Michael Palmer - Flashback

"Of course, Jason, old shoe, " Frank said. "But after two years and five hundred cases, I don't think you have to camp by the phone waiting to hear from us. Next to birth, death, and taxes, Serenyl is as close as life gets to a sure thing… And you know that, don't you."

Mainwaring's eyes narrowed. "What I know, " he said evenly, "is that this little tate-to-tate has gone on long enough."

Without offering his hand, the surgeon snapped up his briefcase and left. Not until the office door clicked shut did Frank's smile become more natural. In the interests of their deal, he had allowed the pompous ass to walk over him any number of times during the past two years. The son of a bitch even tried to tell him what music to listen to. Now, with the work completed and so successful, there was no longer any reason to defer to him, and Frank felt exhilarated that he hadn't. After years of operating in the shadows of men like Mainwaring and the Judge, it was time to start casting some shadows of his own. His life had finally turned the corner. He was a rising star in a powerful corporation, and soon he would have the independence and prestige that only money could bring. "God bless you, Serenyl," he murmured. Softly at first, then louder and louder, the familiar chant worked its way into his thoughts.

Frank, Frank, he's our man. If he can't do it, no one can… Four miles to the north, Suzanne Cole screamed and leapt up from the couch where she had been dozing. A vicious, searing pain had exploded through her chest from beside her right breast. Bathe in a chilly sweat, she tore open her blouse and ripped apart the clasps on her bra. The scar from her surgery was red, but not disturbingly so, and the tissue beneath it was not the least bit tender. Still, the pain had been like nothing she had ever experienced before. Desperately, she searched her cloudy thoughts for some logical medical explanation. Perhaps a neuritis, she reasoned-the single, violent electrical discharge from a regenerating nerve. Yes, of course, a neuritis. That had to be it. No other diagnosis made sense. Shaken, but relieved, she sank back onto the pillow. Then she checked her watch. Forty-five minutes. That was all she had napped.

She needed more than that-much more-if she was going to catch up with the sleep she kept losing every night. It was lucky she had taken time off after her surgery. The strain of the whole affair seemed to have taken more of a toll on her than she had anticipated. Slowly, her eyes closed. Perhaps she should get up and take something before she slipped off again. An aspirin or even some codeine. At least then, if the irritated nerve fired off again, the pain would be blunted. No, she decided. As long as she knew what it was, there was nothing to be frightened about. It had only lasted ten or twelve seconds, anyhow. If it happened again, she could handle it. For that short a time, she could handle almost anything. What she needed most was sleep. Relax…

Breathe deeply… Breathe deeply… Good… That's it… That's it … Now, she thought, as she drifted off, just what was it she had been dreaming about…?

The White Pines Golf Club course, designed by Robert Trent Jones, was the pride, joy, and status symbol of its select shareholders.

Sculpted along a narrow valley between two massive granite escarpments, the layout was short but exceedingly tight, and members still delighted in recalling the day in sixty-two when Sam Snead, playing an exhibition round from the championship tees, shot an eighty-six and lost two balls.

It was early Saturday afternoon, and for the first time in years, Zack was preparing to play a round of golf-his opponent, Judge Clayton Iverson. Zack had originally planned to spend the morning meeting with Jason Mainwaring and Jack Pearl, and then the rest of the day not between the granite cliffs, but on them, climbing with a small group from the local mountaineering club. However, Mainwaring had signed out for a week to Greg Ormesby, the only general surgeon remaining in Sterling, and Pearl, too, was away until Monday morning. And in truth, as much as Zack had been looking forward to making a climb, he was pleased with the chance to spend a few hours alone with his father for the first time since his return to Sterling. Typically, the Judge's invitation to play had been couched in words that made refusal difficult. He had also intimated that there might be more on his mind than just golf. There would be, he had made it quite clear, just the two of them, although whether Frank was unable to come or had not been invited, he did not say. Earlier in the day, after making rounds, thumbing once again through Toby Nelms's chart, and trying to locate Mainwaring and Pearl, Zack had spent an hour on the practice range. It had been a pleasant surprise to find that some vestige of his swing, developed over dozens of childhood lessons, remained. Like most sports that involve doing something with a ball, golf had never held any great fascination for him. But the rolling fairways, perfectly manicured greens, and even the sprawling Tudor clubhouse with its shaded veranda and oriental rugs, had always brought him a certain serenity, especially on warm, cloudless, summer afternoons. "So, Zachary, " Clayton Iverson said as they approached the first tee, "just how interesting should we make it?"

He was dressed in white slacks, a gold L'Coste shirt, and his trademark-brown and white saddle golf shoes. Although he could hardly be said to be in shape, he carried his husky bulk with the easy grace of a natural athlete. Set off by a gnarled thicket of pure silver hair, his tanned, weathered face exuded confidence and authority. "That depends on how badly you need money, Judge," Zack said, knowing that it was both fruitless and in bad form to argue with his father against a wager of some sort. "Well, then, suppose we make it, say, a dollar a hole with carryovers? I'll give you a stroke on the par fives and the two long par fours."

"Let's see Zack made the pretext of counting on his fingers. "Eighteen dollars. I guess I can handle that. Okay, sir, a dollar a hole it is. I assume you'll take it easy on me, as always."

The Judge set his ball on the tee and looked up at his son with a predatory smile. "Of course, " he said. "Just like always."

It was the most basic truth of the man's relationship with his sons, and almost a standing joke among them over the years, that he had never given them even the slightest quarter in anything competitive, whether gin rummy, at which he was a vicious profiteer, golf, or even business.

Victories were to be earned, or not to be had, loans of even the smallest amounts of money were invariably accompanied by IOUS and were to be paid back in full, and always with some interest. Zack knew that on this day, as always, not one punch would be pulled, not one edge given away. T'he Judge's drive, to the genteel applause of a dozen or so onlookers, split the fairway and rolled to a stop well past the discreet two-hundred-yard marker. Aware that he often felt less tension operating on a brain tumor than he did at that moment, Zack shanked his drive into the goldfish pond. "I hope you don't have any pressing engagements, Judge, " he said, teeing up another ball. "We could be here for a while."

"Slow your backswing and drop your left shoulder a bit," his father said. Zack did as was suggested and hit a bullet that bounced almost on top of the Judge's ball and then rolled several yards beyond. "Thanks for the help, " he whispered, tipping an imaginary cap in response to the applause from the small gallery. "Enjoy it, " the Judge said as they walked off the tee. "At a buck a hole, that's all you get."

By the end of the front nine, Zachary was seven dollars behind and was ettiniz blisters on the sides of both heels from his decade-old golf shoes. Still, the afternoon was warm and relaxing, and he was enjoying a seldom-experienced sense of connection to his father, born largely, it seemed, of casual snippets of conversation and brief flashes to afternoons, long past, like this one. Clayton Iverson had asked about his new practice and shared a few anecdotes from the courtroom, but otherwise had given no real indication that there were any items on the afternoon's agenda other than golf. Following a brief stop in the clubhouse for a beer, the Judge dropped off the motorized cart he had used on the front nine and arrived at the tenth tee pulling his clubs on a two-wheeled aluminum caddy. "I need the exercise, " he explained. "And besides, with me riding and you walking and chasing those shots of yours all over hell and gone, it didn't seem like we had much chance to talk out there."