William Bernhardt - Final Round

“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.