Dr. Andrew Samuels hated to think of himself as a cliché, but couldn’t shake the feeling that that’s exactly what he was.

He was a doctor, and he was golfing. Cops ate donuts, postal workers shot each other, and doctors played golf.

He hated golf.

He hated everything about it. He hated the walking, he hated having to put on sunscreen when it was a blistering hot day. He hated waiting for the dumb bastards on the next green dicking around, taking their time when he was ready to shoot. He hated the tacky clothes you were expected to wear. But more than anything else, he hated the whole idea of it, using up thousands upon thousands of acres of land so men and women could chase around little balls and drop them into tiny holes in the ground. What a fucking ridiculous idea.

But despite his feelings about the game, Samuels had an expensive set of clubs and the spiked shoes and he even maintained a membership at the Promise Falls Golf and Country Club because it was more or less expected in this town that if you were the mayor or a doctor or a lawyer or a prominent businessman, you were a member. If you weren’t, all anyone could assume was that you were sliding inexorably to the bottom of the Promise Falls food chain.

So here he was, on a glorious Saturday afternoon, on the fifteenth hole with his wife’s brother, Stan Reeves, a Promise Falls councilman, first-class gasbag, and all-around asshole. Reeves had been suggesting for months that they get out and play eighteen holes, and Samuels had been able to hold him off up to now, but had finally run out of excuses. No more out-of-town trips, no weddings, and, sadly, no weekend funerals to attend.

“You’re slicing a bit to the right, there,” Reeves said after Samuels took his tee shot. “Watch me.”

Samuels put his driver back into his bag and pretended to watch his brother-in-law.

“You see how the center of my body never moves when I’m swinging? Let me just do it for you in slow motion here.”

Only three holes left after this one, Samuels thought. You could see the clubhouse from here. He could get in his cart, cut across the seventeenth and eighteenth fairways, and be back in the air-conditioned restaurant in four minutes, an ice-cold Sam Adams in front of him. It was, he admitted, the one thing he liked about the game.

“Did you see that?” Reeves said. “Perfect drive. I don’t even know where yours ended up.”

“Somewhere,” Samuels said.

“This is good, huh?” Reeves said. “We don’t do this enough.”

“It’s been a while,” Samuels said.

“Takes your mind off things. I’m sure you’ve got your share of stress being a doctor, but let me tell you, running a city, that’s a twenty-four/seven kind of thing, you know?”

Reeves was such a jerk, it made Samuels wonder whatever happened to the former mayor, Randall Finley.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Samuels said.

And then his cell rang.

“Aw, come on, you didn’t leave that on, did you?” Reeves whined.

“Hang on,” Samuels said, reaching eagerly into his pocket for his phone. Let it be an emergency, he thought. He could be at the hospital in fifteen minutes.

“Hello?” he said.

“Dr. Samuels?”

“Speaking.”

“My name’s Barry Duckworth, a detective with the Promise Falls police.”

“Detective, how are you today?”

Reeves perked up at the mention of the word.

“Not too bad. I gather you’re out on the course someplace. I called your service and they told me and gave me your number when I leaned on them.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“I’d like to talk to you in person. Now.”

“I’m at the Promise Falls Golf and Country Club, fifteenth hole.”

“I’m already at the clubhouse.”

“I’ll be right there.” He put the phone back into his pocket. “You’ll have to finish without me, Stan.”

“What’s going on?”

Samuels put up his hands in mock bafflement. “I guess I’m going to get a taste of what it’s like for you, this being on call at all hours.”

“Hey, if you take the cart, I’m going to have to-”

But Samuels was already driving away.

Barry Duckworth was outside waiting by the pro shop, where golfers dropped off their carts. He shook hands with Dr. Samuels, who said, “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Don’t have time,” Duckworth said. “I need to ask you about one of your patients.”

Samuels’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up momentarily. “Who?”

“Jan Harwood.”

“What’s happened?”

“She’s disappeared. She and her husband, David Harwood, and their son went to spend the day at Five Mountains, and she went missing.”

“Dear God,” said Samuels.

“A thorough search has been done of the park, although I’d still like to take another run at it.” Duckworth led Samuels into the building’s shade, not just to get out of the heat, but to distance themselves from other golfers who might be listening.

“Mr. Harwood thinks it’s possible his wife may have killed herself.”

Samuels nodded, then shook his head. “Oh, this is just terrible. She’s a very nice woman, you know.”

“I’m sure she is,” Duckworth said. “Mr. Harwood said she’s been depressed the last couple of weeks. Mood swings, talking about how the rest of her family would be better off without her.”

“When was this?” Samuels asked.

“A day or two ago, if my understanding of what Mr. Harwood said is correct.”

“But it’s still possible that she’s just missing, that she hasn’t killed herself or anything,” the doctor said. “You haven’t found her.”

“That’s right. That’s why there’s a sense of urgency about this.”

“What is it I can do for you, Detective?”

“I don’t want to violate patient-doctor confidentiality here, but if you have any idea where she might go, what she might do, just how serious the threat is that she might kill herself, I’d really appreciate it.”

“I don’t think I can be much help here.”

“Please, Dr. Samuels. I’m not asking you for personal details, just something that might help us find this woman before she does any harm to herself.”

“Detective, if I knew anything, I’d tell you, I really would. I wouldn’t stand behind some privacy shield. I want you to find her, alive and well, as much as anyone.”

“Did she tell you anything, anything at all, that would indicate to you whether she might take her own life, or whether she was just, I don’t know, trying to get attention?”

“She didn’t tell me anything, Detective.”

“Nothing? A place she might go to think things over?”

“She didn’t tell me anything because she hasn’t been to see me.”

The detective blinked. “Say again?”

“I saw her… maybe eight months ago? Just routine. But she didn’t come see me about being depressed or suicidal. I wish she had.”

“But Mr. Harwood says he went to see you about her. That you told him to convince his wife that she should make an appointment with you.”

“That’s all true. David came in last week, very concerned. And I told him I needed to talk to her myself to make an assessment, and possibly refer her to someone else for counseling.”

“And she never came in?”

The doctor shook his head.

“Because Mr. Harwood,” Duckworth said, “told me she saw you.”

Samuels shook his head. “I kept waiting for her to make an appointment, but she never did. This is just terrible. I should have called her myself, but then she would have known her husband had been to see me. Oh shit. If I’d called her, maybe we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.”