The Feathery (20 page)

After a while, the smallest of the biggest kidnappers entered the room carrying a roast beef sandwich on soda bread and a soft drink. He set them down beside Matt and said, "I’ll be back later to work on that ear."

He returned in a half hour with a bottle of alcohol, some Q-tips and a Band-Aid. As he changed the dressing on the ear he started whispering into it, "Don’t speak to me until I tell you to, and only in a whisper then. I’m under cover here for Scotland Yard. I’ve been working as a mole on a case dealing with gaming fixes on horse races, and was not aware of the plan for your abduction until after you were snatched. So I couldn’t stop it. These guys are bad-asses so we must be careful. Okay, speak to me quietly."
"This sucks," Matt whispered.
"I know, but why not wait it out? They’re going to release you unharmed when Beckman withdraws from the Open."
"What happens if Scott doesn’t withdraw?"
The Mole paused. He didn’t want to tell Matt about their back-up plan of more ear surgery. Instead he asked, "Why can’t you wait it out?"

"No good, my player has a chance to win the British Open, and he needs me there to help him do it! He just can’t withdraw after two days of leading the tournament." Matt looked up at the Mole, appealing for his help. "Can’t you get me out of here before it’s too late?"

The Mole didn’t answer Matt’s question for what seemed like a long time. He finished cleaning and bandaging the ear before he whispered, "I’ll give it a try. It’s complicated because I’m working on getting evidence for other gambling fixes, and I don’t want my cover blown. He paused into more thought before he whispered, "I might be able to pull off your release, since the others are caught up looking for the guy who organized snatching you. He defected after the boat docked, and he might be turning on the head guy, Barkley, who we’re trying to get enough on to convict."

PRESTWICK, SCOTLAND

W
ho do ya like in the Open, Joel?"
It was five in the morning after Matt’s abduction, and Joel Pringle was loading the last of his packages into a white van with a blue lightening bolt zigzagging through the words: BLUE STREAK DELIVERY. The Blue Streak dispatcher asked the question.

"I’m sticking with our Scot, Allan MacGregor. He’s in fourth place, overdue to win a major, and at fifty to one going in, it’s a good bet."
"How about the Japanese player and that Yank, Beckman, who’s leading the thing?" The dispatcher asked.
"No way. Our weather today is going to blow those two out of the tournament, Joel said."
Joel had wagered ten pounds on MacGregor at the Barkley Betting Shop in Glasgow. MacGregor’s proven ability in bad weather bolstered his hope for a win to reap a payoff of 500 pounds.
The dispatcher handed him the load manifest. Joel skimmed over it, noting only a few parcels would be delivered enroute from Prestwick. Packages for the Turnberry Hotel made up the majority of his load. Included were golf products for the tented Expo area and expedited deliveries for hotel guests who’d forgotten medication, contact lenses, or the like.
He left the loading dock and drove south toward his first delivery in Ayr. Clouds hung low to mask the attempt of a rising sun to lighten up the lead-gray sky, and once beyond Ayr, sprinkles of rain began. Joel switched the windshield wipers on slow and continued driving toward darker skies. As he drove south, Joel thought about the golfers who would play Turnberry that day. They would be facing rain and strong winds after being spoiled by two days of calm, and it would be a true test of their skills. Most all of Scotland would be watching to see how the foreign golfers handled the elements that were so much a part of golf as it was played in their country.
When the van entered the village of Maidens, Joel switched the wiper blades to high speed. Frequent bursts of rain slammed at the right side of his van as strong gusts blew in from the Firth of Clyde. The Ailsa Craig island was well hidden in the clouds. The Blue Streak van pulled up to the guard shack at Turnberry’s entrance gate. It was an hour before the first tee time. The crowd was light, but six security guards were on duty there. Joel thought this strange until he was told there’d been a bomb threat, and Security would be inspecting each package in his delivery lot. Joel unloaded his van and received a signature receipt from Turnberry Security Chief, Randal Lyle, who assured him the parcels would be delivered after the inspection.
The large drop of packages at Turnberry would allow Joel to finish his route an hour earlier and to get on the road to Glasgow. Soon, he would be cheering MacGregor on inside a warm, dry pub, watching the BBC television broadcast of the Open.
Lyle directed the guards to begin their inspection of the Blue Streak deliveries. Not long afterwards, he was called over to a bench where a small box had been opened by one of his men. The man’s normal red flush had drained. His face was pale and his bulging eyes were fixed on the box he’d just opened. Lyle looked down at its contents. Resting on top of some red-stained cotton was a gold earring hooked into a bit of flesh that resembled an earlobe. Both men stood there gazing down at the bloody contents of the package. That alone was alarming enough, but what really startled them were the words on a note inside the box.
The security head, Lyle, asked, "To whom is this package addressed?"
The guard expelled a gasp of air along with his answer. "The golfer, Scott Beckman, sir."
"Go find Mr. Beckman right away and bring him to my office," Lyle ordered.

T
he tournament leader’s tee time was 12:06, and Scott planned to arrive in the locker room at nine that morning. He looked out through the rain streaks on his hotel room window as a strong gust turned the leaves on an oak tree over to expose their lighter shade of green. He phoned Matt’s room at the Kilt and Jeans but didn’t get an answer. Perhaps Matt was at breakfast or already at the course, he thought, knowing his caddie would be aware of weather reports and prepare his bag for any adverse conditions.

Scott took both new cashmere sweaters from a drawer and put the beige one on over a turtleneck. He pulled a windbreaker over both. The other sweater went in his duffel for later transfer to his golf bag if required. And with wind-chilling rain a factor he thought it could be a two-cashmere day.

Matt was not at the practice range when Scott arrived there, and he asked some of the caddies if they’d seen him. They told him that Matt hadn’t made it to breakfast at the Kilt and Jeans.

A group of sports writers approached Scott, clamoring for a new spin on the American who led the Open, and he talked to them for ten minutes while keeping an eye out for his caddie, but Matt didn’t show. He headed for the locker room to get his golf bag, and on the way there, he stopped at the putting green to wish Bob Bray good luck. Even though there were still more than two hours before his tee time, Scott was becoming more worried about Matt’s absence. Claudio asked Scott how Matt had fared after last night’s celebration.

"He’s not here, and I’m wondering why."

Claudio stopped rolling golf balls back from the cup to Bob Bray and looked up at Scott. "I saw him leave the Kilt and Jeans with a lovely redhead last night. He probably overslept and he’ll be here soon."

Scott left the putting green, hurried to the locker room phone and called the Kilt and Jeans desk, trying to find out if anyone there knew of Matt’s whereabouts. No one at the Inn could locate him. After a chambermaid checked Matt’s room, she reported that Matt’s bed didn’t look like it had been slept in. Scott’s concern heightened. Just as he hung up the phone, the locker room attendant rushed toward him with a message. He told Scott there was a gate guard with a golf cart outside waiting to take him to Randal Lyle’s office.

Scott got into the golf cart marked SECURITY and was driven toward the hotel. He guessed it was about Matt and tried to dampen his worst fears. As they sped up the hill his mind raced through all categories of accidents or illnesses that could’ve occurred to make his friend go missing. He struggled to maintain control as he entered the security office.

Randal Lyle was sitting behind his desk, and two local police were standing in front of Randal staring down at a box on his desk. Randal was wearing gloves to eliminate his own prints "This just arrived and it’s addressed to you. It was sent from Portpatrick overnight by Blue Streak Delivery." Randal’s expression made Scott brace himself for bad news as Randal slowly opened the box.

Scott stared down at the gold earring looped through a piece of flesh resting on a wad of cotton dotted with blood. He saw shocking words written on notepaper there: WITHDRAW, followed by, OR THE NEXT PACKAGE WILL CONTAIN THE REST OF YOUR CADDIE’S EAR.

Scott put both hands to his face. "Oh, no," he said, "not Matt!" Randall closed the cover on the box and handed it to one of the constables. The other one was on the phone to the bartender at the Kilt and Jeans trying to get a description of the girl Matt had left there with.
Randall followed Scott to his room. Scott felt more help than just the local police would be needed to find Matt, and he passed Randall Chief Inspector Bradshaw’s card with his phone number at Scotland Yard. Randall placed the call to Bradshaw on his cell phone.
While Randall was trying to reach the chief inspector, Scott picked up the room phone to tell the Royal and Ancient he’d withdraw. He took a deep breath before touching the numbers for the R and A tournament director, but Randall stopped him with a shout before Scott got connected. Bradshaw’s request to speak with Scott was urgent, and the Turnberry Security Chief handed his cell to Scott.
Bradshaw’s familiar clipped accent filled the earpieces. "The security chief brought me current on the message you received from your caddie’s kidnappers. Have you withdrawn from the tournament?"
"No, but I was about to make a call to do it."
"Don’t withdraw, Scott." Bradshaw said.
"I have to, Chief Inspector. Whoever did this could do worse if…"
Bradshaw interrupted him. "Scott, listen to me," he implored. "We have quite a bit of experience with this type of threat, and giving in to those people will not guarantee your caddie won’t be harmed further."
"I’ve got to withdraw." Scott said. "I just can’t take that chance."
"Scott, hear me out. Something we’ve been onto here at the Yard is just starting to reach critical mass. We’ve a strong lead on who’s responsible for Matt’s abduction. I’ll put on a crew immediately to step up our effort relating to this investigation. How long before you have to tee off?"
Scott looked at his watch. "I have ninety minutes. Does this have anything to do with the feathery?" A thought that the feathery was
cursed
crossed Scott’s mind.
"No, I’m sure it’s a motive connected to gambling only. I’m asking you to put your call to the Royal and Ancient on hold. To withdraw right now would be the wrong move. I need a few minutes to pull some things together here that’ll give you more justification to continue play. Give me thirty minutes to regroup with my people, and I’ll ring you up after."
"I’ll wait for your call, then" Scott said after a short pause, "before I withdraw."

Close to half an hour later, the musical tone on Randall Lyle’s cell phone went off. He handed the phone to Scott. There was a delay before Bradshaw spoke. In the background, he could hear others offering information to Bradshaw.

Finally, the chief inspector said, "we’ve been working on a case that involves wagering on sporting events, and it’s also tied to the Open. This has led us to those who kidnapped your caddie."

"Have you located Matt?"

"Yes, we know where he is and we’re taking appropriate action for his safe release as we speak. We’ve an undercover agent planted with the gang that kidnapped him. Also, we received a phone call from Belfast. It seems the organizer of the abduction, one Malachy Gallagher, has given himself up. He’s pin-pointed the location where your caddie is being held. I’ll inform you of the progress when I know more, but I recommend you not withdraw. We feel Mr. Kemp’s release is imminent. Go win the British Open." Bradshaw ended the call with, "Best of luck. I’ll watch you on the replay tonight."

Some of Scott’s anxiety lifted, but strong concern for Matt still lingered on after Bradshaw ended the call.
Randall Lyle broke into Scott’s silence. "Scott, the media will come at this like piranhas, so let’s keep the reason for Matt’s absence secure. How about Matt is down with the flu and has a high temperature? Doctor wants him to stay in bed today."
"That might work. Thanks, Randal."
"You’re going to need a caddie, Scott."
"I know. Got anyone in mind?"
"It’s quite late to find one before your tee time, you know. Derrick might have someone. I’ll ring him up him."
When Derrick Small entered the room, he offered a suggestion. "Would Douglas McEwan be alright?" I saw the young lad hanging around the putting green earlier."
Scott came away from his thoughts about Matt. "Isn’t anyone else with more experience than Douglas available?"
"It’s last minute, and all of the others are already taken." Derrick grinned. "Douglas was trained to caddie by the best…yours truly."
"Okay, I’ll go with Douglas. I’ll head for the range and meet him there. I’ve got another forty-five minutes before my tee time."