William Bernhardt - Final Round

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.”

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.”