“Damn it, you spoiled everything!” his assailant cursed. “I wanted one quick clean shot-like the first time. The mark of a professional.”

The man sprawled on the bed was aware of the other man’s movement. He felt the sharp dip, the signal that the other man had climbed onto the mattress and was slowly making his way to him. His head was swimming and red flashes fired before his eyes. He was barely conscious, and knew he wouldn’t be that for much longer.

“All right then,” the taller man said, snarling, as he hovered just overhead. “You wanted to make it messy? Fine-we’ll make it messy.”

He heard a scraping noise, and in the dim light of the flashlight-where was that thing now anyway?-he saw the other man extract a thin knife from its sheath.

“Time’s up,” the killer said, as he drew inexorably closer. “Now watch this last stroke. It’s one of my best.”

32

Back at the clubhouse, Conner licked the salt from the rim of his fourth margarita. Things couldn’t be any worse than this, he told himself. It just wasn’t possible.

It would be different if this had happened to the Conner of a few days before. He had never taken these tournaments seriously, never allowed himself to get too attached to the idea of winning. When he lost, it was no great shakes; hell, he hadn’t even been trying hard, right?

But somehow, somewhere in the midst of the excitement and horror, in the loss of his closest friends and the woodshedding of his caddie, he had lost that detachment. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had allowed himself to dream of winning-and found that he liked it.

He had been so close, damn it! So close. For all he knew, he might never play this well again. And it hadn’t been enough. He’d given the game everything he had-and come up short.

He couldn’t fault the other players. They had been tremendously supportive. Even Ace had offered a few kind words. Conner had secretly harbored the hope that this tournament might increase his fellow players’ respect for him and his skills, and that at least appeared to have happened.

But who was he kidding? It wasn’t the same as winning. Not by a mile.

He lifted the margarita to his lips. Could he down this in a single shot, he wondered?

“Conner, may I speak to you?”

Conner peered upward. His vision was already somewhat blurry, but not so much that he couldn’t make out the figure of Lieutenant O’Brien standing just in front of him.

What was she here for? he wondered. To offer her condolences?

“What’s up?” he said, trying not to sound as blotto as he was. “Come here to lick my wounds? ‘Cause if you have, I could make a few alternative suggestions…”

O’Brien looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m not here alone.”

Conner squinted, trying to bring his long-range vision into sharper focus. He spotted at least four uniformed police officers standing behind her. “What’s up, O’Brien? Is the Augusta National hosting the policemen’s ball?”

“Not exactly,” O’Brien said. She whipped her cuffs out from behind her jacket. “You’re under arrest.”

This had a more profound sobering effect than a dozen cups of coffee. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said, tugging at his shoulder. “Get up.”

“But-but-“ He allowed himself to be hoisted. “I told you I didn’t do it.”

“And for some stupid reason, I believed you. I guess I let my professional judgment get clouded. It won’t happen again.”

“But I’m telling you, I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t kill my own best friend.”

“I didn’t think so before, but-“ She stared at him for a tense moment, and Conner realized that there was something more behind this arrest. “There’s been another murder,” she said directly.

“Another one?” Conner was stunned. “But-I didn’t have anything to do with it. I couldn’t’ve. I haven’t left the clubhouse for hours.”

“Right. C’mon, Conner.”

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me. What about Freddy? Have you found him yet? He’s the one you need to talk to.”

“That would be extremely difficult,” O’Brien said, as she snapped the cuffs over Conner’s wrists. “He’s dead. As if you didn’t already know.”

Four. The Killing Stroke

Dwight D. Eisenhower loved the Augusta National. Because of his friendship with cofounder Cliff Roberts, he was not only a member but a frequent visitor. After he became president, Eisenhower’s visits were so common that Roberts had a residence built for Ike on the club grounds. Because Eisenhower liked to fish, Roberts had already built him a pond nearby and stocked it with black bass and bluegill. Eisenhower spent the happiest days of his life at the Augusta National, where he could fish in the morning, then find ready partners to play golf all afternoon and contract bridge all night.

Eisenhower’s visits to Augusta were not, of course, without controversy. In 1957, when Eisenhower ordered the federal troops into Little Rock to protect the black students integrating Central High School, he reportedly made the call from Augusta. In reaction to this move, obviously controversial in the deep South, the Augusta Chronicle blasted him for “running the country from a country club.”

In 1955, when Eisenhower ran for reelection, opponents circulated a poster that read: Ben Hogan for President. If we’re going to have a golfer, let’s have a good one.

33

Conner protested, but to no avail. With the help of two uniformed officers, O’Brien hauled Conner out of the bar and led him down the corridor. All the pros in the vicinity stood agape, watching but not speaking, as the cops dragged him out of the building.

“There goes my short-lived reputation,” Conner muttered, as he was escorted down the stone path that divided the clubhouse from the cabins.

“Move!” O’Brien said curtly.

“You can’t just haul me away like this! I don’t even have a toothbrush. Let me stop by my-“ His head jerked around. “Hey, the lights are on in there! Someone’s in my cabin!”

O’Brien looked at him levelly. “And this surprises you?”

“Damn straight! I even locked my door tonight! What’s going on?”

O’Brien pondered for a moment, then shrugged. She gave one of the uniforms the signal. They led Conner back to his cabin.

Before he was even close, Conner could see that something serious had occurred while he’d been waiting for the postings and swilling margaritas. All the lights were on in the cabin, and uniformed men and women were swarming all over it. A dozen people, maybe more. Some of them Conner recognized-because he’d seen them before, out on the eighteenth hole in the sand trap where he’d found John’s body.

The previous crime scene.

O’Brien took him by the cuffs and led him inside. The crime scene techs parted as she approached, making a path for her without even being told. “We received an anonymous call about an hour ago,” she explained. “Said there’d been some kind of disturbance in your cabin. Violent, from the sound of it. When we arrived, we found the front door wide open. And this is what we found.”

She made a tiny gesture which was altogether unnecessary. Conner couldn’t possibly have missed the grisly main attraction.

It was Freddy E. Granger, golf pro and proud father of a recently married Southern belle. Only this time, he was sprawled across Conner’s bed. His throat had been cut-like Jodie’s, only not half so neatly. He must’ve struggled, Conner surmised, because the cut was jagged and irregular, like a dull knife working its way through a particularly tough piece of meat. Blood was everywhere, on the headboard, on the bedspread, on the carpet, and the walls. It had been a week of horrors, but this was the most grotesque, most hideous spectacle Conner had ever seen in his life, bar none.