Read Online Amen Corner by Rick Shefchik - Free Book Online

“There’s been an accident here.”
    â€œWhat kind of accident?” Rockingham asked.
    â€œSorry, gentlemen, I can’t say any more. Please proceed to the 13th tee.”
    â€œShit,” Rockingham said to Menninger as they began walking to a waiting Cadillac Escalade. “They better let us practice here tomorrow. I’m never sure what club to hit on this hole.”
    Rockingham was so locked into his tournament preparation that he didn’t even seem to care why the cops had shut down the hole. But Sam was interested.
    â€œOfficer,” Sam said quietly to the deputy. “Is this a homicide?”
    â€œYou’ll have to talk to the investigator, Lieutenant Harwell.”
    He pointed to a man walking toward the tee from the edge of the pond. He had wiry red hair and wore a white short-sleeve shirt, a red tie, and navy blue pants, with a police radio and a holstered handgun attached to his belt. Sam waited until Harwell reached the tee.
    â€œLieutenant Harwell, I’m a detective with the Minneapolis Police Department,” Sam said.
    â€œWhat’s a Minneapolis cop doing here?” the investigator said to Sam.
    â€œI’m playing in the Masters this year. Sam Skarda.”
    â€œOh…,” Harwell said, letting the sound escape from his mouth like a draft through a barn. The idea of a cop playing golf made no sense to him whatsoever. “What can I do for y’all? We’re a little busy here.”
    â€œWhat happened here?” Sam asked.
    â€œWe don’t know. The M.E. will determine that.”
    There was no body visible. The ambulance and the hearse were gone.
    â€œWhy is the hole closed off?”
    Harwell looked around, then lifted the police tape.
    â€œC’mere. Have a look.”
    Sam and Dwight followed the detective to the end of the tee and down the slope to the edge of the pond. Cops and forensic technicians stood around the 12th green, some taking pictures, some on their hands and knees inspecting the grass, and others just standing around enjoying the warm April morning.
    â€œWe found a body floating here this morning,” Harwell said. “And that writing on the green.”
    At first Sam couldn’t see anything unusual. Then, through a gap between two cops, he spotted some brown grass in the center of the putting surface. That never happened at Augusta. Looking more closely, there appeared to be a pattern to the spots of dead grass.
    Someone had burned a message into the green. Sam took a few steps closer until he could make out the words, written in letters a foot high:
    THIS IS THE LAST MASTERS
    Chapter Six
    Sam couldn’t get the image of the defaced green out of his mind for the rest of the round. Nor could he imagine why someone was willing to commit murder to end the tournament. Could it have something to do with the protests?
    He made a string of distracted swings that led to bogeys and double-bogeys as they played their way back to the clubhouse. The temperature had climbed into the 80s by the time Sam’s foursome walked up the 18th fairway, and Dwight was laboring.
    â€œAre you okay, big guy?” Sam asked as they approached the two-tiered green, surrounded by milky white bunkers and hundreds of spectators. Dwight toweled his face and offered a weak grin.
    â€œThese hills get steeper and this jumpsuit gets hotter every year,” he said. “But I’d feel a whole hell of a lot better if you’d get your mind back on your game.”
    Sam responded to Dwight’s challenge, sinking a 25-foot birdie putt to win the hole and three carry-overs worth $200.
    â€œYou just cost me a steak dinner, pards,” Rockingham said to Sam as they walked off the 18th green. He was smiling as he compressed Sam’s hand, but the force of the handshake convinced Sam that Rockingham wasn’t joking.
    â€œTwo hundred bucks for a steak dinner? You need to find cheaper restaurants,” Sam