Final Round

Dwight D. Eisenhower loved the Augusta National. Because of his friendship with cofounder Cliff Roberts, he was not only a member but a frequent visitor. After he became president, Eisenhower’s visits were so common that Roberts had a residence built for Ike on the club grounds. Because Eisenhower liked to fish, Roberts had already built him a pond nearby and stocked it with black bass and bluegill. Eisenhower spent the happiest days of his life at the Augusta National, where he could fish in the morning, then find ready partners to play golf all afternoon and contract bridge all night.

Eisenhower’s visits to Augusta were not, of course, without controversy. In 1957, when Eisenhower ordered the federal troops into Little Rock to protect the black students integrating Central High School, he reportedly made the call from Augusta. In reaction to this move, obviously controversial in the deep South, the Augusta Chronicle blasted him for “running the country from a country club.”

In 1955, when Eisenhower ran for reelection, opponents circulated a poster that read: Ben Hogan for President. If we’re going to have a golfer, let’s have a good one.

33

Conner protested, but to no avail. With the help of two uniformed officers, O’Brien hauled Conner out of the bar and led him down the corridor. All the pros in the vicinity stood agape, watching but not speaking, as the cops dragged him out of the building.

“There goes my short-lived reputation,” Conner muttered, as he was escorted down the stone path that divided the clubhouse from the cabins.

“Move!” O’Brien said curtly.

“You can’t just haul me away like this! I don’t even have a toothbrush. Let me stop by my-“ His head jerked around. “Hey, the lights are on in there! Someone’s in my cabin!”

O’Brien looked at him levelly. “And this surprises you?”

“Damn straight! I even locked my door tonight! What’s going on?”

O’Brien pondered for a moment, then shrugged. She gave one of the uniforms the signal. They led Conner back to his cabin.

Before he was even close, Conner could see that something serious had occurred while he’d been waiting for the postings and swilling margaritas. All the lights were on in the cabin, and uniformed men and women were swarming all over it. A dozen people, maybe more. Some of them Conner recognized-because he’d seen them before, out on the eighteenth hole in the sand trap where he’d found John’s body.

The previous crime scene.

O’Brien took him by the cuffs and led him inside. The crime scene techs parted as she approached, making a path for her without even being told. “We received an anonymous call about an hour ago,” she explained. “Said there’d been some kind of disturbance in your cabin. Violent, from the sound of it. When we arrived, we found the front door wide open. And this is what we found.”

She made a tiny gesture which was altogether unnecessary. Conner couldn’t possibly have missed the grisly main attraction.

It was Freddy E. Granger, golf pro and proud father of a recently married Southern belle. Only this time, he was sprawled across Conner’s bed. His throat had been cut-like Jodie’s, only not half so neatly. He must’ve struggled, Conner surmised, because the cut was jagged and irregular, like a dull knife working its way through a particularly tough piece of meat. Blood was everywhere, on the headboard, on the bedspread, on the carpet, and the walls. It had been a week of horrors, but this was the most grotesque, most hideous spectacle Conner had ever seen in his life, bar none.

“My God,” Conner said. He turned away, holding his stomach, feeling his gorge rising. “You can’t think-You can’t think that I-”

“We don’t think. We know.” O’Brien pushed him away from the bed, then jerked him toward the door. “You have the right to remain silent. If you decide to waive that right, anything you say can and will be used against you…”

34

Back at Augusta police headquarters, Conner sat in an interrogation room surrounded by half a dozen law enforcement officers. O’Brien had apparently won the coveted right to take the lead; she sat opposite the small table from him, a look of disbelief permanently etched on her face. Two men in uniforms stood behind her, their mouths closed but molded into something like a sneer. There was an older matronly woman administering the cautions and operating the tape and video equipment. And finally there were two huge burly men guarding the door.

“I’m tired of playing cat and mouse,” O’Brien said impatiently. “Just come clean. Tell us the truth. Then everybody can go home.”

“Everyone except me, you mean.”

O’Brien did not smile. “Well, Conner, I don’t see you going home for a good long time, no matter what you say.”

“You really know how to inspire a guy.”

She leaned across the table. “You must be racked with guilt by now. Killing your oldest and best friend-and his wife?” She shook her head sadly. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

“I’ve been telling you-I didn’t kill anyone.”

“And I have to admit-I bought it for a while. I went along with you. Played your game. But the game’s over now. You’ve been caught red-handed.”

“There’s no red on my hands. Not a trace of blood. If I committed this murder, where’s the blood?”

O’Brien was unimpressed. “I learned how to wash my hands back in kindergarten, Conner. It’s not a big trick.”

“How did I manage to not get any blood on my clothes?”

“Practice makes perfect.” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Give it up. No one’s buying it anymore.”

“Look, talk to the people at the clubhouse. Talk to the bartender. Talk to Harley or some of the other pros. I’ve been in that clubhouse for the last three hours. I never left once.”

“We’re checking your story. We know you were in the clubhouse. But no one was really keeping tabs on you-a fact you no doubt counted on. So far no one can be certain you didn’t slip away for a short while. After all, five minutes is all it would’ve taken.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense. Why would I want to kill Freddy?”

“I don’t know. Why did you kill John and Jodie?”

Conner’s face screwed up with anger. “I didn’t!” He leaned forward, voice angry. “I didn’t kill anyone!”

His shout rang through the tiny interrogation room, bouncing off the coarse plaster walls. Get a grip on yourself, Conner warned himself. This is exactly what they want. They want you to lose control, to babble.

Conner tried to calm himself. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m not saying anything more.”

“Do you want an attorney?”

Conner blew air through his teeth. That really would be the last resort, wouldn’t it? He might as well stamp I’M GUILTY on his forehead in big black letters. “No, I want you to let me go and leave me alone.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen.” O’Brien turned her head and gave a quick nod to one of the men standing behind her. Seemed it was time to change lobsters and dance.

The other man, a dark-haired middle-aged guy with eyes as deep as a water well, introduced himself. “I’m Sergeant Hopkins,” he said. “For the record, I’m taking the lead in the interrogation as of twenty-two-oh-six P.M.” He looked at Conner and smiled pleasantly. “What was it, Mr. Cross? Professional jealousy?”

Conner peered at him uncomprehendingly. “What are you talking about?”

“Motive, that’s what I’m talking about. I’ve got no problem with guilt; it’s obvious you did it. Finding John McCree’s body yourself was a nice touch; that threw us off for a while. But you had clear means and opportunity. The only thing I can’t figure is motive.”

“So I killed John because he was a better golfer? That’s really pathetic.”

“To me, maybe. But to someone who spends his whole life knocking those balls around-who knows?” He tilted his head to one side. “Or maybe it was the woman.”

“The woman? Which woman?”

“Jodie McCree. She was your girl, once upon a time, wasn’t she? Don’t bother denying it. We’ve investigated this thoroughly.”

“That was years ago!”

“And I’ll bet it was digging into your craw every single day, wasn’t it?” His face darkened, and his eyes actually seemed to recede. “I’ll bet your hate festered like an open wound, getting worse and worse every day, until finally you just couldn’t stand it any longer. You saw them both at the tournament, maybe sitting across the table at the champions’ dinner, and you couldn’t stand it any longer. You had to do something. You had to strike back against the people who had wronged you. Isn’t that how it happened?”

“No!”

“You’ll feel better if you confess. Really. Just let it all go. You can’t imagine how much better you’ll feel.”

Giving Hopkins a few shots in the face would also make him feel better, but he wasn’t going to do that, either. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Fido.”

“So it was all a coincidence. Just a strange twist of fate that you found the body. That your golf club was the murder weapon. That you were on the scene when Mrs. McCree was killed, too. That you don’t have an alibi for either murder.”

“I didn’t know I’d need one-since I didn’t know there were going to be any murders!”

“Weren’t you a bit jealous of your old buddy John? When he went off to that big West Coast college? When he married your old girlfriend? When he won all those golf tournaments, and you couldn’t seem to win anything?”

“I’ve done all right this week.”

“Sure-’cause John McCree is out of the way.”

“That’s the stupidest-”

“When he was around, you were psychologically incapable of playing a good game. But once he was gone…”

“What is this, Psych 101? You’re on a gigantic fishing expedition. You don’t know anything. And you don’t have anything on me.”

“Other than a bloody mutilated corpse on your bed,” O’Brien replied. “How do you explain that?”

Conner frowned. “I can’t. But it wasn’t me.”

“Why would anyone else want to kill Freddy Granger?”

“I don’t know.”

“And even if they did-why would they do it in your cabin?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the same reason they took my golf club. To frame me.”

“And why would anyone want to do that?”

“I don’t know!”

“Is this going to be your story at trial? Because I have to tell you-it’s pathetic. No one’s going to believe you.”

“How could I know the answers to these questions? I wasn’t there! I didn’t do it!”

“Gee, maybe no one did it. Maybe it was suicide. Maybe Freddy slashed his own throat.”

Conner didn’t feel this remark merited a response.

“Or maybe it was just an accident. Maybe he slipped in the shower.”

Conner looked over at O’Brien. “Do I have to listen to this?”

“Or maybe his death was staged,” Hopkins continued. “Maybe he isn’t dead at all. Maybe this was some wacky fraternity stunt.”

“Would you just shut up!” Conner shouted. Once again, his voice echoed through the tiny room. “I’ve had it with you, understand? I did not kill my friends! I did not kill Freddy Granger! And-And-“ All at once, Conner’s shouts faded.

“Yes?” Hopkins said expectantly.

“And-damn.” Conner fell back into his chair. “I think I know who did.”

O’Brien pushed her way back to the interrogation table. “What are you saying?”

“I know who the killer is.”

“Yeah,” Hopkins snorted. “So do we.”

Conner’s eyes became soft and unfocused. “How stupid could I possibly be? It’s been right in front of my face the whole time.”

Hopkins pressed his hand against his forehead. “This is ridiculous. I refuse to be distracted by this ploy. I want to-”

O’Brien cut him off with a wave of his hand. “No. Let’s hear him out.”

“It’s so simple,” Conner said, still lost in his own thoughts. “Why didn’t I see it before?”

“Conner…” O’Brien took a step toward him.

“This is a load of crap,” Hopkins groused.

Conner was lost in thought. “Maybe there’s a way…”

“Can’t you see what he’s doing?” Hopkins bellowed. “He’s just buying time.”

O’Brien bit her lip. “I’m not so sure…”

“It’s obvious. He’s a con man, through and through. He has no sense of right or wrong. He’s a golfer, for God’s sake!”

“Oh, well then!” she exclaimed. “Snap on the shackles.”

“I’m telling you, O’Brien, he’s playing you for a fool. Again!”

O’Brien gave him a stony stare that shut him down in a heartbeat. “I said we’re going to hear him out. And you-Sergeant-will follow my lead. Got it?”

Hopkins buttoned his lip, a sullen expression on his face.

“Good.” She turned back to Conner. “Look, if you’re serious about this, we’re going to need proof. Otherwise-”

“Maybe we could create some proof,” Conner said. His brain was racing, tying to put all the disparate pieces together. “Maybe-if I could call Fitz.”

“Fitz? Why?”

“I’m allowed one phone call, aren’t I?”

“And you want to use it to call your caddie?”

“Man’s best friend.” Conner sat up and leaned across the tiny table. “Look, everybody-I know this seems crazy. But-just go along with me, one more time. Let me play out one last round-under O’Brien’s close supervision, of course.”

O’Brien raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t be certain,” Conner continued. “But it’s just possible we may be able to bag a killer.”

35

About half an hour later, Fitz wandered into the clubhouse bar-but it wasn’t the Fitz to whom everyone on the tour had grown accustomed over the years. His normally dapper, immaculate appearance had disappeared; he was dirty, disheveled, smudged. His cap was on crooked and his face was stubbled. He looked exhausted. For once, all his years showed in the deep lines etched in his face.

He leaned against the bar, looking as if he could barely hold himself upright. “Club soda,” he ordered. “Quick.”

The bartender, Vic, popped open a bottle and poured the drink posthaste.

Most of the pros were still hanging around the bar, swapping sto-ries or commiserating over the tournament results. Tomorrow morning their planes would take them home, but for the moment, they were free to amuse themselves. Ace sat at one table, surrounded by well-wishers and hangers-on. Harley sat at another, his fifth place trophy resting on the table just before him. Barry was back at the bar, swilling to his heart’s content. And on the other side of the room, one table was occupied by the three top men in the tournament officialdom: Tenniel, Spenser, and Peregino. A heated conversation was taking place at that table, with lots of angry, exasperated sputtering and arguing. Trying to determine what was going on at that table was the second-most popular topic of conversation in the room.

The first, of course, was Conner Cross being hauled off by the cops for triple homicide.

Ace saw Fitz at the bar, saw his condition, and made his way toward him. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“No,” Fitz said breathlessly. “Everything is definitely not okay.”

“Conner?”

Fitz nodded. “The police have him in custody. They’re about ready to lock him up and throw away the key.”

Ace shook his head sympathetically. “I can’t believe it. Sure, Conner was kind of a wild man-but killing three people? Incredible.”

“He didn’t do it,” Fitz said.

Ace smiled. “You’re a good-hearted, loyal man, Fitz.”

“I’m not speaking out of loyalty. I’m speaking out of fact. He didn’t do it.”

“Is there anyway I can help?” Harley Tuttle had come to the bar. “I’m sorry-I couldn’t help but overhear. But, if there’s anything I can do, I’m ready.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Fitz said.

“Conner has been very kind to me. More than once. Taking me under his wing. Introducing me to the boys on the tour. Like my daddy used to say, A friend in need is a friend indeed. I owe Conner.”

“I owe him, too,” Barry said with a hiccup, on the other side of the bar. “I owe him a bloody lip.”

Fitz scowled. “Shut up, you miserable drunk.”

Barry was nonplussed. “I don’t know why you’ve stayed with that creep. I’m sure you could get other offers, even at your-your-“ He hiccupped again, then declined to finish his sentence.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said a gentle voice from somewhere behind him. It was Artemus Tenniel. Spenser and Peregino were trailing in his wake. “We’ve heard the most awful rumors about Conner. If you could possibly enlighten us-”

“The police have charged him with murder,” Fitz said, giving him the quick and dirty version. “But they’re wrong. And Conner says he can prove it.”

“Prove it?” Tenniel seemed dubious. “How?”

“By finding the murder weapon. The knife that was used on Jodie and Freddy.”

“Indeed. And how exactly would Conner know where that weapon is-if he’s not the murderer?”

“He knows where the weapon is because he knows who the murderer is.” Fitz’s voice dropped to a hush. “He’s figured it out.”

“How?” Ace asked.

“I don’t know, but he did. He’s certain. And he says he knows where the killer would’ve hidden the knife. Says the scum would use it to try to divert suspicion to Conner, like he’s been doing all along. So Conner figures there’s only about a half a dozen or so places it could be. And he’s had me running all over the grounds, checking them before it’s too late.”

Peregino cleared his throat. “And have you found it?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

Peregino pulled back quickly. “Oh, I don’t-I-“ He paused. “Just curious. You know. Could affect the image of the PGA.”

“I haven’t checked all the places yet,” Fitz said. “After I wet my whistle, I’ll get back at it. I’m not letting this killer railroad Conner.”

“You’re a good man, Fitz,” Spenser said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Don’t work too hard,” Ace added. “You have to take care of yourself, too.”

Fitz nodded, then took another swallow of his drink. “I made a promise to Conner, and I intend to keep it.”

Everyone nodded sympathetically. Gradually, the group dissipated. A few of them left the clubhouse. A few minutes later, Fitz was alone with the bartender.

He polished off the last of his drink.

“How about another?” Vic asked.

“Nah,” Fitz said, casting his eyes about the now much emptier room. “I think that’ll do it.” He paused. “Yes, I think that did just fine.”

36

The door opened, and a thin stream of light spilled into the locker room. One shadowy figure quickly entered, then closed the door behind him, returning the room to darkness. He moved quietly, careful not to make a sound, and deliberately, advancing toward his goal. He had a job to perform, and the sooner he got it done and got out of there, the better off he would be. He placed a key in a small lock. Then he opened the locker door, careful not to let it squeak. He reached inside and a moment later…

He removed a long, blood-stained serrated knife.

“That’s a nasty looking thing. Couldn’t you at least have cleaned it before you stuck it in my locker?”

The man with the knife spun around, his eyes squinting in the darkness. He didn’t have to squint for long. He heard a click, and barely a moment later, the locker room was illuminated by three overhead fluorescent bulbs.

Conner Cross stood at one end of the locker room staring at the man at the other end-who was holding a knife.

Harley Tuttle.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Harley whispered, just under his breath. “What the hell are you doing out of prison?”

“Is that something your daddy used to say? Or did you think it up on your own?”

“I heard you were arrested. In custody.”

“I got a temporary reprieve, Harley. Just long enough to catch the real killer.”

“Really? Then you’ll be interested in this.” He stepped forward, holding out the knife. “I found this lying on the floor. I don’t know how it got-”

“Harley, please. Don’t bother.”

“Don’t bother?” He twisted up his face. “I don’t get you, Conner.”

“Don’t bother lying, Harley.”

“But what-“ He did a double-take. “Oh, my God. You don’t think-you’re not imagining-that I committed those crimes?”

“Yes, Harley. As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Conner, that’s crazy. Look, I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can. But first, let me take this.” He surged forward and, before Harley had a chance to protest, snatched the blood-stained knife. He wrapped it in a towel, then set it on a counter out of Harley’s reach. “Don’t want you to get any crazy ideas. Like maybe going for four.”

“Conner-are you telling me you honestly believe-”

“I believe this. You killed John. You killed Jodie. You killed your accomplice Freddy, poor schmuck. And you masterminded the extortion plot.”

“Conner-you’re insane.”

“I’ve been certain for some time that the killer was a golf pro. It made sense. It had to be someone who could lure him out to the eighteenth hole in the dead of night. And when the killer had me running all over the course by remote control cellular phone, his knowledge of the course, his terminology, his knowledge of the game all convinced me he had to be somebody on the tour.”

“But even if that’s true,” Harley protested, “why would you accuse me?”

“I didn’t at first. I thought it was Freddy. After all, it was his club that found its way into my bag, right? He’s the only other player here using Excaliburs, and his height would explain why the shaft was shorter than mine. But then you went and killed Freddy, screwing up my theory.”

“Conner-you’re talking like a crazy man.”

Conner ignored him. “I was certain the key to the mystery lay in understanding the meaning of Fiji. It was the last thing Jodie heard John say before he died. She thought it was important-and so did I. I tried to bait the killer into commenting on it over the cellular phone, but he didn’t go for it. So I was left wondering-what could it mean? Was it an acronym? A code word? A geographical reference?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Harley said impatiently.

“Oh, I think you do. But I couldn’t figure it out-until this evening, when I heard a cop make a remark about a fraternity stunt. It was all I needed to jog my memory. A bit of trivia left over from my college days. John was a member of the Beta Theta Pi frat house. They’re called Betas. But there’s another fraternity house in the Greek system called Phi Delta Gamma-right, Harley? And its members are called-Fijis.”

“You’re mad. Stark raving mad.”

“John was a Beta at Stanford, but I felt certain he knew some Fijis-maybe even one who didn’t want to be known. So I had a lieutenant friend of mine call the university and get faxed some pages from the Fiji frat house annual for the years John went to school there. And guess what we found?”

Harley wasn’t smiling any more. “I’m waiting.”

“It wasn’t easy. You were a good deal heavier then, and you’ve changed your name. But once I saw the photos enlarged, there was no doubt in my mind. That kid who used to be called Myron Caldwell is now Harley Tuttle.”

“You’re certifiable,” Harley said. He made for the door. “I’m leaving.”

Conner shoved him back. “Granted, you’ve done everything imaginable to change your appearance. Dyed your hair black, shaved your beard. Ditched the glasses and the earring. Just the same, I made you.”

“This is ludicrous!” Harley protested. “Even if I could do such a thing, why would I want to?”

“You know, I was curious about that myself. So as soon as I ID’d your picture, I got faxes of your-or Myron’s-college records. Seems you were quite a promising golfer back in college, which of course increased the likelihood that John would’ve bumped into you somewhere. But it also turns out you ran into a spot of trouble during your junior year. You got arrested and charged with several offenses-sexual offenses. Including statutory rape.”

“You’re full of it,” Harley said. Once more, he pressed forward, trying to escape.

And once more, Conner shoved him back. “I’ve got proof.”

“You’ve got nothing!” Harley’s voice was rising.

“Wanna see the police report?” Conner whipped a green sheet of paper out of his pocket. “There it is, big as life and twice as ugly. Statutory rape. My God-how can you live with yourself?”

“You’re out of line, Conner.”

“If it had just been petty theft or hot-wiring cars, that would be one thing. Most kids get into a little trouble before they grow up. But sex with minors?”

Harley’s face flushed red. “You don’t know what you’re babbling about.”

“I think I do. And it makes me sick.” He shoved Harley backward. “Come on, you disgusting son-of-a-bitch, talk.”

Harley’s neck tensed. “I’m not-”

Conner shoved him again. Harley slammed into the lockers. “You’re a pervert, Harley. A pervert who takes advantage of children. A child molester.” He kept pounding away at him, shoving him back again with each word. “You’re sick, Harley. You make me want to puke.”

“It was just a frat party, for God’s sake!” The words came tumbling out, like lava spewing from a volcano. “That’s all it was!”

Conner stopped hammering him. Finally, he had the man talking.

“We had some fun, they had some fun. All us horny frat boys, all those equally horny sorority girls running around in their skimpy nighties. We were all drunk and turned on and-and-I don’t know. I guess things got out of control. But no one forced anyone to do anything.”

“But someone turned you in.”

Harley bit down on his lip. Conner could imagine his inner turmoil. A part of his brain knew he should remain silent, but another part was desperate to speak in his defense. “Someone called the cops. They showed up, and-“ Harley cast his eyes toward the floor. “I assumed everyone there was a sorority girl, meaning they were eighteen or older. But it turned out one of them-the one I was with-was somebody’s little sister. Fifteen. And the cops found out.”

“So you were arrested.”

“My attorney said I could get off easy if I pled guilty. So I did. Two years probation. I never served a day in jail. It was no big deal.”

“No big deal-unless you were planning on a career in the PGA. Because, as I’ve been reminded all week long, the PGA has very strict morals and ethics regulations. And there’s no way in hell they’d let a convicted sex offender on the tour.”

“It just wasn’t fair! One stupid mistake, and it was all over. All my plans, all my prospects, all those years of practice-all down the dumper. Myron Caldwell had come to a dead end.”

“So you became… someone else.”

Harley flopped down on the nearest bench, tired and resigned. “Myron disappeared. I changed my looks, changed my name. Eventually created a body of false IDs and fake background records. Then, when I thought enough time had passed, I entered the PGA qualifier. And made it.”

“And so this year you joined the tour.”

“That’s right. But I’ve been careful. Damned careful. I never went anywhere near anyone I thought might be able to make me. That’s why I was so uncomfortable the other day when that crowd followed us all over the course. That’s why I didn’t socialize much. And I’ve thrown tournaments. I figured a guy who consistently places fourth or fifth can remain relatively anonymous-but a champion receives entirely too much publicity. I didn’t want a crowd watching me; I didn’t want to be on television. So I contented myself with placing. Just high enough to rake in the bucks-never high enough to attract attention.”

“It’s also why you skipped Pebble Beach, isn’t it? Too close to Stanford.”

Harley nodded. “I had everything planned so carefully. And then-“ He stopped short.

“And then, Monday afternoon, I introduced you to John.”

“That’s right.” His face twisted. “Didn’t recognize him at all. But he recognized me. I could tell it the second he laid eyes on me.”

“John was like that,” Conner said quietly. “Never forgot a face.”

“No, he didn’t, damn him. And I knew he’d feel honor-bound to report me, too. That’s what the PGA requires, isn’t it?”

Conner nodded solemnly. “So you killed him. Before he had a chance.”

“What choice did I have?” Harley spread his arms wide. “My career was on the line. I’d put too much work into this to let it slip away-again!”

“But why the golf club switch? Why frame me?”

“Why not? It was your damn fault I was in this mess. And it was convenient, since you were using the same brand clubs as Freddy. I thought the best way to keep the cops from looking around too much was to give them an obvious suspect. So you were elected. I did the dirty deed with your club, knowing full well it would be traced back to you.”

“But how did you get it?”

“Ah, that’s why I needed Freddy. I didn’t want to do anything that would attract attention to me. I needed help.”

“Why Freddy?”

“I knew he needed cash, bad. He hadn’t placed in a tournament in two years, and he was throwing it away hand over fist on his daughter’s wedding. He was such a weasel-it didn’t take much to get him in my back pocket. I slipped him some bucks and he agreed to separate you from your clubs.”

“The peephole.”

“Yup. That was the dodge he used. And you fell for it. Left your clubs on the driving range. I removed your nine-iron and replaced it with Freddy’s-after scraping off the serial number. And then I lured John out to the eighteenth green-”

“And killed him in cold blood. Buried him in the sand trap.”

Harley didn’t deny it.

“And Jodie?”

Harley took a deep breath. “I didn’t plan to kill Jodie,” he said quietly. “But I passed her at the wedding reception Friday night and she was muttering Fiji over and over under her breath. It was only a matter of time until she figured it out, or told someone else who figured it out. I couldn’t take the risk. I tried to get Freddy to help, but of course he was too much of a weakling. So I took care of her myself.”

“One sin begets another. And Freddy?”

“That greedy bastard couldn’t be satiated. Once he realized what I had done with your club, he thought he had me under his control. He demanded money, more than I could provide. That’s why I concocted that extortion scheme-I needed the cash to pay him off. And even after I made away with the million-he wanted more! Can you believe it? I tried, but even as I sent the second fax, I knew Tenniel would never go for it. So there was only one course left to me. Freddy had to die.”

“Which you happily arranged. Framing me in the process.”

Harley shrugged. “Best to be consistent, don’t you think? It was the logical thing to do.”

“I suppose it was you who took the potshots at me last night.”

“You mentioned Fiji on the cellular phone. I realized Jodie must’ve talked to you before I killed her. I didn’t intend to kill you just to shut you up. If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I needed you alive to be my scapegoat.”

Conner stared at him, his cold demeanor, his guiltless expression. “You’ve killed three human beings-three-and for what? So you could be a pro golfer? For the bragging rights of being on the PGA tour?”

“Yes, damn it! Not to mention the money. I’ve made almost a quarter of a million bucks in three months. Think of that! Three months! Imagine what I stand to make in the years to come. I’ve worked all my life for this. I’ve spent my spare time practicing, day in, day out. While other kids were out screwing around, I was knocking a ball into a tin cup, mastering my stroke, perfecting my swing. I had a right to be on this tour. I deserved it. I earned it! And I wasn’t going to let them take it away from me. Not again!”

Crackers, Conner thought to himself. Absolutely altogether crackers. And golf drove him there. “Come on, Harley. We’re going to the police.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“I’m not going to the police.”

“Then I will.”

“And tell them what? That you have some screwy theory designed to get you off the hook? You don’t have any proof.”

“I have the knife.”

“Of course you do. You’re the killer.” Harley laughed. “But no one saw me with it. And no one ever will.”

“I’ll tell them what I know.”

“And who’s going to believe you? You’re just a screw-loose, shaved-head gonzo golfer. You can’t prove anything.”

“I think I can. See, we found your voice disguiser in the tunnels, where you dropped it. It has fingerprints all over it. And I’m betting they’ll match the ones we take from you at the police station a few minutes from now.”

“I can explain that away.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Conner reached into his pants pocket and removed a small tape recorder. “This has been recording ever word you’ve said since I turned on the lights.”

Harley’s face hardened like steel. “Give me that.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I said, give me that.”

“Or what? You’ll brain me with one of my golf clubs?”

Harley reached inside his jacket and slowly removed a small revolver. He pointed it at Conner’s head. “You won’t leave here alive.”

37

Conner stared at him. “You’re a veritable arsenal, aren’t you?”

“Like my daddy used to say, A smart man comes prepared.”

“Yeah? Well, here’s something my daddy used to say: You’re about to be in a hell of a lot of trouble, son.”

“Give me the tape recorder, Conner.”

“What else have you got? A flame thrower in your socks? Maybe a bazooka in your boxers?”

“Give me the tape recorder, Conner. Now!”

“I really don’t want to do that, Harley.”

“And I really don’t want to blow your brains out, Conner!” His voice was thin and strained. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. “But I’ve already killed three people. One more won’t make much difference!”

“Harley, let’s talk about-”

“Give it to me! Now!”

“Be reasonable-”

“Now!” Harley’s arm wavered up and down. His trigger finger twitched. “I said, now!”

Conner crouched down and laid the tape recorder on the tile floor. He gave it a gentle kick. The tiny recorder slid between them, stopping about two feet in front of Harley, who picked it up and dropped it into his coat pocket.

“Thank you,” Harley said, wiping his brow. “I don’t like to leave loose ends.”

Conner pursed his lips. “And what about me, Harley?”

“I don’t suppose you’d just give me your word not to tell anyone what you know?”

Conner didn’t answer.

“No. I didn’t think so.” He raised the gun eye level. “I suppose I should make this look like a suicide. ‘The golf club killer, racked with guilt, ends his killing spree by taking his own life.’ ”

He held the gun out at arms’ length and squinted, aiming carefully, zeroing in on Conner’s right temple…

“Freeze, asshole.”

Harley’s head whipped around. “Wha-?”

Lieutenant O’Brien was perched in one of the windows, behind and above him. “Drop the gun. Pronto.”

Harley pivoted slightly.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Harley. I’ve got you dead to rights. Now drop it!”

Harley opened his fist. The revolver dropped to the floor with a clatter.

“Now give it a kick. A good one.”

Harley complied. The gun went flying across the locker room, well out of sight.

“Now put the tape recorder on the bench.”

Harley did it.

O’Brien jumped down from the window ledge, careful to keep her gun trained on Harley. “Mr. Tuttle, you are officially under arrest.”

Harley recovered his mask of innocence. “You’re making a big mistake.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Conner Cross is the killer! He’s been trying to frame me. He’s desperate to divert suspicion to someone else.”

“Save the performance for the trial, Harley. I’ve been in that window listening for the past ten minutes.” She pressed her gun into the small of his back. “Now march. I’ve got a jail cell with your name on it.”

“All right. I’ll go. No need to get rough.” His body slumped. “Shouldn’t you get the knife? It’s your best evidence.”

Her eyes diverted for barely a fraction of a second, but it was all Harley needed. In the blink of an eye, he whirled around, ducking in case she fired the gun, and bashed his elbow back into her face. O’Brien went reeling backward, blood spurting from her nose, her head smashing into a row of lockers. Before she had a chance to react, Harley lunged forward, twisted her wrist, and wrested the gun away from her.

Conner sprang forward, but before he could reach Harley, the murderer had locked his arm around O’Brien’s throat and pointed the gun at her head. “Back off!” he shouted.

Conner froze in his tracks.

Harley pressed the gun hard against O’Brien’s right temple. “I mean it! I’ll blow her head to kingdom come!”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Harley. Killing her won’t help you.”

“Killing both of you will,” he muttered.

Conner turned his attention to O’Brien. “Are you all right?”

O’Brien’s eyelids fluttered. Blood still oozed from her nose, which looked as if it might be broken. Dark circles were forming around her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said, not very convincingly.

“Enough chatter!” Harley barked. “Move!” He tried to edge toward the door, holding O’Brien’s body in front of him like a shield. But O’Brien seemed barely conscious, dead weight. Each step was harder than the one before.

Conner watched carefully, waiting for an opportunity to do something without putting O’Brien at risk.

Harley made it to the exit. He released his grip on O’Brien’s throat and she fell in a crumpled heap at his feet. He cocked the gun again, then pointed it toward her head. “This is where you get off, sweetheart.”

Conner sprang across the room. Even as he did it, he knew there was a good chance Harley would readjust his aim and drill him before he arrived. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to stand still while this madman killed another one of his friends.

Harley twisted the gun around, but Conner slapped it aside just in time. The bullet flew up and to his right, impacting on one of the lockers. Conner hit Harley again, and the gun dropped to the floor.

“You-stupid-idiot!” Harley reared back his fist and took a shot at Conner’s chin. Conner ducked, and the blow missed him. Harley lost his balance and fell forward, giving Conner a perfect shot at his gut, which he took. Harley clutched his stomach, gasping for air.

Desperate, Harley reared his foot back and kicked O’Brien in the ribs, hard. A sharp cry spilled forth from her lips.

“Stop!” Conner knelt beside her.

Harley saw his opportunity and took it. He turned tail and bolted out the door.

Conner cradled O’Brien in his arms, slightly elevating her head. “Nikki! Talk to me. Are you all right?”

Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. “I’ll be fine,” she said. She wiped some of the blood from her face. “I just didn’t want that creep to drag me clear across the golf course.”

Conner brushed her hair from her face; some of it had gotten caught in the coagulated blood. “I was so worried-”

“Later,” she said. To his surprise, she pushed herself upright. “Let’s get that bastard before he disappears and becomes someone else.”

With Conner’s help, O’Brien rose to her feet. She collected her gun and made her way out the door. She seemed a bit unsteady, but she was holding together.

“There!” Conner said, pointing. Harley was making tracks across the first fairway. He already had a substantial lead on them. He probably planned to cut through the rough, then find his way to another one of those sewer access tunnels, Conner mused. He could slip off the grounds and disappear before they had a chance to call in backup.

O’Brien raised her gun and fired, without success. “Damn. He’s out of range. And if he gets off the grounds, our chances of finding him are about nil.”

Together, they started running. Conner led the way, but O’Brien held her own. Still, he knew it was hopeless. Harley had too great a lead on them. They’d never catch him like this.

O’Brien fired another shot, but it had no more effect than the first time. He was too far away.

Still racing, they crossed the driving range. Conner saw some clubs resting beside a bucket of balls. A crazy idea flitted through his brain.

“You keep running,” he told O’Brien. He stopped, grabbed the longest range club in the bag, tipped over the bucket of balls, and concentrated. Well, he thought, Fitz says I could hit a dime at two hundred yards. Let’s see if he’s right.

He swung, sending the first ball over O’Brien’s head and landing about ten feet in front of Harley, who saw it, paused momentarily-then kept on running.

You’ll have to do better than that, Conner. He took another swing, this time coming in a bit short. Damn. He didn’t have much time. At the speed Harley was running, he’d soon be out of Conner’s range, too.

Conner took another shot, then another, then another, all in close succession. Golf balls were raining down around Harley. He started zigzagging, tracing a serpentine path down the course, trying to avoid the hail of golf balls. But he kept running.

The next shot struck pay dirt. It came barreling across the course like a line drive and crashed into the back of Harley’s head. He screamed out, then stumbled and dropped to the ground.

Harley shook his head fiercely, regathering his wits. Gritting his teeth, ignoring the pain, he pulled himself back to his feet.

But the golf balls kept coming. Conner fired them off nonstop, one after the other. Harley kept running, but he wasn’t making nearly as good time as before. Conner hit him in the back, then in the leg, just behind his left knee. He was moving even slower, but he was still moving.

Conner took a deep breath. He knew he only had a few more chances left. What was it Fitz had tried to tell him the other day? Imagine the target. See it in your mind’s eye. Then swing.

He concentrated and tried to do everything he’d been told. He knew where Harley was. He knew where Harley was going. He knew where he wanted the ball to be. He pulled back the club… and fired.

The ball crashed into the back of Harley’s head, bringing him down hard. And this time, he did not get back up. A few moments later, O’Brien caught up to him. She whipped his hands behind his back and snapped on the cuffs. “It’s over, scumbag.”

A few moments later, Conner arrived at the scene. O’Brien was sitting on top of the prostrate and bound Harley Tuttle. “Looks like you have the situation well under control,” Conner commented.

“I let this jerk get the drop on me once,” she said, wiping more blood from her face. “I wasn’t going to let it happen again.” As if to demonstrate, she pressed down on the back of Harley’s head and shoved his face into the dirt.

“Bit rough for a Southern belle, aren’t you?” Conner asked.

“My momma didn’t raise any wussies.” O’Brien drank in air, trying to catch her breath. “Besides, see for yourself-this creep is wearing white shoes, and it’s still a week before Easter. There’s just no damn excuse for that.”

“Of course not.”

“Thanks for your help, Conner. I hate to admit this, but-you may not be the total toad I thought you were.”

Conner beamed. “Sweeter words were never spoken.”

“That was pretty slick work with the golf balls.”

Conner shrugged. “Well, after all-I am a professional.”

She nodded. “Good thing he wasn’t close to us. Then you’d’ve had to putt.”