Amen Corner (35 page)

He said that was all right, and handed her three twenties, a ten and a five.

“We also need to hold your driver's license until you bring it back.”

The man hesitated for a moment, then removed his sunglasses and looked her in the eyes. He said his driver's license had expired last year, and he hadn't renewed it because he wasn't expected to live this long. He took off his hat, and she could see that, as she'd guessed, his hair was gone. He looked positively gaunt. She wondered how long he had left.

“We can let it go, sweetie,” Doris said. “You just get the scooter back here around 6:30, and everything will be fine.”

He thanked her, sat down on the scooter's seat, started the engine again, and drove off toward the spectator entrance.

What a shame, Doris thought, as he disappeared into the crowd. So young. So much to live for.

She hoped he would enjoy his last Masters.

*

Caroline sat in the CBS production truck as far away from Tony Petrakis as she could and still keep an eye on the screens. Harwell stood behind her with a police radio, ready to alert Boyce if she saw anything.

There was so much to look at: multiple camera shots of all 18 holes, the clubhouse area, the putting green, and the practice range. The camera operators were doing what they'd been instructed to do, making lingering pans of the crowds at their holes when there wasn't some action to focus on. They went in for close-ups of the galleries, but Caroline knew that she might not get a good look at more than a few hundred people during the course of the afternoon. It was like looking for a golf ball in a field of dandelions going to seed.

“Spot him yet, sweetheart?” Petrakis would sometimes ask her sarcastically during a break, a taped feature or an interview from the Butler Cabin. “What's he look like again? Tall guy? Maybe that's him on camera 2 at 14. The one in the black Callaway visor.”

“No,” Caroline would say. “Not him.”

“You sure? He looks pretty fuckin' creepy to me.”

“Look,” Caroline said. “I know this is all a big pain in the ass to you, but it's better than sitting around waiting for this asshole to kill somebody else. You want to broadcast a murder scene to 20 million people?”

“Aghh,” Petrakis grumbled, waving his hand and taking a drag on his cigar. “The cops have a killer to catch. I've got a tournament to televise. We should stay the hell out of each other's way.”

“Have you got a family, Tony?” Caroline asked.

“Sure, sure, I got a family,” Petrakis said. Then he paused, and said into the mike, “Coming out of break in 20 seconds. We'll go with a leaderboard shot over the 16 background and then pick up Singh's eagle putt on 13. Cameron, be ready for a tournament reset after Vijay putts, and then we'll go to tape of Bellows holing his birdie putt on 8.”

Cameron Myers was the slick CBS Sports anchor who hosted the coverage from the tower on 18 with lead analyst Nigel Frawley. Petrakis had explained to the on-air talent that the police were monitoring the broadcast cameras, looking for the Masters murderer with the help of an eyewitness. Caroline had not been given an earpiece, so she didn't know how the announcers had reacted.

“So you have kids?” Caroline said.

He held up a hand to her and said into the mic: “Keep it on Vijay at 13…dammit, the caddie's in the way of the hole, and Vijay's blocking the hole on camera 2. Go with camera 1. Maybe the caddie will move…Godammit! Those guys all know where the cameras are. Why do they fuck us like that?

“Yeah, a boy, 27, and a girl, 24,” he said, turning to Caroline. “I didn't get to see them much when they were growing up. In this job, you travel all the time.”

“So how do you think you'd feel if one of them was murdered?” Caroline asked. “You'd do anything to catch the guy who did it—wouldn't you?”

Petrakis didn't answer. He was looking at the bank of monitors and telling Myers that he wanted him to run down the leaderboard with Frawley after Singh putted out on 13. They would go four pages deep, he said, to get the viewers caught up on the remaining contenders. Singh missed his eagle putt and tapped in for birdie, and Cameron Myers began his exchange with Frawley. Petrakis turned back to Caroline. There was a new look in his eyes. She'd stirred up some emotions that he didn't usually examine.

“If some sonofabitch laid a hand on one of my kids, I'd spend the rest of my life tracking him down,” Petrakis said.

Caroline thought Petrakis' eyes were beginning to glisten. The God of War was human after all.

“When Doggett was slashing at me with that knife, I flashed on my parents,” Caroline said. “I could see them getting the news: Your daughter has been stabbed to death in an Augusta motel room. Can you imagine how that would feel?”

“Horseshit,” Petrakis said. “Going to eight green. Garcia putting to save par.”

“What about Danny Milligan?” Caroline said. “He was on your staff for years. Then Doggett walks into his house and cuts his throat. Doesn't that make you furious? Don't you want to get this guy?”

“Of course I do,” Petrakis almost shouted. “Danny Milligan was a good guy. He couldn't keep from saying any stupid fuckin' thing that jumped into his head, but he didn't deserve to be butchered like that.”

“Nobody does,” Caroline said. “That's all we're trying to do here. Keep Doggett from killing somebody else.”

Petrakis seemed not to have heard her. Staring at the monitors, he leaned into his microphone to tell Cameron Myers that they were going to a shot of Mickelson looking for his tee shot in the trees left of the creek on 13.

“Everybody else, keep panning the patrons,” Petrakis said. “Give me faces. The guy who killed Danny might be out there. If he is, we're gonna find that sonofabitch.”

He looked back at Caroline and winked.

*

Doggett drove the scooter through Gate 3A on Washington Road, the walk-in gate through which a few patrons were already exiting. Doggett was the only spectator going in.

He drove the scooter slowly past the rows of parked cars to the course entrance, where three security guards sat on tables talking to each other. He was ready to run if they recognized him; he could beat them to the Washington Road exit, and maybe lose himself in the crowd and the traffic once he was on the street. But if they were looking for him, they would be looking for a tall man who was partially bald—not a cancer patient of indeterminate height sitting on a scooter.

As Doggett approached, one of the guards picked up a detection wand and motioned for him to come through the portable metal-detector columns in his aisle. Doggett held up Ty Chapman's Masters badge and showed it to the security guard, a paunchy black man with a goatee, who nodded.

“A little late, aren't you?” the guard said.

“I had a chemo treatment this morning,” Doggett said, not getting off the scooter.

“Oh. Sorry to hear that,” the guard said. “Well, you still got a couple hours of play left. You'll want to go out to the back nine.”

He wanded Doggett from head to toe.

“Any cameras, cell phones, weapons, or folding chairs?” the guard asked.

“No,” Doggett said. “I know the rules.”

“You'd be surprised how many don't,” the guard said, with a weary chuckle. “Look in this box here. I must have taken 300 cell phones and cameras from patrons today. They all said they didn't know, or they forgot.”

“Stupid people,” Doggett said, shaking his head.

“You got that right.”

“Cigarettes and lighters are okay, right?”

Doggett pulled the pack of Camel straights and one of the plastic lighters from his shirt pocket.

“No problem,” the guard said. “But maybe you ought to…you know, cut down or something.”

“No point now,” Doggett said. “Might as well enjoy the time I've got, right?”

“I guess,” the guard said. “Well, you better get in there if you're going to see some golf today.”

“Thanks,” Doggett said. He engaged the motor and drove through the entrance.

*

After walking the course for several hours without seeing anything suspicious or hearing anything through his earpiece, Sam found a place on the hillside next to the 18th green and tried to imagine what Doggett would do next. He didn't seem like the type to give up, but if he was trying to stop the Masters, he was running out of time.

Sam spotted Al Barber walking up the 18th fairway. Barber had made the cut Friday, right on the number, shooting 75-74 to get in at 5 over par. It was the first time he'd made the cut in six years. The scorer's standard said “+12” next to Barber's name. He was running out of gas—but from the smile on his face, Sam could tell Barber was enjoying his rare Saturday round at the Masters. When Al sank his par putt on 18 for a 79, the gallery applauded warmly. He flipped his ball to Chipmunk, took off his hat, and shook hands with Clive Cartwright, his playing partner. As Barber headed up the hill to the scorer's hut behind the 18th green, Sam saw Dwight Wilson standing behind the ropes that led to the clubhouse. Dwight was wiping his face with a white caddie towel.

“Hey, Dwight,” Sam called to him. “How's the leg?”

Dwight smiled when he saw Sam.

“Oh, not so bad when I stand in one spot.”

When the marshals gathered up the ropes behind the players exiting the 18th green, Sam crossed over to talk to Dwight.

“Did you bring your daughter with you?”

“Nah, they don't give us caddies but one ticket.” Then Dwight lowered his voice: “You find that killer yet?”

“Not yet,” Sam said. “But we know it's Doggett. He tried to kill Caroline last night. At her motel.”

“She all right?” Dwight asked.

“Yeah, she's fine. I was there.”

“He's a dead man if I catch him,” Dwight said, his eyebrows lowering.

“You might get your chance,” Sam said. “We think he'll try to get on the course again. If you think you see him, tell the nearest security guard. They know who we're looking for.”

Dwight ran the towel over the back of his neck and wiped his face again.

“I'll be watching for him,” he said.

*

Lee Doggett parked the scooter next to the Golf Shop in the main entrance plaza.

“Could you watch that for me?” he asked one of the young women in pink polo shirts who greeted shoppers as they entered.

“Of course,” she said. “You don't mind if I take it for a little ride while you're shopping, do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” Doggett said, not smiling. The perky young woman lost her smile, too.

“It will be here when you get back,” she said, turning to the next customer.

There was no longer a line to get into the Golf Shop. Most of the spectators were either out on the course or had started for home, and most of the clerks were idle in the check-out lines. Doggett was familiar with the merchandise. Years ago he had gone into the building during the Masters to buy a T-shirt for Lee Jr. He knew exactly what he was looking for.

He found it hanging on the wall just inside the entrance: a black golf bag that said “Masters” in green stitching on the pouch. The price tag said $125. He brought the bag and a white Masters towel to the checkout counter and paid for them with cash. The clerk put the towel in a clear plastic Masters shopping bag.

“Hey, you'll like playing with that bag,” a man said to Doggett as he walked to his scooter with the golf bag over his shoulder and the shopping bag in his hand. “I bought one a couple of years ago. Everybody asks me about it.”

“I don't play golf,” Doggett said, stopping to stare at the man. “It's a stupid game.”

Doggett kept the bag slung over his shoulder and sat down on his scooter. As he drove off toward the course, the man muttered, “Cancer's no excuse for being an asshole, buddy.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Sam walked past the umbrella tables in front of the clubhouse on his way to meet Boyce in Porter's office. For the first time, he felt envious of the privileged and carefree spectators sitting there in the shade with a cool drink in hand, oblivious to the fact that a killer could be walking right past them. It was also business as usual for the reporters clustered under the big oak; they, too, were unaware that the cops and security guards were trying to spot Lee Doggett before he had a chance to become the biggest story of their careers.

A few spectators were walking to the main exit or staring up at the leaderboard to the right of the first fairway; the rest of the crowd was packed into the viewing areas on the back nine. When Sam approached the tournament headquarters, he saw some of the players and their families leaving the grounds in their courtesy cars. If Doggett was somewhere on the course, he was letting the day slip away from him without making his move.

The chairman and the GBI investigator were watching the tournament in Porter's office. Frank Naples had a one-shot lead over Garcia, two over Perry Bellows, and three over Woods, Singh, and Bellecourt.