Amen Corner (30 page)

Doggett dropped the knife, squeezed his arm back out, and the bathroom door banged shut, Caroline pushing on it as hard as she could from the other side. Doggett knew she wouldn't be coming out; he just had to get past Skarda.

As Sam pounded on the door, Doggett moved to the hinged side of the door, then reached across it and turned the handle. Sam saw the door begin to open and pushed it aside as he ran in. Caroline screamed “Sam, look out!” when she heard the door open, and Sam ran straight toward the sound of her voice, coming from the bathroom at the far end of the room. Then he heard a noise behind him and turned to see a figure running out of the room and down the hallway to the right.

“Caroline, are you hurt?” he yelled at the bathroom door.

“No! But he tried to stab me!”

“He's gone,” Sam said. “It's safe now. I have to go after him.”

“No!” Caroline yelled. “Don't!”

“I can't let him go,” Sam said. “Call 911.”

Sam ran out the door, turned right, and saw that the hallway was empty, though several people had cautiously stuck their heads out of their rooms to see what all the yelling was about. Sam ran down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the lobby.

“What the hell are you people doing?” the desk clerk demanded as Sam ran past him. Sam stopped on the sidewalk and looked down the parking lot to the entrance, where the light blue truck he'd seen earlier was squealing out into the street. Sam's car was at the other end of the lot; he would never catch him. Caroline needed him more now, so he went back inside.

“I'm askin' you again, buddy,” the desk clerk said. “What the hell is going on up there?”

Sam walked over to the desk, attempting to calm himself and catch his breath.

“We need to change rooms,” he said.

“That's impossible,” the clerk said.

“I don't think so,” Sam said. “My friend in 245 was nearly murdered by an intruder a couple of minutes ago. Now, we want the room you were going to sell to that couple from Pennsylvania.”

“What room?” the clerk demanded.

“The room you would have found if they'd come up with $600.”

“What? Why…” the clerk sputtered.

“The cops will be here in five minutes. You'll have to explain to them how you allowed a guy with a knife to trap my friend in her bathroom. In the meantime, we want the other room. Now.”

The clerk had beads of perspiration forming on his upper lip and temples. He looked outside; there were sirens in the distance, getting closer.

“Two queens or a king?” he asked Sam.

“We'll take the two queens.”

Chapter Thirty

Two uniformed Richmond County officers arrived a couple of minutes after Sam returned to Room 245. They surveyed the mess while Sam sat on the bed with his arm around Caroline. She was shaking, but the terror she had felt was beginning to subside.

“Was that the guy who…?” she said.

“I think so,” Sam said. “Unless somebody else in Augusta hates you.”

She laughed weakly, and reached across Sam to the night stand for a cigarette.

“I'm just glad you weren't…”

“Killed?” Caroline said.

“Yeah. That.”

“My wrist hurts. And my back.”

“Did you get a good look at this guy?” Sam asked. She was calm enough now to take her back through the attack, while it was still fresh in her mind.

“Yes,” she said. “I'll never forget him.”

“Describe him.”

“Tall.”

“How tall?”

“Six-two, maybe. White guy. Balding. Dark eyebrows. Thin.”

“How old?” Sam asked her.

“God, I don't know. Thirty-five, forty maybe.”

“Could he have been older?”

“I guess,” she said. “He seemed kind of gaunt, you know?”

Sam thought about Stanwick immediately: 6-2, thin, balding, dark eyebrows. He got his cell phone out of his jacket and called the clubhouse. When the operator answered, he asked for the Firestone Cabin. After a couple of rings, Lorraine Stanwick answered.

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Stanwick,” Sam said. “This is Sam Skarda. I need to talk to your husband.”

“I wish you'd stop calling here,” she said. Then he heard her put the phone down and call Ralph's name. In another few moments, the unmistakable voice of Ralph Stanwick was on the other end of the line.

“Yes?” he said irritably.

“It's Skarda. My friend Caroline was just attacked in her motel room on Jones Parkway.”

Stanwick's impatient tone changed.

“Is she all right?”

“Yes, she's fine.”

“Did she get a look at the guy?”

“A good look. From her description—I'll be honest. I called to see if you were with your wife tonight.”

“Listen, Skarda, I don't know what you're getting at, but my wife will tell you I've been with her all night,” Stanwick said, resuming his defiant tone.

“She tells that story a lot,” Sam said. “Is Robert Brisbane there?”

“Yes.”

“Put him on.”

Brisbane assured Sam that Stanwick had been in the Firestone Cabin all evening.

“Is Caroline all right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And you've called the police?”

“They're here now.”

Sam thanked him and hung up. That theory seemed dead.

While one of the cops inspected the lock on the door, the other emerged from the bathroom.

“There's a hunting knife on the floor in the bathroom,” he said. Then he noticed the open bottle of wine on the dresser. He looked around at the overturned chair and the bedspread on the floor.

“Having a little party in here, were we, folks?”

Sam stood up.

“I told you what happened,” he said. “A guy barged into the room while I was in the lobby. He pulled that knife on Caroline. This is the same guy who's killing people at Augusta National. Call Detective Harwell.”

“We'll decide who to call, and when,” the other officer said, closing the door to the room. “No sign of forced entry. Just the two of you in here now. Maybe it's your knife”

“Call Harwell,” Sam repeated. “This is the guy you're looking for.”

“We're supposed to take your word for that?” one of the cops said.

“My name's Skarda. I'm playing in the Masters this week, but I'm a cop, too. I've been trying to help the National find their killer.”

One of the officers started to laugh, but the other held up his hand toward his partner. He took a closer look at Sam.

“You're that cop from Minnesota?”

“Yes. I saw the guy pull out of the parking lot, headed east. I couldn't catch the plate number, but it looked like an older pickup, maybe a Ford or a Chevy, light blue, loud engine. No more than 10 minutes before you got here.”

“What was he doing here?” the cop asked.

“Trying to kill Caroline,” Sam said. “She was on TV, saying Augusta National should admit women members. He must have seen it.”

“So what?” the cop said.

“Look, Harwell knows what's going on. He knows me. Get him here. Garver will have your ass if you don't.”

Sam would have preferred to talk to Boyce, but he knew this would have to be handled through channels. At this point, a motel break-in and assault was a Richmond County case.

While one of the cops called headquarters, Sam told Caroline that they were moving to another room in the motel.

“I couldn't stay in this room tonight,” she said as she packed.

“I know,” Sam said.

“And I don't want to stay in this motel alone,” she said, turning to look at him.

“I know,” he said.

*

Harwell showed up about 45 minutes later, looking irritated and perplexed. The fact that it was Skarda who'd asked for him didn't make him any happier. Skarda was supposed to be staying at the Augusta National clubhouse. What was he doing here? And how did he know this supposed attack had anything to do with the killings at the National?

Sam patiently explained it to Harwell as Caroline finished packing: Caroline's caddie status, the TV interview, the truck that must have followed them from the National after dinner, Sam's trip to the lobby to complain about the air conditioner, the knife attack, Sam chasing the attacker out to the parking lot, and the light blue pickup roaring out of the parking lot.

Caroline described her attacker to Harwell.

“What was he wearing?” Harwell asked.

“Dark blue windbreaker,” Caroline said. “Black pants. Black shoes, I think.”

While Caroline talked to Harwell, Sam thought about her description. Although it sounded like Stanwick, it would have been impossible for him to get back to the Firestone Cabin that quickly. Besides, Sam trusted Brisbane—or, at least, he wanted to. And it wasn't One-eye; Caroline had met him. The attacker was white.

It looked like he was down to his last suspect.

“Do you have access to booking photos tonight?” Sam asked Harwell.

“Sure,” Harwell said. “You got somebody in mind?”

“Lee Doggett.”

Harwell paused for a beat and then said, “What's he got to do with this?”

Sam recounted his meeting with One-eye and his attempts to find Doggett earlier in the day.

“Yeah, she could look at his photo downtown.”

“How about bringing one here?” Sam said. “You don't want to drag Caroline down there tonight. She could use some rest.”

“Well…all right,” Harwell said.

Half an hour later, another cop was at the motel with a mug shot of Doggett from the file of booking photos at the Sheriff's office. Caroline recognized him immediately. So did Sam, though he'd never seen him before.

He was a younger version of Ralph Stanwick.

“That's him,” Caroline said. “That's the son of a bitch who waved the knife in my face.”

“Boyce sent some officers over to Doggett's last known address earlier today,” Sam told Harwell. “Vacant.”

“I know,” Harwell said. “I didn't think much of him as a suspect.”

“Why not?”

“Honestly? Because he was a name you gave us. We've got good cops on this case, Skarda.”

“I know,” Sam said. “I'm one of them.”

“We've got patrols out looking for a light-colored pickup with a loud engine, but it's not much to go on,” Harwell said, folding up his notebook and putting the mug shot of Doggett into the inside pocket of his suit coat. “If we find him tonight, we'll call you.”

“We'll be in Room 127,” Sam said.

*

While Caroline was in the bathroom, Sam made sure the door to Room 127 was locked and the security chain was in place. Then he called Boyce and told him about the attack and Doggett's booking photo.

“Doggett looks like Stanwick, huh?” Boyce said sleepily. “Maybe we better go back and talk to Ralph again.”

“I'd do that,” Sam said before Boyce hung up.

Sam pulled down the bedspread on the queen-size bed closer to the door, stripped down to his boxers, and got into bed. When Caroline came out of the bathroom, she was wearing a white tank-top and a pair of running shorts.

“I'd rather sleep in the one away from the door,” she said.

“That's why I left it for you.”

“Think again,” she said. “We're sharing a bed tonight.”

Sam nodded and rolled out of the bed. Caroline turned down the bed near the bathroom and got in.

“There's still some wine left,” Caroline said.

“I'll get some glasses,” Sam said.

He found two plastic glasses, got the wine out of the mini-fridge, and got into bed with Caroline. He poured them each a full glass of pinot grigio, and set the rest of the wine on the center nightstand. They each took several sips before either one spoke.

“So,” Caroline finally said. “Nice round today.”

Sam laughed. He had forgotten about golf. Now he thought back to Caroline's calming presence on the bag, and the ease with which he'd produced his 73. He had Frank Sinatra's “New York, New York”—1986, Nicklaus' last win—going through his head all day, especially the line about how he could make it anywhere if he could make it there. He'd played as though his score didn't matter, and now he realized how true that was. Caroline had nearly been killed.

“He may be a murdering psycho, but I'm grateful to Lee Doggett,” Sam said.