William Bernhardt - Final Round

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.”

Eisenhower was not the only president to take in the Masters. Lyndon Johnson came one year, even though he didn’t golf. Johnson was indifferent to the game and the Masters, but his advisors thought there might be some political advantage in being seen there.

Unaware of his utter lack of interest, a reporter stopped him between holes to ask what his handicap was.

“Congress,” Johnson replied.

Monday

Monday morning at the Augusta National clubhouse presented a scene worlds apart from what it had been the night before-really, what it had been since John McCree’s body turned up in a sand trap. The pervasive gloom was gone. Spirits were buoyant and boisterous; smiles were the order of the day. A surprising number of the pros were still around, even though the tournament was over.

All the hustle-bustle, all the questions and rapt attention gravitated around one central nexus-Conner Cross. For once, no one could get enough of him. Everyone wanted to hear what he had to say.

“So he pulls this gun on me,” Conner explained to the rapt throng. “Then he looks at me, real cold-like, and he says, ‘You’ll never leave here alive.’ But that doesn’t scare me. I stare right back at him, right down his throat, and I say, ‘The game’s over, you two-bit psychopath. I’m taking you in.’ ” Okay, so maybe this wasn’t exactly how it happened, but it made a hell of a good story.

“What did you do then?” someone asked.

“I distracted him with some song-and-dance about the cops swarming around outside, then I got the drop on him.”

“Wow.” Even Barry Bennett had stayed sober for this story. “All by yourself?”

“Well, I did have a tiny bit of help. From that female cop you’ve seen running around the grounds. She showed up at just the right moment. Of course, later, I saved her life.”

“She must be eternally grateful to you,” Barry said. His elbow jabbed its way into Conner’s ribs.

“Yeah,” Conner said, grinning. “No doubt.” But where was O’Brien anyway? He hadn’t seen her since they finally finished all the paperwork and the arraignment. Surely, he would see her again-wouldn’t he? After all they’d been through…

“So tell us the part about the golf balls,” someone urged. “Did you really pound one into the back of his head?”

“Like a ballistic missile.” Conner loved this part; it was a modern myth in the making. “I took a bead on the creep, aimed, and fired. Right on target. I never missed.” Well, not more than eight or ten times, anyway. “Took him down in one.”

“Amazing,” Barry murmured. Several of the others concurred.

“Conner Cross! I want a few words with you!”

Conner turned and, to his horror, found himself flanked by none other than Derwood Scott.

“Derwood,” Conner said coolly. “Imagine. Somehow I thought for sure I’d seen the last of you.”

Derwood’s face was flushed and puffy. “Not by a long shot, Cross. I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Several, in fact.”

“Derwood-the tournament is over.”

“And you’ve made a real hash of it, haven’t you? You blew through this place like Hurricane Hilda.”

Conner could see his admiring throng suppressing their laughter. “I don’t know to what you are referring, Derwood.”

“How about your cabin, for starters? It looks like a disaster area. The place is wrecked. Stains all over the floor and the bed.”

“That would be blood, Derwood.” Apparently Derwood hadn’t been apprised of the latest developments.

“And the locker room is equally wrecked. One of the windows is shattered. One of the lockers has a bullet hole.”

“Cool,” Ace said. “Can I have that one next year?”

“It’s not funny!” Derwood insisted. “You trampled all over the driving range. You used equipment that didn’t belong to you!”

Conner coughed in his hand. “There were some mitigating circumstances, Derwood.”

“I’m tired of your excuses, Cross. You think the world revolves around you, that the rules don’t apply. Well, you’re wrong. I said if you crossed the line I’d see to it you were bumped from the tour, and I meant it. From now on-”

Derwood felt a firm hand fall on his shoulder. “Derwood, be quiet.”

Standing behind him with his usual impassive expression, Artemus Tenniel gave Derwood a look that spoke volumes.

“But sir,” Derwood sputtered. “He’s broken the rules!”

“Yes, Derwood. I know.”

“We can’t allow these unrestrained encroachments on our standards. It’s a slippery slope, sir. If we allow one slacker to get away with it, before long, the whole tournament-”

“Derwood, for once, close your mouth and use your brain.”

The crowd gasped, watching with amazement-and amusement.