“Sure, I’m sssorry he’s dead,” Barry said, slurring the words so badly they were nearly incomprehensible. “But I haven’t got amnesia. I hated that ssson-of-a-bitch.”

Conner whirled around, staring at the man with wide-eyed amazement. He was actually trashing John. John hadn’t been dead twenty-four hours, and the creep was dissing him in public. He’d always thought Barry was an asshole, but this was beyond the pale.

“Course I kept quiet about it,” Barry droned on. “I was a good boy. But I didn’t forget. Hell no. I didn’t forget. And I never will.” He hiccuped. “Ssson-of-a-bitch.”

Conner felt his bile rising. Barry’s behavior was inexcusable, and Conner wasn’t going to sit still for it. He’d ram those words down that sorry drunk’s throat-

“Kind of a jerk, isn’t he?”

Conner peered across the table and saw a kid wearing a green flak jacket, soiled T-shirt, and torn blue jeans. His first question was how someone looking like that ever managed to be admitted onto the Augusta National grounds. His second question was why someone who looked like that was talking to him.

“Bennett has a problem with alcohol,” the kid said. “Everyone on the tour knows it.”

Conner cocked an eyebrow. Was that a fact?

The kid brushed his long straggly black hair out of his face. “You’re Conner Cross, aren’t you? I recognize you from your pictures. Everyone knows you were John McCree’s best friend. And here I am, face-to-face with you. Wow.”

Conner’s eyes narrowed. He was getting the distinct impression this kid was not part of the Augusta National staff. “Who are you?”

The kid slapped himself on the forehead. “Didn’t I say? Oh, wow. Duh.” He held out his hand. “I’m Ed Frohike. President of the John McCree Fan Club.”

The light began to dawn in Conner’s eyes. A golf groupie. “I see…”

“I came here to meet John. I’ve corresponded with him by e-mail-even talked to him on the phone. But I never met him. So I blew my life savings-everything I made working at Taco Bell for six months-to come out here and meet him. But before I could-”

“I’m sorry, kid. That’s rough.”

“Yeah. Tougher on you, though. I mean, you actually knew him. Knew him well.”

“Yeah. That I did. That I did.” He glanced back at Ed. “So how’d you get in here, kid? The Augusta National prides itself on its security.”

Ed grinned, like a kid caught dipping a girl’s pigtails in the inkwell. “Can you keep a secret?”

“In theory.”

Ed leaned across the table and whispered. “I snuck in underground. Through the sewer system tunnels. Came up through a manhole just off the eighteenth fairway. Late at night.”

“I didn’t know there were tunnels under the course.”

“Only part of it. Apparently the Augusta National makes some heavy demands on the water system. Keeping all those greens green, you know.”

“And how did you find out about that?”

Ed waved him away. “Oh, man, I know everything.”

“You do?”

“Oh, yeah.” He shifted to his reciting voice. “Conner C. Cross, from Watonga, Oklahoma. Six foot one, two hundred and five pounds. Third year in the PGA. Best power drive on the tour. Worst putting game on the tour.”

Conner gave him a withering look. “I guess you do know everything.”

“Everything about golf, anyway. I eat and breathe golf.”

“Really. What’s your handicap?”

“Oh, I don’t play the game. I… merely worship it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean. I’m into it, big time. It’s my favorite thing. I follow all the players, all the tournaments. Heck, I’ve even got your trading card.”

“Really? I’m sure that’s in great demand!” Conner said with heavy irony.

“It’s… um… well… you know. It’s… hotter than a Freddy Granger.” Ed looked away. “But I always thought John was the greatest, you know? That’s why I started the fan club. He was just so cool, so suave and sophisticated. Like, just the opposite of you.”

“I can see where that would be in his favor.”

“No-I didn’t mean-I mean-”

“Calm down, Ed. Take a breath.”

“I just meant that he was so classy. Had a style all his own. You’ve got a style, too.”

“That would be one way of putting it.”

Ed’s eyes darted around the room. “I can’t believe I’m actually at the Masters! This is so awesome! I started going crazy the second I stepped onto the course.” His chest deflated. “But then I heard what happened to John. Man, what a bummer. I went to so much trouble to meet him. All that planning, all that money and time. And then-this.”

Conner peered into the kid’s eyes. “It’s tough.”

“I was so close!” Out of nowhere, Ed’s fists rose up and pounded down on the table. “I saw him, you know. Tuesday night. But he was heading somewhere in a hurry and I didn’t want to bother him. I thought-no, Ed, wait. You’ve got all week.” He slumped down in his chair. “Except I didn’t have all week. That was my last chance. And I blew it.”

“Are you saying you saw John alive Tuesday night?”

“Right. Around nine-thirty.”

Nine-thirty! That would be after he left the cabin, after Jodie last saw him alive. “Do you have any idea where he was going?”

“Sure. It was obvious. I saw him pass through the door.”

Conner’s eyebrows knitted together. “The door? What door?”

Ed’s eyes widened. “Didn’t you know? He was going to see Andrew Spenser.”

10

Once again, Conner was not entirely surprised when he received his summons to appear in the chairman’s office. He’d been expecting it since he saw Derwood stomp off earlier that morning, and it probably would’ve come sooner, had the tournament officials not had some rather more pressing business. When the call came, he didn’t resist. It was just as well-he’d finished his last martini. And this time, he had questions he wanted to pose to Mr. Spenser.

Conner knew the way to Tenniel’s office now, so he took the lead, letting the Augusta National Nazis trail nervously in his wake. He walked briskly down the dimly lit corridor till he reached Tenniel’s office, then flung the double doors open and stepped inside.

Derwood was there, as he expected, hovering in the background like a vulture waiting for his daily dose of carrion. Tenniel sat behind his desk, impassive as ever.

Spenser stepped forward from the recesses of the office. It appeared that, once again, he was going to take the leading role in Conner’s Trip to the Woodshed, Part Two.

“First of all,” Spenser said, “let me express our deepest sympathies to you. We know what a loss you’ve suffered. Believe me when I say you have our most sincere condolences.” Spenser held out his arms, as if he actually thought for a moment he was going to embrace Conner. Conner did a quick sidestep to avoid that possibility. “We know you and John were close, and we understand that you must be suffering the most profound grief.”

Conner remained unmoved. “Why do I feel you’re coming to a but?”

Spenser’s stoic resolve wavered, if only for an instant. “We know these are troubling times, and if we can assist you in any way, please do not hesitate to tell us.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Conner said impatiently. “If that was all you had to say, you could’ve sent a Hallmark. What’s the real purpose of this meeting?”

Spenser cleared his throat. “We realize that this tragedy may affect your… powers of judgment, and that a certain lack of rationality may be inevitable…”

“Lack of rationality?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard that we intend to continue with this tournament. That decision being made, it is crucial that we maintain our standards…”

“Spenser, just cut to the chase.”

Spenser drew himself up. “We have wondered if it wouldn’t be best if you dropped out of the tournament. No one could fault you for that. No one would suspect that there was any… controversy. People will simply assume that you are overcome with grief due to the loss of your friend.”