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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part Two

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Part Three

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Also by Ralph McInerny

  Copyright

  For Tom and Stacey Hibbs

  PART ONE

  1

  Golf can be played at any time of the day, but morning is best, the earlier the better. There are those who object to dew on the grass and to putted balls that elicit plumes of water from the greens, but they are to be pitied rather than blamed. In any case, God is merciful, and such tepid devotion is doubtless better than none. All the more reason to choose one’s partners carefully lest a game be spoiled by the grousing of even one member of the group.

  One June morning, Phil Knight stood on the first tee. From the trees and bushes came the twitter of birds he would not have presumed to identify, leaving that sort of thing to his brother, Roger. His ball sat high on its tee. He remained motionless over it for half a minute, took a final glance down the inviting vista of the fairway, then slowly drew back his club, brought it level to the ground behind his head, paused, and then in the descending swing shifted his weight slightly, keeping his head down. Club head met ball with a satisfying crack and his ball sailed out a hundred and fifty yards and rolled another twenty-five.

  “Good shot, Phil.”

  Jimmy Stewart took his place on the tee and Phil got off to the side, studying his grip on the driver, a mute suggestion that good as his drive had been, he was capable of better. Jimmy skied his ball and it plopped to a halt fifty yards out. Moments later the two men were in the cart, silently off for their second shots. Friends do not comment on a foozled shot, not simply as insurance against an inevitable bad shot of their own but in deference to the etiquette of the game. The golf course is the last bastion of courtesy in a declining civilization.

  The Warren Golf Course is located on Douglas Road just east of the Notre Dame campus. It is the university course now but the old Burke course, nine holes of which still exist, is so heavy with bittersweet memories that for many Warren will never replace Burke. Phil Knight had no sentimental attachment to the old course. He and Roger had arrived in South Bend after Warren opened, but he sometimes played those surviving nine holes of Burke and could sympathize with those for whom Warren must forever be an imposter. Jimmy was one of them and thus it was that this morning it was Burke they played.

  Like most natives of South Bend, Stewart considered himself an honorary alumnus. As a boy he had slipped over the fence separating the sixteenth fairway from Cedar Grove Cemetery and played the back holes out of sight of Rockne Memorial, which housed the clubhouse. When he returned from military service, he became a member of the South Bend police force that for years, before half of the old course had been cannibalized for new student residences, had played Burke every Tuesday evening in season, their tournament a gesture of gown to town. Mere words could not express his feelings about the loss of the back nine of Burke to the encroachments of the new buildings. On this idyllic morning the two men were playing Burke because of an impending alumni tournament at Warren.

  For his second shot Jimmy took a three wood and redeemed himself with a magnificent hit that landed on the green but then bounded to the right into a sand trap. The word he uttered was not a vulgarity under the circumstances but a mere statement of fact. Phil’s seven iron scudded to the apron of the green and stopped. Of course, he said nothing about his good fortune.

  Despite their different approaches, each man left the first green with a double bogie six and proceeded to the second hole. Whatever the fortunes of the game, the two friends were similarly affected by the peaceful setting, by the forgetfulness of all else that a golf course confers on its votaries, the vexations of the day left behind on the first tee. On the second green there were signs that someone had preceded them. Jimmy looked at Phil.

  “He must have started by putting on the second,” Jimmy said, his voice heavy with disapproval. The second green was separated from the first tee by a grassy declivity and a hedge.

  “There he is.”

  Far off on the third fairway a solitary figure in a golf cart could be descried.

  Phil shook his head. Was even golf to be affected by the lawlessness of the world?

  By silent agreement the two men slowed their pace, not wanting to overtake the interloper ahead. The tracks of his cart in the wet grass and his footprints on the greens, looking like dance steps, made it impossible to forget about him completely. When they came off the fifth green and went on to the next hole their slow pace was unrewarded: There was someone on the unmown sixth green. Six is a par three reachable by a nine iron or pitching wedge. Phil prudently took an eight iron from his bag and, having honors, teed up his ball. And waited.

  “What’s he doing?” Jimmy asked, disgust in his voice.

  “Lining up his putt?”

  The man was lying on the surface of the green and it was conceivable that he was seeking a better reading of the surface. But a minute passed and he remained lying where he was. Annoyance gave way to concern.

  “I’ll go see,” Jimmy said.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  The holes behind them showed no signs as yet of other golfers. Jimmy was already behind the wheel of the cart and Phil slipped in beside him and they were off. Neither man spoke as they neared the green. There was little doubt that the man lying on the green had not moved since they first saw him. Jimmy pulled up behind the parked cart and jumped out, moving cautiously over the green. He was already crouched beside the man when Phil joined him.

  “Dead?”

  “Not quite. You got a phone with you, Phil?”

  Phil nodded. He took his cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Jimmy, who dialed 911. The real world had intruded on their game.

  2

  Before the police cruisers and the ambulance arrived, advancing over the fairways with flashing lights, Jimmy scrutinized the putting surface. His first instructions were that the green was to be minutely photographed before the paramedics performed their necessary tasks. Phil grudgingly realized that there would be no more golf that day. The photographer, in bare feet, did as he was ins
tructed, and then the body was bagged and put into the ambulance. Jimmy drove the fallen player’s clubs and cart off for sequestration and then departed in a police car still wearing his golf shoes. Phil directed his cart back to the tee, retrieved his unhit ball, and headed in.

  At the starting shed he paid Max, the attendant, who had just arrived. Max was a squinty-eyed man whose knees kept him from the game he loved. His only comfort now was to take secret pleasure in the mishits of those still able to play, remembering only the good drives he himself had hit in his playing days. He was still staring, openmouthed, at the passage of the ambulance. “I thought it was you or Stewart,” he said solemnly.

  “Not this time, Max.”

  “Was he playing with you?”

  “He was ahead of us.”

  “Ahead!” Max squinted and rubbed his chin. “When did he start?”

  There seemed no need to mention the way the fallen golfer had begun his round. It would be too much to regard what had happened to him as divine retribution but some such unformulated thought did cross Phil’s mind. He carried his and Jimmy’s clubs to the car in which both had arrived and drove to the apartment east of the library that he shared with his brother Roger. It was there, during a second breakfast—waffles and bacon and scrambled eggs—that Jimmy telephoned. Roger took the call.

  “His name is Mortimer Sadler,” Roger said, hanging up. “Or it was.”

  “Dead?”

  “Dead.”

  Phil had given Roger an account of the interrupted round, not expecting his brother to understand what one was bound to think of a golfer who began a round by dropping a ball on the second green and putting out as if he had got there in the approved way.

  “Sadler Hall,” Roger said. This was one of the new residences built on the former back nine of the Burke golf course.

  “Probably a coincidence.”

  Roger shook his head. “Mortimer Sadler.”

  A wave of sympathy passed through Phil. Had the man seen the building that his generosity had paid for and in an agony of remorse suffered a fatal stroke?

  “May he rest in peace,” Roger murmured.

  “Amen,” Phil said sincerely.

  * * *

  There are those who sneak a secret drink before a party. Mortimer Sadler was on campus for an irregular reunion of his class and might have gone out early on Burke as a kind of Sneaky Pete to ready himself for the later class tournament at Warren. This possibility brought back Phil’s disapproval of the man and when Jimmy came by later he shared the sentiment.

  “He was scheduled to tee off at Warren at nine-fifty-five.”

  Silence was sufficient comment.

  “He must have loved golf,” Roger said.

  The silence deepened.

  An hour later Father Carmody arrived. He had spent the morning at the new golf course, fraternizing with returned alumni, speaking with Toolin, and reliving his glory days when he had been a mover and shaker behind the scenes at Notre Dame. One of his last accomplishments had been to bring Roger Knight to campus as the Huneker Professor of Catholic Studies, a position that gave Roger unusual autonomy, being attached to no particular department but having his classes listed in several. Among other things, he was spending the summer preparing a course on the revival of Catholic literature in France in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This was the initial topic of conversation when the priest arrived.

  “No course on Huneker?”

  Father Carmody had long urged Roger to offer a course devoted to the writings of the man after whom his endowed professorship was named, but studying those writings had dulled any enthusiasm Roger had first expressed.

  “Not this semester.”

  “The donors would like it,” Carmody said softly.

  “Have you read Huneker, Father?”

  “Not a word. I will sit in on the course when you give it.”

  “Sadler was a donor,” Roger said, to redirect the conversation.

  “You couldn’t give a course on him.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Is the pope Polish? In the manner of the old, when short-term memory is unreliable, Father Carmody retained an encyclopedic mental hard drive on the young men who had gone through the university during his active years. Some young women, too, but Father Carmody’s Notre Dame was still that of Richard Sullivan’s affectionate memoir of the university, published in 1951. Of course he knew Mortimer Sadler.

  “Dreadful man. Dreadful boy, for that matter.”

  “Tell us about him.”

  Mortimer Sadler, class of 1977, had been an undergraduate during the first generation of women students at Notre Dame. In a flamboyant column he had written for The Observer, he had embarked on a veritable crusade, writing again and again that the university had made a mistake in going coeducational. His misogyny stemmed in large part from the indifference those women students showed to his efforts to acquaint them with the marvels of the Mortimer Sadler personality. It should be said that the first women admitted to Notre Dame were the crème de la crème, most of them valedictorians of their high school classes, as a group more gifted than the male students. Mortimer had never excelled as a student, considering his four years at Notre Dame to be a preparation not for the intellectual life but for the career in business for which he was destined. He was the scion of the Sadler family of Minneapolis, who had prospered in insurance as a robust belief in providence waned.

  “I once suggested that he could be related to the writer,” Father Carmody said.

  “The writer?”

  “Mary Anne Sadlier.”

  “Despite the altered spelling?”

  Father Carmody ignored the question. The point was that Roger now recognized the Catholic woman author to whom he referred.

  “He reacted as if I had suggested a female ancestor had been a woman of loose morals.”

  “A prude?”

  “About the life of the mind. He brought home to one the fact that athletic fan derives from fanatic. I was prompted to make the suggestion about Sadlier when Mortimer wrote a story, a fantasy of the future when the Notre Dame football team would be coed.”

  “Was it any good?”

  “It was horrible. Have you read Mary Anne Sadlier?”

  “Not yet.”

  The conversation turned to what Jimmy Stewart had learned at the hospital. The supposition that Sadler had been felled by a stroke had been dismissed and the family by telephone had agreed to an autopsy.

  “He paid for one of the new halls,” Father Carmody said.

  “He was wealthy?”

  “Reasonably so.”

  Once Sadler would have been thought a veritable Croesus among donors, but nowadays Notre Dame was the beneficiary of men of unimaginable riches, not all of them alumni. Not all of them Catholics, either, but for many the university had become an emotional tie with a lost faith. Its prosperity attracted ever more generosity, and those who had known great success in the world took inordinate pleasure in having their names attached to campus buildings.

  “Once we named residences after former presidents or great priests like John A. Zahm. And Rockne, of course.”

  The priest’s voice became wistful as he remembered those better days.

  “Who ever thought there would be a residence named after Mortimer Sadler? But God is not mocked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is a women’s residence.”

  3

  When Mortimer Sadler failed to show up at his scheduled teeoff time at Warren, the three men who had been anxiously awaiting his arrival drove off without him. Unhappily. Reduced to a threesome they were ineligible for the prizes reserved for foursomes, such as the greatest number of putts. There was a prize for the least number as well, but these men were realists and put their hope neither in princes nor in their athletic skills.

  “Mort is usually the first one on the tee,” Ben Barley said to Jim Crown, with whom he shared a cart. The third member o
f the group, Chris Toolin, had a cart to himself.

  “I phoned his room,” Ben added. “No answer.”

  “Phoned?”

  Ben patted the cell phone in a holster on his belt. Chris scowled. Much of his wealth came from investments in telecommunications, but he would cheerfully abolish the cell phone if he could. How many inane conversations had he been made privy to while exhibitionists broadcast their supposed private conversations to the ambient world? Chris remembered the dark day when, napping in the VIP lounge of an airport, a shrill woman’s voice behind him brought him abruptly awake. She spoke loudly; she seemed to be addressing him, and he turned in alarm. She ignored him and went on speaking into the instrument she held. Dear God. A monument should be raised to the man who invented the phone booth. Perhaps legislation could be introduced requiring that the use of cell phones be confined to booths. But no. Too much legislation was on the books already. In political theory, Chris Toolin was a species of libertarian, but when he exalted freedom he was thinking largely of his own. Who knew, someday he, too, might have need of a cell phone.

  “No answer.”

  “I thought he must be out early, practicing.”

  “But we agreed to no prior practicing.”

  “And a mulligan off the first tee.” Crown had availed himself of that privilege when his first drive went abruptly south after heading out toward the fairway.

  Ben Barley, Crown, Toolin, and Sadler had all shared a quad in St. Edward’s Hall as undergraduates, and they were acquainted with all the flaws in his character, as he was with theirs. It was perfectly conceivable to them that Mort, after solemnly agreeing to the no-prior-practice rule, would have got to the course early like the big bad wolf and hit a bucket of balls to limber up. But all efforts to locate Mort as their tee time approached had proved futile. If he had been on the course he would have been found.

  “Dead in bed?” Crown suggested.

  Ben made the sign of the cross. The old classmates had reached the half-century mark and most days still felt in the full vigor of youth. Nonetheless, from time to time, one of their classmates died. Forty of their class had died already. As an insurance man, Mort would have known the statistical unlikelihood of that happening to any of them.