Amen Corner (40 page)

Sam ran as fast as he could through the tangled forest, nearing the emergency personnel hovering around the smoking crater. The lumberyard smell of freshly cut wood and pine sap blended with the acrid odor of burning chemicals. Through the haze Sam could see that Culver's report was accurate: Some 100 feet off the golf course, well away from the gallery, a dozen trees had been knocked down or damaged, some of them snapped off just a few feet above the ground. A black hole still smoldered in the center of the destruction. Police, Securitas agents, and paramedics were converging on the spot, some attending to the terrified patrons nearby, the rest gawking at the damage.

Sam couldn't figure out what had happened. There were no injuries here. Had the bomb gone off prematurely?

One of the officers began stringing police tape from pine tree to pine tree in a wide circle around the bomb site.

“Anybody see who did this, or how big the bomb was?” Sam asked the cop with the police tape.

“Nope,” the cop said. “But there are bits of nylon everywhere. I got a piece of it here.”

The cop pointed to the ground, where Sam saw a piece of ragged, blackened nylon bearing part of a Masters logo. Sam had seen something like that many times as he'd walked among the spectators looking for Doggett. It was from a stuff sack for those folding Masters chairs. That wasn't big enough. Doggett had much more fertilizer than that. Where was he now?

There was no sign of a body—Doggett hadn't been killed in the explosion. He was still somewhere on the grounds. This wasn't over.

Sam turned on the radio and said, “Culver, this is Sam. Let me talk to Caroline.”

“Sam?” He heard Caroline's voice. “Where are you?”

“Near where the bomb went off. Caroline, tell Petrakis not to stop scanning the crowd. We haven't found Doggett yet. He's still loose out here somewhere.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. I don't think anyone got hurt. But something feels wrong about this. Keep looking for him.”

“We will. Don't be a hero.”

*

After a quick consultation in David Porter's office, Robert Brisbane had gone to the media building and announced a suspension of play. It was only temporary, he insisted, until the security forces could assess the damage in the woods by the 11th tee. Play would resume then. It appeared that no one had been injured. Spectators were being encouraged to remain in their grandstand seats; that would make it much easier for the police and security guards to do their jobs, which in turn would allow play to resume that much faster.

The warning horn used for lighting sounded two long blasts. Word went out across the course to the rules official with each twosome: Play was suspended immediately. Players could not finish the hole they were on. No one knew how long it would take to get the all-clear, so players could return to the clubhouse if they wished.

When the official with the Barber-Cartwright pairing gave the two ex-champs the news, both decided to go back up to the clubhouse to wait out the delay. A courtesy SUV parked behind the grandstand at 12 would take them up the hill. Most of the spectators chose to stay in the grandstand and on the hillside overlooking Amen Corner, rather than risk losing their seats when play resumed.

Dwight Wilson couldn't sit still, however. He left the grandstand and walked behind it to the concession area, where confused spectators and employees were creating a scene of near-chaos. He spotted the caddies for Barber and Cartwright loading their clubs into the SUV. He asked Chipmunk if he saw what happened.

“No, we was trying to play golf,” Chipmunk said.

“Sounded like a plane crashed in the woods,” Barber said.

“No, it was a bomb,” the shuttle driver said. “They're saying nobody was hurt. Whoever did it might have blown himself up—dumb shit. Good riddance. Anyways, we might be playing again in an hour or so.”

“Well, they'd better catch the bugger first,” Cartwright said. “It's difficult to concentrate with explosions in one's backswing.”

“We're heading back up to the clubhouse, Dwight,” Barber said. “Want a lift?”

“Sure thing.”

The driver inched the Cadillac Escalade through the crowd between the bathrooms and the concession tent. Dwight looked out at the people they were passing. Some still looked frightened and confused. Others seemed almost giddy that they'd narrowly avoided a disaster, and now had a story they could tell the folks back in Knoxville or Spartanburg.

Dwight expected all of the pros and their caddies to take the shuttles back to the clubhouse. There was really no place to wait on the course. Then he noticed a caddie, golf bag over his shoulder, walking through the crowd along the ropes behind the 10th green, headed down the hill toward the 11th hole. This was strange. Why would this guy be moving against the flow of security guards, all of whom seemed to be headed up the 11th fairway to the site of the explosion?

Dwight didn't recognize him. Who was he looping for? Dwight shifted his weight and turned his head as far to the rear as he could, looking out the rear window of the SUV, to get a look at the back of the caddie's jumpsuit as he walked through the crowd.

“Chipmunk, you recognize that caddie?” Dwight said to his cousin.

Chipmunk turned to look at the receding caddie. They couldn't read the name on the back of the suit through the crowd. They watched as the caddie kept walking, finally emerging into an open space where they could get a clear look:

rockingham

“What the hell? That's not Shane Rockingham's caddie,” Dwight said.

“Weed's shorter. Got long hair,” Chipmunk agreed.

“He wouldn't be here anyway,” Dwight said. “Rockingham left town Tuesday morning. That's Weed's jumpsuit—but that sure as hell ain't Weed.”

“No, it sure ain't,” Chipmunk agreed.

“You mind if we stop a minute, Al?” Dwight said.

“What's up?” Barber asked.

“I gotta find a security guard.”

The driver came to a stop, and Dwight got out of the SUV. The guy with rockingham on his jumpsuit had vanished into the crowd. The only security guards and cops Dwight could see were running across the 11th fairway to see if they could lend a hand at the explosion site. Dwight went back to the SUV and asked the driver if he could contact the clubhouse.

“I can call tournament headquarters,” the driver said.

“Tell them I need to talk to a guy named Sam Skarda,” Dwight said. “Right now.”

*

Sam had moved out of the smoky woods into the 11th fairway, covered now by a small army of security and emergency people. Photographers who had been following the players were now focusing their lenses on the chaotic scene. A few spectators near the 11th tee had been nicked by flying wood chips and rocks from the explosion, but there'd been no damage to the course, and no serious injuries—just a lot of noise, smoke, and confusion.

Sam had no doubt now. That was just the first bomb—a diversion.

He heard his radio crackle.

“Skarda? It's Boyce.”

Sam switched on his transmitter: “What is it?”

“A man named Dwight Wilson called in for you. Says he saw a guy in a caddie suit with the name Rockingham on the back, walking through the crowd with a golf bag. What's the story? Rockingham's out of the tournament, right?”

“He's been gone since Thursday,” Sam said, almost shouting into the radio. “Where was this guy?”

“Somewhere in the crowd between the 10th green and the 12th hole,” Boyce said.

“It could be Doggett!” Sam said, starting to run across the fairway. “Call Petrakis! Get the cameras on that crowd. Find the guy in the Rockingham suit!”

His breath was coming in gasps as he ran toward the grandstand behind the 12th tee. If Doggett had gotten his hands on Weed's jumpsuit, he could walk through the crowd unnoticed—with a golf bag full of explosives.

“Where are you?” Boyce asked.

“11th fairway,” Sam panted. “Where are you?”

“Halfway down 10. I'm headed for the bomb site.”

“There's no way Doggett used two bags of fertilizer on that bomb in the woods!” Sam said. “He's still got a golf bag full of the stuff!”

Sam's left knee was stiffening up on him. He wasn't moving fast enough. He scanned the throngs of people in the pines to the right of 11 and couldn't see anyone in a caddie suit.

“Culver,” Sam said into his radio. “This is Skarda. Can you hear me? Put Caroline on.”

“Sam, it's me.” It was Caroline's voice. “We're looking for that caddie, but we're not seeing anything.”

“Are there any hand-held cameras by the 12th hole?”

Caroline was silent a moment. Sam wondered what they were seeing. He needed to go somewhere, do something—but what? Where?

“No,” she finally said. “The portable crews in that area went up the hill to where the explosion was. We're looking at a shot from the camera behind the 12th green. Going tight on the crowd. Nothing…I don't see him…”

Sam began running faster, his knee screaming. He crossed the gallery ropes and ran to the concession area behind the grandstand on 12. He looked at the spectators under the tent and standing in front of the souvenir stand. He ran through the men's bathroom. Nothing.

He was about to call back to Caroline when he noticed a gate-like doorway in the green mesh material that covered the backside of the grandstand. The gate was covered by the same material, but Sam could see movement behind it. He pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster, held it at his side, and walked carefully up to the back of the grandstand. He could still see a figure through the tight green mesh. Could the figure inside see him? The backdrop of sunlight would make his image visible through the material. Even though he wasn't wearing a police uniform, Sam couldn't risk that Doggett wouldn't shoot him through the mesh anyway.

He dropped to a crouch, reached for the latch on the gate, swung the door open, and thrust the Glock into the opening.

“Put down the gun!” he yelled.

Inside, three terrified teenagers in yellow jumpsuits—members of the club's litter detail—threw their hands up. The playing cards they were holding fell from their hands and scattered on the makeshift card table between them.

“Don't shoot, man,” one of them stammered. “We're just playing poker!”

Sam let out his breath, stood up, and put the Glock back in the holster. He'd been ready to put a bullet into whoever was under that grandstand. Finding Doggett was going to be hard enough; stopping him without hurting anybody else was going to be harder.

He apologized to the wide-eyed litter crew, closed the gate, and suddenly wondered why he was doing this. Why was he risking his life, and the life of anyone who might come between him and Doggett? He could hear Caroline's voice in his head: David Porter had hired him to find out who the killer was. Now they knew—why not let the cops take over?

The question answered itself, and Sam knew it: It wasn't about working for Augusta National. It was about saving lives. He'd almost been too late to save Caroline; everyone in this crowd meant as much to someone else as Caroline was beginning to mean to him. He had to keep anyone else from dying, if he could.

And maybe Doug Stensrud was right about him, too—once a cop, you're a cop. Maybe a part of him needed this.

Sam walked quickly around the grandstand to the sloping hillside between the front of the grandstand and 12th tee, where hundreds of spectators sat and stood in the grass, waiting for play to resume. He turned to scan the seats behind them—nearly full, with those in the top rows standing and looking up the 11th fairway toward the scene of the explosion.

“I've swept the grandstand at 12 and the concession area behind the grandstand,” Sam said into the radio. “I don't see him.”

“We're still scanning the pines between 11 and 13,” Caroline said into Culver's radio. “Lots of people still there, but I don't…wait.”

“What?”

“There's a caddie! Tony, can we get a close-up with the fairway camera on 11?”

Silence for a few moments.

“Tighter!” Sam heard Petrakis yell in the background. Then Caroline said, “It's him! That's the bastard who tried to kill me! I know it! He's got a golf bag over his shoulder, but no clubs. Yeah, it says rockingham on his jumpsuit. He's in the trees…between the 11th and 13th fairways…It looks like he's headed toward the 12th hole.”

Sam ran around the right corner of the grandstand. There were still too many people milling around the concession area. Did every spectator on the course come running over here when they heard the explosion? And where were the cops?

“Keep a camera on him,” Sam said. “If he changes direction, let me know. Boyce, are you listening?”

“Yeah. We're trying to get the security guards back from the explosion site.”

“Well, make it quick, or there's going to be another one,” Sam said.