly turn your back for just one tiny moment?”

O’Brien obliged.

“Haven’t I done enough already?” Conner asked, yanking his clothes on. “I ran all over the golf course. I delivered your money. I helped tackle the drunk.”

“Ha ha.”

“Plus, someone was taking pot shots at me last night.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I didn’t see the point. He got away. And besides, I was exhausted.”

“That was stupid. Who knows-we might’ve found something.” She frowned. “This is disturbing. Particularly in light of the latest development.”

“Well, just don’t tell me about it, okay?” Conner said, pulling on his shirt. “Fitz says focus is the most important part of playing pro golf. He says focus could be the secret to improving my putting game-which definitely needs improvement. So I intend to stay focused. Don’t be distracting me or luring me out to play cops and robbers, okay?”

“You’re not interested?”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t want to know what’s happened?”

“I don’t.”

“We’ve received another fax.”

Conner slowed. “Am I mentioned?”

O’Brien’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh, yeah. Big time.”

Five minutes later, Conner was in the downstairs level of the clubhouse. It was Tenniel’s office, but the passage of another day had created further changes; now it resembled a set from a TV cop show. Conner noted that there were twice as many agents, as before, twice the equipment-and twice the tension.

On the other hand, one component from the previous day was missing: Agent Liponsky.

“I understand she’s been removed from the case,” O’Brien explained.

“I’m all torn up,” Conner replied.

“I figured you would be. They’ve put some guy named Stimson on the case. I like him better.”

Conner arched an eyebrow. “Cute?”

“Think Ben Affleck.”

“Wonderful. So where’s the fax?”

O’Brien handed him a copy of the faxed message that arrived a few hours before, while most people, including Conner, were snoring in their beds. It had been sent from a convenience store, just as before. The clerk in attendance vaguely remembered sending it but never got a proper look at the man who brought it in. The customer’s face had been obscured by sunglasses, a hat, and a high-collar coat, an extremely unhelpful description confirmed by the security camera.

Conner scanned the fax. It appeared to have been typed, or perhaps word-processed, on the same machine as before-and without distinguishing characteristics. “Want to give me the highlights?” he asked.

“Why? Can’t read anything longer than a beer label?” She jabbed a finger toward the bottom of the page. “He wants another million.”

“You’re joking!”

“You hear anybody laughing?”

Conner turned and spotted his nemesis Andrew Spenser hovering in the background. “He says if we don’t supply him with more money, people will start dropping like flies. Players, spouses-even spectators.”

“But we paid the man!”

“Apparently he wants more.”

“Then why didn’t he just ask for two million in the first place?” Conner frowned. “Something here doesn’t make sense. Are you sure it’s the same extortionist?”

“Positive,” O’Brien answered. “The message has been scrupulously analyzed. It matches the first one in every possible way.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Spenser said firmly. “We’re not paying it.”

“But what if he-“ Conner began.

“We can’t keep doling out a million dollars a day, just to keep an extortionist at bay.”

“But if you don’t-”

“It would be different if we felt the money would ensure everyone’s safety. But clearly, this man cannot be trusted. He intends to keep milking us endlessly.”

Conner handed the fax back to O’Brien. “I think maybe you’d better discuss this with Tenniel before you make any rash decisions.”

“This is Tenniel’s decision,” Spenser corrected him. “He’s laid down the law. Not a cent more.”

“Playing the tough guy, huh?”

“Confidentially, I don’t know that we have much choice. I think Mr. Tenniel mentioned our financial difficulties to you.”

“Did anyone confirm if you have insurance coverage?”

Spenser seemed surprised. “Of course we do.”

“Maybe the safest thing would be to cancel the tournament, then collect damages for your loss.”

“It’s not that simple. The policy doesn’t pay off in the event of disruption or cancellation by us. Only if the tournament is rendered impossible or canceled as a result of forces outside our control. Like an act of God. Or a court order.”

“Or maybe being shut down by the police.” Conner turned toward O’Brien. “Why don’t you do it? Give them the excuse they need.”

“I’m ahead of you,” she said. “I floated that idea by my boss this morning. He didn’t go for it.”

“Why not?”

“Not sure exactly. I think maybe he has friends who are members of the Augusta National.”

“Give me a break.”

“Still-we’re working on it. But for the moment-no cancellation.”

“Let me tell you something, people,” Conner said. “I don’t like what I’m hearing. This is a very dangerous game you’re playing.”

“Don’t look at me,” Spenser said, holding up his hands. “It’s outside my control. We can’t pay off this blackmailer if we don’t have the money.”

“Perhaps we should make a withdrawal from your private stash, Andrew.”

All heads in the room turned. Artemus Tenniel had quietly entered the room. And his expression was not a happy one.

“My… stash?” Spenser said, pressing his hand against his chest. “Good heavens-whatever are you talking about?”

“Game’s up, Andrew.” Tenniel slapped a thick blue folder on the table beside them. “The police found this among the late John McCree’s belongings. They forwarded it to me this morning.”

“Really? And-what could that be?” Slowly but surely, Spenser’s stoic resolve was eroding.

“It’s a report of a subcommittee of the board of directors. The financial oversight subcommittee, to be precise. John McCree was the chairman. They were trying to figure out why profits have been down of late. To that end, they had a comprehensive audit performed.”

“Do tell?” Spenser stammered. “I didn’t know of this.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t,” Tenniel shot back.

“Okay,” Conner interjected, “I’ll bite. What did they find out?”

Tenniel’s face was the picture of controlled rage. “They discovered that Mr. Spenser here has been skimming off almost ten percent of the club’s fluid income.”

“Fluid income?”

“Cash. Green fees, pro shop grosses, membership dues-which are not at all insignificant. He took everything he could get his hands on.”

“It wasn’t me,” Spenser pleaded. “There must be some mistake!”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence, Andrew. There’s no one else it could have been. All the club’s income flows through you.”

“Perhaps there was an error in the accounting-”

“The fact is, Mr. Spenser has pocketed an amount in the high six figures-in less than two years.”

Conner whistled. “That’s some major-league embezzlement.”

“I tell you, I didn’t do it!” Spenser protested.

Conner checked the date on the cover of the report. “That would explain why John went to talk to you the night he was killed, Spenser. He’d just received the audit report, and he wanted to confront you. Boy, I’ll bet that was a heated conversation.”

“I’m telling you, there was no conversation.”

“Don’t bother lying, Spenser. I’ve got an eyewitness.” Conner took a step closer to the man. “What happened when you found out John had the goods on you? I bet you went into a major meltdown. I bet you were ready to do anything, even-”

Spenser’s eyes widened with horror. “You’re crazy, I tell you! I haven’t done anything improper.”

Conner turned quickly toward O’Brien. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

O’Brien nodded. “Covering up an extensive embezzling scheme. Pretty damn good motive for murder.”

“Murder?” Spenser said. “Murder?”

“Makes sense,” Conner said. “Spenser, where were you Tuesday night? Say around nine-thirty.”

“I-I-Well, I don’t remember exactly.”

“No alibi?”

“Alibi? I don’t need-“ He stopped suddenly. “That’s it. I refuse to say another word. I want an attorney.”

“The last refuge of a scoundrel.”

“Don’t think you’re going to hide behind some shyster’s coattails, Andrew,” Tenniel said forcefully. “I won’t let you get away with this. I will hound you until every cent is repaid and you are behind bars.”

Spenser’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t stir up any trouble you can’t handle, Artemus.”

“Is that it, then? You think I won’t prosecute because I don’t want a scandal at the club.” He leaned forward ominously. “Don’t be so sure.”

Spenser backed away. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving.” He headed rapidly toward the doors. “But let me warn you. I will not tolerate this unwarranted encroachment on my good name. I have a reputation in this community, and I will not stand idly by and see it sullied. If I learn that you have made any libelous accusations, I will instruct my attorneys to seek redress to the full extent of the law.” He skittered out the door and disappeared in the corridor.

“Well,” Conner observed, “he’s terrified.”

“True,” O’Brien agreed. “But unfortunately, that doesn’t prove anything.”

“Maybe not, but he had a hell of a motive.”

“I’m beginning to think a lot of people had motives. What I need is proof. And I need it fast. Before this maniac strikes again.”

28

O’Brien glanced at her watch, then gave Conner’s shirt sleeve a gentle tug. “Well, Slick, what say you and I do a little spelunking?”

Conner’s eyebrows rose. “Madam, there are gentlemen present!”

“I’m talking about the sewer tunnels. You know, our killer’s escape hatch.”

“Didn’t Liponsky’s dudes scour the tunnels?”

“Looking for a murderer, yes. Looking for clues, no.”

“And why would you want me along?”

“Because you’re my golf expert. What other reason could there be?”

They made their way to the rough on the north side of the eighteenth hole. After diligent searching, they found the manhole cover that blocked the access into the tunnel system.

“Looks dark,” Conner commented, peering into the stygian hole. “I’d better go first.”

O’Brien pulled a pencil-thin flashlight out of her back pocket and tossed it to him. “Take this, Slick.”

Conner flipped the flashlight on. “Here goes nothing.”

Advancing feet first, he lowered himself into the narrow passage. “Luckily I had a light breakfast.” Once he was in waist-deep, he kicked around, searching for something to hold onto. He found a rusted iron ladder descending the side of the tunnel. “This should help.”

Cautiously, he placed one foot on the first rung of the ladder. It squeaked and wobbled, but held. The next foot followed. He could feel the strain on the metalwork, but the ladder didn’t break free.

“I’m going down,” he announced.

“I’ll alert the media,” O’Brien replied.

Conner worked his way down the rickety ladder. About ten feet under ground level, he reached the bottom. He scanned the area with his flashlight, etching a 360 degree circle with the thin beam of light.

“There’s some kind of recess down here,” Conner shouted up. “Big enough to stretch your legs. Even move around a little bit. And I can see two tunnels going in different directions. Man, they’re small.”

“Big enough to pass through?” O’Brien shouted back.

“Oh, yeah. But it won’t be fun. They’re maybe three feet in circumference, tops.”

“All right. Look out, I’m coming down.”

Conner moved to the side of the ladder. “Be careful. That ladder has seen better days, and the wall is slick and slimy. Don’t hurt-”

Conner was interrupted by a swift whooshing noise down the length of the access tunnel. O’Brien had foregone the ladder altogether-and jumped. She landed in a crouched position, executed a perfect barrel roll on her left shoulder, and ended up on her feet. “You were saying?”

Conner blinked. “That was impressive. Where’d you learn that move?”

“I have a brown belt in tae kwon do.”

“Who doesn’t?” He grinned. “Was that just to impress me?”

“No, that was because I hate to get my fingers slimy.” O’Brien snagged her flashlight and scanned the two tunnels. “Let’s take the north tunnel. They tell me that one leads off the Augusta National grounds. It seems the most likely route for a felon on the run.”

O’Brien crouched down, then duck-walked into the tunnel, using her hands for balance. “I’ll take the lead.”

“You’re the boss.” Conner knelt down and followed, waddling behind her.

Once they were five feet from the entrance, the tunnel was pitch black. The only illumination came from O’Brien’s flashlight. Conner’s fingers came down on something wet and slimy, but he couldn’t see what it was. “Am I the only one getting creeped out here?”

“No,” O’Brien admitted. “This is like something out of Edgar Allan Poe.”

“And then some. If I hear any bats, I’m leaving.”

O’Brien laughed softly. “Bats are okay. But if you hear rats, I’ll join you.”

“Rats? You think there might be rats?”

“Rats? In a sewer? What a crazy idea. Of course not.”

They continued trudging down the tunnel. Conner assumed there had to be an end somewhere, but he couldn’t see it. “Now if this were a Stephen King novel,” he suggested, “we would be in hell now, except we don’t know it, see. We’d just keep trudging along this dark, slimy tunnel for eternity, never reaching an exit.”

“Wonderful imagery,” O’Brien commented. “Very Sisyphean. You read about Sisyphus in college, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Conner paused. “Is that something to do with your sorority house?”

O’Brien laughed again. “You’re smarter than you look, Conner.”

“Gee, thanks.”

They continued moving along the tunnel. Conner wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It seemed like hours, but the voice inside his head told him it was probably more like ten minutes. His ankles were already beginning to ache. Miss Tae Kwon Do up there might be able to duck-walk for hours, but he felt certain he’d be getting shin splints after fifteen minutes.

He was thinking about suggesting they sing “One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” when he heard O’Brien let out an abrupt cry.

“What is it?” he asked urgently.

She didn’t answer, but he did hear what sounded like a scraping or crashing sound, followed by a heavy thud. “Oww!”

“O’Brien! What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer.

“O’Brien?” His voice was tinged with concern. “Talk to me!”

“I’m all right,” she answered. “More or less, anyway. There seems to be a small crater here in our otherwise reliable tunnel. Some of the brick gave way and my foot crashed down into it.”

“Are you okay?”

“Ankle feels twisted.” He heard more scraping noises, followed by a strong grunt. “Can’t seem to get my foot free.”

“Let me help.” Conner scooted forward until he bumped into her prostrate figure. He slid his hands under her arms and gently tugged. She didn’t budge.

“Damn. I’m stuck. I think I feel blood trickling down my foot.”

“We’ll figure something out. Don’t panic.”

“Thanks. I wasn’t planning to.”

Conner took the flashlight from her. There was, in fact, a small crater beneath them-small, but bigger than he might’ve guessed. O’Brien’s foot had wedged itself neatly into it.

He tested some of the surrounding brick and mortar. It felt loose and crumbly. “I think I can get you out of here.” He hesitated. “Um… I have to… um…” He cleared his throat. “Have to, you know. Reach between your, um, legs.”

“What are we, in kindergarten? Just do it already.”

“Right, right.” Conner inched forward till he was directly behind her. With O’Brien blocking his path, the only way he could get to the crater was by folding himself on top of her and reaching down in front. His hips hung on her left shoulder as he pried her foot loose. He was forced to prop his body on top of hers, his chin resting against her knee. The whole thing struck him as some bizarre variant on good ol’ 69, but he opted to keep the thought to himself.

“Having any luck?” O’Brien grunted. Conner suspected she was probably in more pain than she cared to let on.

“Yes,” he answered. “But it’s slow work.”

“What do you weigh, anyhow?”

Conner bristled. “Two hundred. Two-oh-five, tops.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you should lay off the frozen margaritas.”

Conner grimaced. “Remind me again why I’m busting my butt to help you?”

After about two more minutes of making like a gopher, Conner managed to create an opening large enough to withdraw her foot. Gently, he helped her out of the rocky crevasse. Her foot was bleeding.

“Think you can walk on it?”

“Assuming I can get out of these tunnels into someplace where you can walk, yes.”

“Stiff?”

“A little.”

“Here. Let me massage it.” To his surprise, she didn’t protest. He wrapped himself over her again and began rubbing the sore calf and foot.

Her foot was soft and warm, and despite the bizarre circumstances, Conner felt himself responding to her touch. “You have… um… very nice feet.”

“My momma always said it was my best feature.”

“Well… I wouldn’t go as far as that.” He continued massaging the sore muscles, working his way slowly up her calf.

“You can quit if you’re tired.”

“No. I don’t mind.” Taking her shoulders, he adjusted her slightly, pulling her up into his lap. Again she didn’t resist.

She turned slightly and so did he, till they were almost face-to-face. Even if he couldn’t see her very clearly, he could definitely feel her presence.

“O’Brien,” he said.

“Yes?” she whispered.

Whatever it was he was planning to say, he forgot it. He leaned forward slightly, and once again, to his amazement, she did not draw back. Their lips met.

“How’s your foot?” Conner asked, when at last their lips parted.

“Foot?” she replied, and a second later, they were kissing again. The brush of her lips sent warm shivers cascading down his spine.

Abruptly, she broke it off. “I’m sorry,” she said, placing a hand against his chest.

“Sorry? Why? I’m not.”

“It’s just-I just-“ She paused. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“But-why?”

“I’m still on duty.”

“We’ll call this a coffee break.”

“But-I can’t-for all I know-”

“What are you saying?”

O’Brien grabbed the flashlight and began brushing herself off. “It wouldn’t be appropriate, Conner. You’re still a suspect.”

Conner felt as if he’d been thrown overboard and dashed against the rocks. So that was it. Despite all they’d been through, she still held out the possibility that he was the killer.

“Anyway,” she said, changing the subject, “let’s move on.”

“Right. Fine. Whatever you-“ Conner stopped in midsentence. As O’Brien turned, the beam of the flashlight washed across the crater. “Give me that thing.”

Conner took the flashlight and aimed it into the now even larger crevasse. There was something down there. Something shiny and metallic.

Conner reached into the opening. He knocked some dust and rubble out of the way and managed to come up with a palm-sized metallic silver box.

“This doesn’t look like part of the sewer system,” Conner said. “But I don’t know what it is.”

“I do,” O’Brien said anxiously. “It’s an electronic voice disguiser. Our killer must’ve left that behind.” She took the box from him and carefully wrapped it in a handkerchief.

“But why did he leave it down here?”

“I don’t know. Probably an accident. Maybe he fell into the crater, too. Maybe he dropped the thing without realizing it. Whatever the reason, it’s a big break for us.”

“What-another serial number to trace?”

O’Brien shook her head. “I’m hoping for something even better. Fingerprints.”

29

An hour later, Conner abandoned the search through the tunnels. When he made his goodbyes, O’Brien grabbed his arm and said, “Go get ’em, boy. Win this one for the Gipper.”

“I never knew the Gipper.”

She squirmed. “Then win it for some other dead sports guy.”

Conner smiled. “I’ll do my best.” She gave his hand a squeeze, and then he was off.

Just before he arrived at the first tee-off, Conner spotted Fitz, who stepped forward to intercept him.

Fitz motioned him to the side. “I want a word.”

Conner checked his watch. “Could we do this after I sign in?”

Fitz shook his head. “Do you have any idea what’s waiting for you up there?”

“This is just a wild guess, but… my golf clubs?”

“Yeah, that-and three camera crews and about a thousand golf fanatics.”

Conner went bug-eyed. “No!”

“Yes! And they’re all here to see you.”

“But-why?”

“You’re the man of the hour. The latest phenom. The underdog who bounced back from personal tragedy to batter down the favorites. You’ve got a story no reporter-or fan-can resist. You’re practically a folk hero.”

Conner probed the side of his mouth with his tongue. “Do I detect a certain note of cynicism?”

“I’m not cynical about your performance yesterday. I thought that was incredible. I always knew you had it in you. I just didn’t know if I’d live to see it.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“The problem is I don’t want you to blow it after you’ve come so close.”

“And of course, it goes without saying that I would normally blow it.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. You pay me to look after you, and that’s what I’m doing. Every athlete has a tendency to choke when he thinks he’s being watched, and today you’re going to be watched big time.”

“I won’t choke.”

“I also know that you, more than most, crave attention and love to play to a crowd. Especially a crowd that adores you. Especially a female crowd that adores you.”

“I won’t get distracted.”

“There’s going to be a ton of pressure. Those reporters will be badgering you, telling you that Ace just bogeyed the thirteenth or Harley just got a hole-in-one on the ninth. Trying to get your reaction. You have to put all that out of your head.”

“I know this already, Fitz.”

“You have to keep your brain on the game. Ignore the leader board. Concentrate on the game, and nothing but-”

“Fitz, please.” Conner held up his hands. “You can skip the pep talk. I’m ready.”

“You say that, but you-”

“Fitz, I’m telling you-I’m ready.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Fitz.” He laid his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Listen to me. Did you trust Gary Player?”

“Well, of course, but-”

“Did you trust Jack Nicklaus?”

“Well, sure-”

“Did you trust Arnold Palmer?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Good.” Conner looked him firmly in the eye. “Now trust me.”

Conner sailed through the first nine holes of the course, beating his previous day’s score by two strokes. Even his putting, usually the worst part of his game, was perfection itself. The crowd behind the gallery ropes stayed with him the whole distance, but if Conner was aware of their presence, he never indicated it.

Conner showed no signs of letting up on the back nine. He blitzed through the water holes of Amen Corner, all the while staying dry as a stiff martini. He listened patiently as Fitz made recommendations about clubs and tactics. As they finished the fifteenth, no one in the area-including Conner-could miss hearing one of the commentators announce that Conner Cross now had the best score in the tournament.

As they approached the sixteenth hole, one journalist sidled up to Conner and engaged him in a brief whispered conversation. Fitz, who was out of earshot, was clearly not amused.

At the seventeenth hole, Conner set up his tee shot, but hesitated before hitting the ball. He gazed out at the horizon, surveying the fairway, testing the wind. After a few more moments, he waved Fitz over for a consultation.

“C’mon,” Fitz whispered. “We don’t want to pick up a stroke for delay of the game.”

“I won’t be long.” He cast his eyes dreamily toward the fairway. “Fitz, what would you say… if I went for it?”

Fitz didn’t need an explanation of what that meant. “I’d say you’d lost your mind.”

“Well, now, let’s give it some thought.”

“Conner, please don’t blow it when you’re doing so well. I thought you were past all this macho, going-for-it stuff.”

“This isn’t machismo, Fitz. It’s plain strategy.”

“The smartest strategy is to lay up. Take the dogleg left, then get to the green on your second shot.”

“Normally, I would agree, but today…” His eyes turned back toward Fitz. “Today I think that would constitute an extra stroke I can’t afford.”

Fitz’s eyes narrowed. “What did that reporter tell you?”

Conner leaned closer. “It’s Ace. He’s four holes behind us. He dropped two strokes on the first two holes, but after that, he’s been mirroring my performance the whole way. And I’m sure I need not remind you…”

Fitz completed the sentence. “That he started the day two strokes ahead.”

“Which means we’re tied. Or will be, if he continues to play as he has, which seems likely. I need to pick up a stroke.”

“But there’s no straight shot. You think your ball can go through those trees?”

“Over them.”

“Over them! Are you kidding?”

“It’s possible. Theoretically.”

“But it’s so risky, Conner.”

“It has to be. Otherwise, Ace will simply duplicate it. It has to be something so risky he won’t dare try it himself.”

Fitz nodded grimly. “This would certainly qualify. I don’t think anyone’s gotten to the green in one on this hole in the history of the Masters.”

“On the other hand, no one has more experience than me at trying.”

“Trying and failing.”

Conner raised his club. “So what do you say?”

Fitz ruminated for several seconds. “I… I think you should do what you think is right,” he said finally. He paused a moment before adding: “I trust you.”

“Thank you, Fitz.” Conner took the proferred club and strolled calmly to his tee-off spot.

He drew in his breath and tried to remember everything he had ever been told about this game. Loosen your grip. Keep your weight on both legs. Swing smoothly, with a strong follow-through. And he remembered one other piece of advice as well, something his old buddy John McCree had said a million years ago and a million miles from here.

If it isn’t fun, what’s the point?

A tiny smile crept across his face, and he knew what he was going to do.

Conner went for it.

30 The ball climbed into the sky, becoming a tiny dot against the fluffy white clouds overhead, reaching ever higher, passing the water hole, soaring over President Eisenhower’s tree, and not coming down until it was only a few precious feet from the green. Pandemonium erupted. The crowd screamed, and the applause didn’t die for minutes. The commentators went apoplectic, then launched into a spew of hyperbole. Everyone in sight seemed to be pouring out their love and affection, all in Conner’s direction.

Except Fitz. Fitz was remaining notably stone-faced.

As they strolled to the eighteenth and final hole of the course-and the tournament-Conner whispered into Fitz’s ear. “Hear that? They love me.”

Fitz nodded stolidly. “It’s true.”

“They think I’m magnificent.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Everyone!” Conner stopped. “Except you.” He peered at his caddie. “You’re afraid this will go to my head and I’ll blow it on the last hole.”

Fitz averted his eyes. “It’s a sin to tell a lie…”

Conner laughed, then slapped the man on the back. “It’s not going to happen, Fitz.”

“You won’t let the crowd get to you?”

“Crowd? What crowd?” He winked. “I’m here to play golf.”

And after Conner Cross eagled the eighteenth, no one in the world could doubt it.

Conner spent a good half-hour with the reporters under the giant maple tree, then retired to the locker room to change. He’d played fabulously well-the best game of his career. It showed in his score, too. He’d finished at 274-only four strokes above Tiger Woods’s all-time best Masters four-round score of 270. He was definitely a contender. But there were still fourteen players on the course, including Harley Tuttle, who had placed in almost every tournament that year, and Ace Silverstone, who had been leading the pack since the first day. All he could do was cross his fingers-and wait.

He changed into his street clothes and ambled upstairs to the bar. He’d never felt less like drinking in his entire life, but he knew the bar was where the action would be-and the players. When the final scores were posted, the barflies would be the first to know.

A few minutes after Conner sat down, Harley Tuttle entered the bar. He made his way toward Conner.

“Well,” Conner said. “Do I dare ask how you did?”

“I can tell you this,” Harley replied. “I didn’t beat you.”

Conner felt a quickening in his heart, a tightening in his gut. “How much difference?”

“Two strokes. That eagle on the seventeenth nailed it for you. Man, that took some balls.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll probably end up in fourth or fifth place,” he said downheartedly. “I blew it on the fifteenth. Totally underestimated the distance. Should’ve known better.” He shook his head. “Like my daddy always said, Measure twice, saw once.”

“Hey, you’ve got nothing to feel low about. This is your first year on the tour, and you’ve placed time after time. You must be racking in the bucks big time.”

“It has been a good year financially,” Harley conceded.

“So stop with the making morose. Get yourself a beer.”

“Thanks,” Harley said, grinning. “I think I will.”

Conner scanned the room, wondering where Fitz was. If the news came in, and if it was what he dreamed it might be-he wanted Fitz to be a part of it. He could never have won the tournament without Fitz’s help, and he knew it.

Barry Bennett was standing by the front window, staring out at the course. He seemed wistful but, for once, sober. “The last player is coming off the course,” he announced. He turned toward the throng. “Ladies and germs, the Masters tournament is finished. It’s all over but the crying.”

Yes, Conner thought, but will it be crying salty tears or crying for joy? That was the question.

Several of the players were kind enough to say a few words to Conner on their way to or from the bar. “Good luck,” one said. “We’re rootin’ for you,” said another.

Conner thought about that. He wondered if anyone really was rooting for him. Would people like to see him triumph, just for the novelty of it? Or had he made himself so thoroughly obnoxious that the thought of a Conner Cross championship sent shivers down their spines? It was hard to know.

He was almost embarrassed. There were so many things going on right now. His best friend and his first love had been murdered. The killer was blackmailing the tournament officials. Last night, someone had taken a few potshots at him. And here he was, sitting in the bar, possessed by one thought: his golf score. It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t even care.

But he did care. And it did matter. Maybe it wouldn’t seem important if he hadn’t come so close. But he had-and now all he could think about was how wonderful it would be to slide his arms into the sleeves of one of those lovely green jackets.

Less than five minutes later, Conner saw one of the scoring officials entering the hallway outside. There was a large white posterboard under his arm that couldn’t possibly be anything other than the final scores. The official walked to one of the walls outside and began adhering the poster with sticky white tape.

Conner polished off the last of his ginger ale. It seemed the time had come.

31

Conner slowly pushed himself away from the table. You will not run, he told himself. You will remain calm, cool, and collected, no matter how desperately you want to mow down everyone standing between you and that poster. You will make Fitz proud.

You will make John proud.

He wasn’t even out of the bar when he saw Fitz making his way in.

One look at Fitz’s face was all he needed. It told the whole story.

He hadn’t won.

As Conner approached the final rankings, the crowd parted wordlessly, creating a path for him. It seemed Ace had rallied on the last five holes, matching Conner’s score on every hole but the seventeenth, and bettering it twice.

He’d beaten Conner-by a single stroke.

Just as the sun was setting on the Augusta National, two men were huddled on the porch outside one of the cabins. The hour was late and the night was still. There were no sounds, no whispers of life; no one seemed to be about-except on that porch. And even there, the men were doing everything in their power to prevent anyone from noticing.

“But why here?” one of them asked. He was just as nervous now as he had been several days ago, when they first met back at the bar on the outskirts of town.

“Just do it,” the taller one fired back. “Quick! Before someone notices.”

The first man pressed his weight against the door and tried the knob. It didn’t turn. “Door’s locked,” he murmured. “See? This is pointless.”

The other man pushed him out of the way. “What are you, a man or a moron?” With one mighty leap, he flung himself against the door, shoulder first. The aged and weathered wood cracked, then began to splinter. Another hard thrust against the warped wood, and the door was open.

“Easy as pie,” he said, massaging his shoulder. “Now get in, before someone spots us.”

Both men quickly skittered inside. One of them-the one who didn’t want to come in the first place-reached for the light switch.

“Stop!” his companion insisted. “Do you want everyone to know we’re in here?”

“No. I just want to be able to see where the hell I’m going.”

“Then use this.” A small rectangular object flew through the air. The other man held up his arms, not knowing what it was he was about to intercept. When it arrived, it almost clubbed him in the face.

“A flashlight,” he murmured. “Thank God.” He pushed forward on the plastic switch, casting a thin beam of light through the cabin. “So now that we’re here,” he said, addressing his cohort, “why are we here?”

The other man smiled thinly. “We’re here to finish what we’ve started. To close all the loopholes. To end it once and for all.”

“You love that crap, don’t you?”

“Love what crap?”

“Talking in riddles. Even when you know there’s not the slightest chance anyone will know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re really into it. You think it makes you seem deep, don’t you? Well let me tell you something-it doesn’t. It just makes you seem like a jerk-off.”

“You wound me.”

“Cut the bullshit.”

“Why the sudden hostility?”

The other man moved forward, the flashlight illuminating his path. “I’ll tell you why. I’ve gone along with you all the way on this. You know I have. And what’s it gotten me?”

“For starters, a hell of a lot of money.”

“But at what cost? The cops are everywhere. They’re closing in.”

“On you, maybe.”

“That’s my point. What the hell good is the money if I never get a chance to spend it?”

“I think you’re overreacting.”

“I don’t care what you think. I didn’t sign on to take these risks. And if you expect me to do it any longer, you’re going to have to pay me a lot more than you have so far.”

“I did try.”

“Trying’s not good enough, you manipulative son-of-a-bitch! I’m two seconds away from telling the cops everything I know. Maybe offering a deal. Turning state’s evidence in exchange for immunity. What do you think about that, asshole?”

“You’re so predictable.”

The other man’s head twitched. “Predictable? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that. You’re so easy.”

“You’re saying you predicted this?”

“Of course I did. How could I not? You’re about as subtle as a plane crash. I saw it coming… and prepared accordingly.”

He tried not to let it show how much the man’s words, his eerie tone of voice, bothered him. “Do you think you’re scaring me? Is that it? ’Cause if it is, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m done with being scared of you.”

“I know,” the other said, and all at once the merriment faded from his voice. “That was your big mistake.”

The golf club whipped around so quickly he could barely register what it was, much less take action to avoid it. If it hadn’t been for the flashlight, he would’ve had no chance at all. As it was, he didn’t have nearly time enough. He stumbled backwards, barely missing the lethal club as it whisked around just inches before his face. He bumped into the bed, then lost his balance and fell backwards, tumbling onto the king-size comforter.

He heard the familiar sound of rushing wind and knew the club was in action again. He rolled around, but this time he wasn’t quick enough. The golf club narrowly missed his head, but still managed to slam into the side of his neck.

He tried to scream, but found that the injury to his neck had somehow throttled his windpipe, cut off his air. All he could manage was a pathetic gurgling noise, hardly enough to summon help. He heard the whistling of air again and threw himself back, slamming his head against the bed’s backboard. It wasn’t enough. This time the club caught him square on the chin, shattering a few teeth and leaving him so dazed he could barely think, much less move.

“Damn it, you spoiled everything!” his assailant cursed. “I wanted one quick clean shot-like the first time. The mark of a professional.”

The man sprawled on the bed was aware of the other man’s movement. He felt the sharp dip, the signal that the other man had climbed onto the mattress and was slowly making his way to him. His head was swimming and red flashes fired before his eyes. He was barely conscious, and knew he wouldn’t be that for much longer.

“All right then,” the taller man said, snarling, as he hovered just overhead. “You wanted to make it messy? Fine-we’ll make it messy.”

He heard a scraping noise, and in the dim light of the flashlight-where was that thing now anyway?-he saw the other man extract a thin knife from its sheath.

“Time’s up,” the killer said, as he drew inexorably closer. “Now watch this last stroke. It’s one of my best.”

32

Back at the clubhouse, Conner licked the salt from the rim of his fourth margarita. Things couldn’t be any worse than this, he told himself. It just wasn’t possible.

It would be different if this had happened to the Conner of a few days before. He had never taken these tournaments seriously, never allowed himself to get too attached to the idea of winning. When he lost, it was no great shakes; hell, he hadn’t even been trying hard, right?

But somehow, somewhere in the midst of the excitement and horror, in the loss of his closest friends and the woodshedding of his caddie, he had lost that detachment. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had allowed himself to dream of winning-and found that he liked it.

He had been so close, damn it! So close. For all he knew, he might never play this well again. And it hadn’t been enough. He’d given the game everything he had-and come up short.

He couldn’t fault the other players. They had been tremendously supportive. Even Ace had offered a few kind words. Conner had secretly harbored the hope that this tournament might increase his fellow players’ respect for him and his skills, and that at least appeared to have happened.

But who was he kidding? It wasn’t the same as winning. Not by a mile.

He lifted the margarita to his lips. Could he down this in a single shot, he wondered?

“Conner, may I speak to you?”

Conner peered upward. His vision was already somewhat blurry, but not so much that he couldn’t make out the figure of Lieutenant O’Brien standing just in front of him.

What was she here for? he wondered. To offer her condolences?

“What’s up?” he said, trying not to sound as blotto as he was. “Come here to lick my wounds? ‘Cause if you have, I could make a few alternative suggestions…”

O’Brien looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m not here alone.”

Conner squinted, trying to bring his long-range vision into sharper focus. He spotted at least four uniformed police officers standing behind her. “What’s up, O’Brien? Is the Augusta National hosting the policemen’s ball?”

“Not exactly,” O’Brien said. She whipped her cuffs out from behind her jacket. “You’re under arrest.”

This had a more profound sobering effect than a dozen cups of coffee. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said, tugging at his shoulder. “Get up.”

“But-but-“ He allowed himself to be hoisted. “I told you I didn’t do it.”

“And for some stupid reason, I believed you. I guess I let my professional judgment get clouded. It won’t happen again.”

“But I’m telling you, I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t kill my own best friend.”

“I didn’t think so before, but-“ She stared at him for a tense moment, and Conner realized that there was something more behind this arrest. “There’s been another murder,” she said directly.

“Another one?” Conner was stunned. “But-I didn’t have anything to do with it. I couldn’t’ve. I haven’t left the clubhouse for hours.”

“Right. C’mon, Conner.”

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me. What about Freddy? Have you found him yet? He’s the one you need to talk to.”

“That would be extremely difficult,” O’Brien said, as she snapped the cuffs over Conner’s wrists. “He’s dead. As if you didn’t already know.”