Ed Fletcher’s brow lifted. “Looked to me like you did it perfectly.” His gaze shifted to Blake Baker. “Want to just take that one and get on with it?”
Blake shrugged. “I guess I can live with it — should be good for a par anyway.”
With their next shots the Fletchers still weren’t on the green, but with their fourth they managed to leave the ball only three feet from the pin.
As Seth set up his putt, he once more saw the cat watching him, this time from the top of the bunker at the back of the green, and when the putt was finished, the ball lay only six inches from the cup.
Ed Fletcher conceded the hole.
“Not sandbagging, huh?” Ed Fletcher said as they approached the eleventh tee.
“I never hit a ball like that before,” Seth said. “I mean, never!”
Ed Fletcher shrugged. “You know what you did different?”
Seth shook his head.
“You relaxed. That’s the key to golf — just relax. Trouble is, most of us just can’t do it.”
“And flukes can happen to anyone,” Blake Baker said. “Even Seth.”
Something that looked like anger flashed through Ed Fletcher’s eyes so quickly that Seth wasn’t certain he’d seen it, and then it was gone.
But as Seth was setting up for his tee shot, Ed Fletcher said, “I’ve got twenty bucks that says it wasn’t a fluke.”
Blake Baker eyed his client uneasily. “You want to bet on
As his father agreed to bet against him, Seth felt his eyes start to sting with tears, but rather than either wipe them away or risk anyone seeing them, he simply pulled his driver back and took a swing at the ball.
Once again it soared into the air and flew down the fairway, landing to the right, where it would be easy to send the next shot around the dogleg toward the green. As the ball rolled to a stop, Seth saw the black cat disappear into a thicket behind the tee box.
Seth’s next shot hit the green five feet from the cup.
With the black cat watching from the shadow of one of the granite outcroppings that dotted the course, Seth sank the putt.
“What the hell’s going on?” his father asked him as they walked toward the next tee.
“I don’t know,” Seth said. “All I’m doing is just hitting the ball!”
“ ‘Just hitting the ball’?” his father echoed. “Nobody ‘just hits the ball’ like that!”
Seth stared at his father in bewilderment. “But I’m doing good, aren’t I?”
Blake eyed him darkly. “You know what a sandbagger is?”
Seth swallowed. “I–I guess it’s someone who suddenly does better than anyone thinks he can do.”
Blake Baker’s voice hardened. “It’s someone who pretends he can’t do something to sucker someone else in.”
“But I’m not any good at golf,” Seth said. “You saw me just the other day, when we were practicing!”
“Or I saw you faking,” Blake replied.
By the fifteenth hole, when not one of Seth’s shots had gone wild and he and his father had won every hole since the ninth, the word had begun to spread that something strange was going on. As they walked down the eighteenth fairway, with each team having won eight and a half holes, and having split one, the green was ringed with all the teams that had already finished, and most of the people who’d been spending the afternoon at the pool as well.
Zack Fletcher looked furious, and even Ed Fletcher’s tone had changed. While he’d actually seemed amused at how well Seth had been doing on the first few holes of the back nine, his good humor drained slowly away as the difference in the two teams’ scores had narrowed.
Now that he seemed to be on the very verge of defeat, he’d stopped talking altogether.
And finally they came to the green, where Zack and Seth would be the first to putt for their teams.
Zack was twenty feet from the hole, Seth about fifteen.
Heather Dunne and Sarah Harmon were standing with Chad Jackson and Jared Woods, and all of them were rooting for Zack.
Zack studied the putt from every angle, carefully took two practice swings until he was sure of the line, then stepped up to the ball and putted.
The ball rolled straight toward the hole.
“You’re the man, Zack!” Chad Jackson yelled as it drew closer to the cup.
Zack raised his fist into the air, ready to pump it the instant the ball dropped into the cup.
And then it veered off, drifted half an inch past the hole, and came to a stop.
The beginnings of the cheer that started to rise from the crowd around the green died abruptly away, leaving Zack staring unbelievingly at his ball.
And Seth, his eyes drawn by a slight movement from the other side of the green, glanced over to see the black cat seat itself on the edge of one of the sand traps that ringed the putting surface.
The black cat with the white blaze on its chest.
Seth’s eyes met those of the cat as Zack, swearing, marked the spot where his ball had stopped.
As the murmur of sympathy for Zack’s failed putt died away, Ed Fletcher placed his ball at the spot from which Zack had putted, spent even more time analyzing the putt than his son had, and finally struck the ball.
And missed.
Seth walked over to his ball, glanced once more at the cat, which was still sitting by the sand trap, and swung his putter.
The ball dropped into the hole.
As the crowd realized what had happened, Seth looked one more time at the sand trap.
The cat was gone.
The Fletchers, Zack and his father, had lost.
And Seth could see the fury not only in his father’s eyes, but in everyone else’s as well.
But he hadn’t cheated.
He wasn’t a sandbagger.
He’d simply won.
And everyone — including his father — hated him.
Chapter 32
YRA SULLIVAN GASPED AS THE FIGURE APPEARED in the kitchen doorway, and the memory of the terrifying specter she’d glimpsed in the living room only a few hours earlier instantly leaped back to the forefront of her mind. Her hand flew to her breast as if to still her suddenly racing heart, then moved on, unconsciously making the sign of the cross as she mouthed an inaudible prayer so deeply rooted in her subconscious that she was barely aware of its utterance at all.
The figure stood still in the doorway. Clad completely in black, a cape falling from its shoulders nearly to the floor, the ghost-white face seemed almost to float like a disembodied object above the body.
The mouth was a scarlet slash, the eyes — enormous in the ghostly face — were circled with black. The lips parted to expose fangs so distended that Myra lurched back a step. Then, just as a scream began to form in her throat, she heard the sound of laughter.
Angel’s laughter!
“Got you!” her daughter crowed, her bloodred lips broadening into a grin. She stepped farther into the kitchen and whirled around so the cape billowed out, and pulled away the black scarf she’d wrapped around her head so her hair fell back to her shoulders. “What do you think?”
“Dear God,” Myra breathed, her right hand still on her breast. “For heaven’s sake, Angel, what are you trying to do to me?”
