Chapter 8: Practice Round

The security guard at the Marsh Point gate had checked Holt's badge every morning for twenty-one months.

On Tuesday he checked it again and then stood up.

"Mr. Brannigan," the guard said. "Player entrance is to the left."

Holt had driven through the staff gate a thousand times.

He had never once looked at the one beside it.

The practice round started at eight.

Amos carried the bag.

Bryn walked beside them in a visitor's lanyard.

Holt had put her name on his guest list at the Tour office the evening before.

The first thing he noticed was the grounds crew.

Eleven of them stood in a row along the edge of the ninth fairway in their green polos.

Nobody had told them to stand there.

Nobody said anything as he passed.

The oldest, a stooped man who had taught Holt the mowers, took off his straw hat and held it to his chest.

Holt looked at the ground.

"Don't," Bryn said under her breath. "Just keep walking."

He kept walking.

At the turn, a blue blazer stepped out of the clubhouse door onto the path.

It was the general manager.

He gave Holt a smile.

"Mr. Brannigan," he said. "Good luck this week."

He turned to Bryn.

"Ms. Sanderlin, a word. You're not cleared for the player areas."

"I'm his guest," Bryn said.

"You're an employee of this club, and employees don't get player passes."

"Then I'll stand at the rope like everyone else," Bryn said.

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