William Bernhardt - Final Round

“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.

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.