Conner frowned. “Does this mean that Easter bunny suit I was planning to wear is out of the question?”

His remark was met by a room full of stony expressions.

“Damn,” Conner muttered. “I’m gonna lose my deposit.”

Later that night, a different conversation took place in another office in the clubhouse. The office was dark except for the illuminated glow radiating from a single desktop Tiffany lamp. The low lighting silhouetted the two figures standing on opposite sides of a desk. The expressions on their faces and the tone of their voices revealed that the discussion was anything but amicable.

“I want an explanation for this!”

“I’m afraid… I have none to give.” The man standing behind the desk had a slight catch in his voice. “Perhaps if you could give me some time…”

“Your time is up.”

“If you could just give me a week. A day, even.”

“I want an explanation now. Because if this means what I think it means-”

“Please.” The man behind the desk began to fidget with a paperweight. “I promise you. It’s not what it seems.”

“Then what is it?”

“It-It-It’s just a terrible misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I think I understand. I think I understand perfectly.”

“But-don’t-“ His head fell into his hands. “If you could just give me some more time.”

“I’ll give you until tomorrow morning.”

“But that’s not nearly enough-”

“Tomorrow morning. And if you can’t clear this up by then, I’ll go public.”

“No!”

“Yes. Then you can make your explanations to everyone.” He turned and started toward the door.

“Please wait-“ But it was too late. Before the man behind the desk could finish his sentence, his companion had left the office.

He collapsed into his chair. How had he gotten himself into this mess? It had all seemed so innocent at first, so harmless. And now-

But there was no point in wallowing in those ruminations. He had to do something. To do something quick. But what?

There was no way he could rectify this mess before morning. If the other man was as good as his threats, he would be ruined. Absolutely ruined.

His only hope was that the other man didn’t go public, that he kept his mouth shut. Not just tomorrow morning, but forever. Something had to happen. Something had to change his mind. Or something had to make it impossible for him to tell what he knew.

An idea flickered in the corner of his brain. A wild idea-a crazy one.

But just possibly the only one he had left.

He pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to fight back the throbbing inside his head. He had no hope unless John McCree kept his mouth shut. Permanently.

6

Conner gazed out at the vast stretch of darkness surrounding him. The sky blanketed the horizon, creating an inky satin backdrop interrupted only by dim moonlight reflected by the white-columned clubhouse. Looked as though the stars could use a little help tonight, he thought to himself. Glad to oblige. He swung his club back, and the glistening white ball soared out across the driving range, adding, however briefly, another reflective speck to the sky.

The ball etched a perfect parabola before cascading down in front of the 300 marker-exactly where Conner wanted it. It was a beautiful stroke. The only problems were (1) strokes on the driving range don’t count toward your score and (2) there was no one around to appreciate it. Why the hell couldn’t he have done that today on the course?

There was no point in berating himself with that question. If he knew the answer, he would have acted on it long before now. He had barely snuck onto the tour three years ago, had a so-so first year, and had gone downhill since. Sure, he was still playing well enough to keep his card, even well enough to make a few bucks here and there. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was falling short of his potential. He couldn’t shake it because Fitz kept hammering it into his brain at every opportunity.

He checked his watch. Where was John, anyway? Conner had expected him to show up more than an hour ago. It was a tradition with them, knocking the balls around in the moonlight the night before a tournament began. They were the only ones he knew who did it, although everyone on the tour had some tradition, some good luck ritual. Perhaps because golf skills were so unpredictable, because the causes for the constant fluctuations in quality of performance were so elusive, golf pros tended to be a superstitious lot. On the night before a tournament began… Freddy Granger washed his lucky red socks… Ace Silverstone read from the Bible… Barry Bennett got drunk… Tiger Woods called home. As far as Conner knew, he and John were the only players who actually practiced, which was considered a radical idea in some quarters.

Truth was, knocking the balls down the driving range was not so much about practicing as relaxing. In the still of the night, hidden away under the cover of darkness, Conner and John shared some of their closest moments. It was one of the rare times when the superficialities disappeared and the two men could talk like they did when they were kids. It was these quiet moments, much more than the public carousing and debauchery, that kept their close-knit friendship going.

Or used to, anyway. Where the hell was he? This was totally unlike John. He was theoretically the reliable one. If Conner was late to arrive, no one would think anything of it, except perhaps to put in a call to the local hospitals and whorehouses. But when John was late, that was something else.

Conner heard a rustling on the patio directly behind him. Someone was moving his way. About time. “What happened? Jodie demand a quickie? Or did your-”

He stopped abruptly. The silhouette moving toward him was too short, too wide. Whoever it was, it wasn’t John.

“How’s it hangin’, Conner?”

How’s it hangin’? Wait a minute…

Conner strained his eyes, peering through the darkness. Freddy Granger.

“I’m fine, Freddy. Just trying to get in some practice strokes.”

Freddy nodded. “I heard about your score today. I don’t blame you.”

Conner tried to remind himself that he actually liked Freddy. “So what are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in your room chanting your mantra? Or maybe in the locker room, hexing the other players’ clubs?”

“I’ve made a discovery,” Freddy announced, in his thick Southern drawl.

“A discovery? What kind of discovery?”

Freddy’s eyebrows danced up and down. “The best kind.”

“Meaning-?”

“The raunchy kind.”

Conner felt his lips involuntarily curving into a grin. He was reminded of why he liked Freddy: he didn’t take himself too seriously, which was a refreshing change after being lectured about how golf was the cornerstone of Western civilization. And Freddy was an actual member of this “bastion of tradition,” as was John, for that matter. Apparently it was possible to join the Augusta National and still not think of yourself as the “exemplar of excellence.”

Conner slid his club into his golf bag. “Well, lead on.”

Freddy led Conner off the driving range. A few minutes later, they were inside the clubhouse, heading down the central staircase toward the men’s locker room.

“I don’t want to disillusion you,” Conner said as he followed along, “but I’ve seen the locker room before. Smelled it, too.”

“I’ll bet you haven’t seen this.” Freddy led him past the lockers, past the stalls, past the showers, almost to the door that exited near the first tee. They jogged sharply to the left, where Conner saw a group of pros pressed against the tile-covered wall. Barry Bennett was there, as well as a few of the other PGA stalwarts. The wall was bare; as far as Conner could tell, they were all staring at nothing but blue bathroom tile.