Amen Corner (41 page)

Sam ran into the pine trees that guarded the high side of the dogleg on 13, hoping to intercept Doggett before he got to the densely packed Amen Corner. He pushed past knots of spectators until he'd almost reached the 14th fairway. Nothing. He asked a marshal in a yellow plastic hardhat if he'd seen a caddie go by. The marshal nodded and pointed back into the trees, toward the 12th hole.

Sam dodged spectators as he ran back along the paved path through the trees to the concessions area behind the grandstand on 12. No security guards or cops yet—and no sign of Doggett, either. There couldn't be a better spot to kill hundreds of people. Where the hell was he?

“Sam!” Caroline yelled in his earpiece. “We've got a close-up of him from the camera behind the 12th green. He's kneeling beside the grandstand! He's leaning the bag against the grandstand and lighting a cigarette…Now he's putting the cigarette into the golf bag!”

“Which side?” Sam yelled. “Left or right? You gotta tell me which side!”

“Right side—looking from behind the green!”

He pushed his way through the people clustered around him and ran around the corner of the grandstand.

There was Doggett—the sides and back of his head shaved under the green Masters cap, rockingham written across the back of his jumpsuit—stepping over the rope next to the 12th tee and walking toward the Hogan Bridge, away from the crowd and away from the golf bag he'd left leaning against the grandstand. A wisp of smoke curled up from the smoldering cigarette that he had placed on top of the fluid-soaked towel and the fertilizer.

Sam pulled the Glock from its holster. He couldn't stop both Doggett and the bomb. He ran to the golf bag.

Doggett looked over his shoulder and yelled, “Hey—get away from there!”

Doggett reached inside his jumpsuit for the gun he'd used to kill Harwell. With Rae's Creek and the 12th green behind Doggett, Sam had a safe shot.

“Police! Put it down!” Sam screamed as he aimed the Glock. Doggett's hand emerged from the jumpsuit, holding a gun.

The shot wasn't perfect, but it was good enough. It hit Doggett in the neck, spun him around, and dropped him onto the fairway.

Sam picked the cigarette fuse off the top of the golf bag and threw it onto the grass. The gunshot still echoed across Rae's Creek as Doggett's blood oozed onto the immaculate turf. People in the grandstand were screaming, stunned to have witnessed a Masters caddie gunned down before their eyes. Who was the madman who shot him? Who would he shoot next?

“Everybody get back!” Sam yelled to those standing nearby. “I'm a cop!”

He picked up the golf bag, one hand on the handle and the other on the bottom of the bag, ran to the edge of Rae's Creek, and threw the bag as far as he could. It landed in the still pond with a splash, bobbed briefly, then sank silently to the bottom.

Sam returned to Doggett, lying on his back in the middle of the tightly mown slope that led down to the Hogan Bridge. He was still alive, but blood poured from the wound in his neck. His eyes were wide open, staring at nothing but conveying an unquenched fury.

“Doggett,” Sam said, kneeling next to him. “What the hell were you trying to do?”

“Kill it,” Doggett said, gasping. There was blood in his throat, bubbling into his mouth and running down his chin.

“Kill what?” Sam asked.

The lids of Doggett's eyes were beginning to droop, and the blood from his wound was turning the front of the jumpsuit from brilliant white to a deep cherry.

“The goddam…Masters…”

His eyelids fluttered and closed.

Sam stood up. Every eye in the grandstand was riveted on the lifeless Doggett. His green hat lay a few feet away, and the blazing sunlight glinted off his shaved, sweaty head.

Sam switched on his radio and called Boyce.

“It's Skarda. Doggett's dead. Tell Porter he'll get his final round in.”

Chapter Forty-one

At the post-tournament press conference, the questions centered on Lee Doggett. Who was he, the reporters wanted to know. Was he responsible for all of the killings that week? How had he gotten onto the course? Why was he trying to bomb the Masters?

Mark Boyce of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation joined David Porter at the front table in the media center, giving the same sort of circumspect answers that Porter usually gave to questions about club matters.

“We don't know whether or why Mr. Doggett may have committed the series of murders this week,” Boyce said in an authoritative monotone, as he faced the tiers of reporters and cameras. “That will have to wait until we complete our investigations. He's our prime suspect, obviously, but we can't say more than that now.”

Sam stood off to the side with Caroline, watching the spectacle. Boyce had told him that he shouldn't answer any questions. But Sam wanted to be at the press conference, if only to prepare himself for whatever spin the media would put on the story.

The question foremost in every reporter's mind was asked by Russ Daly of the L.A. Times.

“David, can you tell us why you went ahead and completed play today?” Daly asked. “You had a cop shot and killed, a bomb go off on the grounds, and an alleged murderer gunned down in front of your customers. Didn't you even think about calling it off?”

Porter cleared his throat, adjusted his microphone and assumed the calm, controlled manner he'd always exhibited in front of the assembled media.

“Our weather radar indicated a series of thunderstorms moving in this evening, which we were told would last through most of the day tomorrow,” Porter said. “We felt we owed it to our patrons to do everything we could to complete the tournament on schedule. We understand that today's events were shocking, but after order was restored, we believed everyone preferred to see the golf tournament resume. CBS did a wonderful job of keeping our millions of viewers informed throughout the afternoon, and I would particularly like to compliment Cameron Myers for his professionalism during the…disturbance, and afterward.

“The players put on a wonderful display of shotmaking today. Frank Naples' chip-in to win on the 18th hole will be remembered as one of the greatest shots in Masters history.”

Sam looked at Caroline in disbelief. Everyone else in the world would remember this Masters as the year a murderer ran amok on the course—but to David Porter, the crisis had been handled, and all was right again on Magnolia Lane.

Even Robert Brisbane, seated to the side near Sam and Caroline, had to cover his chin with the palm of his hand to suppress a smile.

Brisbane had advised Porter to postpone the tournament's conclusion, but Porter had insisted on trying for a Sunday finish. It had taken the police and EMTs about two hours to complete their crime-scene investigation and remove Doggett's body from Amen Corner. Play then resumed with Barber and Cartwright—the first group out—finishing their 12th hole.

When the cops had taken Sam's statement, Boyce brought him up to the Butler Cabin, where Caroline was waiting for him in the basement studio CBS used for the televised presentation of the green jacket. She put her arms around Sam and held him tightly for a moment, then pulled away. She told him she'd watched him shoot Doggett on the CBS monitor. It hadn't gone out over the air, but it was an image that would never leave her.

“You didn't hesitate,” she said. “You were trying to kill him.”

Her tone was not accusatory, but matter-of-fact. She was still trying to process the violence she'd witnessed.

“I had a clear shot,” Sam said. “And I was only going to get one.”

“I'm glad he's dead,” Caroline said quietly. “I'm just sorry it was you that had to do it.”

“So am I.”

They had stayed in the cabin to watch Frank Naples compete with Sergio Garcia and the dwindling sunlight, finally winning his second green jacket with his 70-foot chip-in from the back of the 18th green, down to the first tier and into the hole, cut in its usual front left Sunday location. When Naples was brought to the Butler Cabin, Cameron Myers used his most soothing voice to conduct a bland, content-free interview prior to the jacket ceremony. He referred to the explosion and the shooting of Doggett only once—indirectly—in a question about how Naples had managed to keep his concentration during the interruption of play.

“I'll never watch a golf tournament the same way again,” Caroline said, as they watched Naples slip on the green jacket in the small basement studio. “I'm always going to be staring at the faces in the crowd, instead of at the players.”

“I put you through a lot this weekend,” Sam said.

“Damn right you did,” she agreed. She stared intently at him with her piercing blue-green eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“I know you are. But it's what you do. It's who you are. I should have realized that.”

When the reporters asked Boyce at the press conference how Sam Skarda happened to be the one to shoot Doggett, he told them Sam had been working as a private investigator for the club. Porter was asked how long that arrangement had been in effect.

“We don't discuss the club's private business,” Porter said.

“How much is he being paid?” someone asked.

“As I said: We don't discuss the club's private business,” Porter replied. “But rest assured, we are very grateful for what Sam has done for this club.”

“David, now that this is over, will Augusta National be rethinking its position on women members?” asked Jane Vincent of NBC.

Sam saw her question as the perfect opening for Porter to announce to the world that Margaret Winship would be asked to join. The National had stood firm through a vicious character assassination, proving its hands were clean in the killings and making a convincing case that private clubs should not allow themselves to be bullied or blackmailed. And with Rachel Drucker and the WOFF now being forced to retract their accusations, the National could play the perfect grace note by admitting Margaret Winship—not as a result of coercion, but simply because the club had chosen to, for its own reasons.

“We've had no discussions about that, and I don't believe we will in the immediate future,” Porter said. “We'd prefer to focus on the golf tournament.”

Business as usual. Never give an inch, until you're ready. Why should Sam have been surprised?

When the press conference ended and the reporters began working on their stories, Boyce accompanied Porter, Brisbane, Sam, and Caroline out of the media building.

“Well, I've got reports to file,” Boyce said, looking at Sam. “Will you be staying here at the club? We'll need to reach you.”

Sam looked at Porter, who nodded.

“I guess they'll let me hang around a little longer.”

“Good,” Boyce said. “That was outstanding police work today. You ought to reconsider quitting.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, shaking Boyce's outstretched hand. “I'm just sorry about Harwell.”

“I know. We all are.”

Boyce turned and walked to the parking lot. Porter asked Sam to accompany him to his office.

“I've got to pack,” Caroline said. “I'm catching the red-eye back to Tucson tonight at 11:45.”

“We could find a nicer room for you,” Brisbane said with a smile.

“It's not the accommodations,” Caroline said. “I really do have to get home.”

“I'll drive you to the airport,” Sam said.

“All right. See you in a while.”

He watched her walk toward the clubhouse. She could have stayed if she really wanted to—but too much had happened here. Blood had stained the surreal beauty of Augusta National. A trip that was supposed to be purely for pleasure had turned into a nightmare. She'd almost been killed, and she'd watched Sam kill a man.

He wished he could be on the plane to Tucson, talking her through it.

*

It was raining by the time Sam drove Caroline to the Augusta airport in the rented Taurus. He'd had to give the keys to the courtesy car back to the valet—another sign that Masters Week really was over.

He dialed the iPod to the April 1973 playlist—the year that Georgia native Tommy Aaron won his only Masters. There had been some great soul music on the air that spring. The first song was the O'Jays' “Love Train,” followed by the Four Tops' “Ain't No Woman Like the One I Got.”

Sam turned to look at Caroline in the illumination from the passing streetlights. There was no woman like her, but he didn't have her. Sunday had wiped away what had been a great beginning on Saturday night. Caroline had trouble accepting what he did for a living, and he couldn't tell her he was through doing it.

She had been quiet during the drive. He didn't know what he could say to her that wouldn't sound like he was just making conversation. He wasn't going to bring up anything about Doggett or the murders.

Then she did.

“How much did they pay you?”