“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.

How had it come to this? he silently pondered. How had buddying up with John led to investigating his murder a million years later? How had falling in love with golf led to delivering a bag full of money at the Masters? How had falling in love with Jodie led-?

He stopped himself short. There was no point in going there. No cheese down that tunnel. It was all over. All over and done-

His thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched noise buzzing just beside his ear, followed by a crackle of thunder.

He whirled around. What-?

He reached up and touched his left ear. His hand came back with blood on it.

Someone had taken a shot at him.

26

All at once, Conner’s brain sputtered into action. He dove forward, seconds before another shot fired somewhere north of him. He took cover behind a hedge, then scrambled close to the front of the building.

A moment later, he heard footsteps moving rapidly away from him.

Conner bit down on his lip. There was almost nothing stupider than chasing someone who was trying to shoot him. But if he didn’t-

He might never find out who it was.

He didn’t have time for protracted analysis. He pushed himself around the corner of the clubhouse and ran in the general direction where he’d heard the shots and the footsteps.

There was something moving over there, toward the cabins. He could just barely see the outline of a figure moving fast. Conner steered himself toward it, bracing himself for the next crash of thunder.

Conner took a hard left around the first cabin and continued barreling forward, panting and wheezing. He had almost forgotten how much exercise he’d already had tonight, until his aching thighs reminded him. He felt winded before he’d crossed the first hundred feet; he broke out in a cold sweat long before that. But he forced himself to keep moving.

The shadowy figure was well ahead, but Conner was gaining on him. Come on, Cross, he told himself. Pedal to the metal. Don’t let this creep get away. He was still telling himself that when something big and solid slammed into his face.

Conner hit the ground hard. His head hit the grass; fireworks went off before his eyes.

What the hell-? His hands groped for the glistening steel object that had knocked him over.

A golf club. The SOB had thrown a golf club at him!

Conner pulled himself together and started running, ignoring the intense throbbing he now felt in his head. If there were any chance he could catch this creep, he wasn’t going to let it slip away.

He’d passed three more cabins when he spotted the silhouette. Hah!-the fool had made the mistake of stopping, checking to see if the coast was clear. He was history now.

Conner poured on the speed. Hell, a few more nights like this, and he’d be ready for the triathlon.

The figure ahead saw him coming and started sprinting, but it was too late. Conner tackled him like a pro quarterback, wrapping himself around the man’s legs and bringing him down with a thud.

Conner sat on top of the squirming man, then rolled him over onto his back to see who it was.

“Ace? Ace Silverstone? Why did you do it?”

“Conner Cross!” the other man fired back. “Why the hell are you sitting on me?”

Conner kept a firm arm on Ace’s throat. “You were trying to kill me!”

“You’re even crazier than I thought.”

“You were firing a gun.”

“I’ve always suspected you had some mental problems, Cross, but you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

“Don’t feed me that. I saw you. I heard the shots.”

“I heard those shots, too. That’s why I came outside. What was going on?”

Conner stared at the man’s wide, seemingly innocent eyes. Was it possible he’d made a mistake? If it had been Ace, where was the gun? He began frisking him.

“This your idea of a good time, Cross?”

Conner patted him down all over, but he didn’t find a weapon. “What did you do with the gun?”

“What gun? I’ve never had a gun. What are you babbling about?”

“Someone took a couple of shots at me. I’ve been chasing him all the way from the clubhouse.”

“Well, it wasn’t me. Assuming this isn’t all some bizarre psychosis created by your paranoid brain. May I get up now?”

Conner hesitated. Was it true? Had the killer slipped away after he’d been decked by the golf club? “How long have you been outside?”

“Barely a minute. If that long. Since I heard the first shot.”

“If you just came outside, why are you sweating?”

“I’ve been exercising. You should try it sometime, Cross. You are an athlete, in theory, anyway.” He pushed up with his hands. “Now get off me, you oaf.”

Reluctantly, Conner rose, releasing Ace. It was just possible, he supposed. The killer could’ve escaped. Ace could’ve gotten caught in the crossfire.

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t file a complaint with the PGA,” Ace said, brushing himself off.

“Don’t bother. The PGA loves me. Today, anyway.”

“You ought to consider getting some counseling, Conner,” Ace said, as he hastily made his way back to the cabin. “You really do have a screw loose. Maybe several.”

Ace went inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

Conner wanted to kick himself. Once again, he’d had a chance to catch the killer. And once again, he’d somehow managed to screw it up. How much longer could this go on?

He pointed himself north, toward his own cabin. It’d been a hell of a night, and he needed rest. He was playing in a tournament tomorrow, after all. The last day of the Masters. The Big Enchilada. If he could keep his head together, could keep on playing like he had today, it was just possible he could be heading back to Watonga in a spiffy green jacket.

But somehow, he couldn’t get his brain to focus on the tournament. No matter how hard he tried, his mind kept wandering back to the same thought.