“Mike,” Dakota shouted over the chopper noise.
“Yeah?” I shouted back.
“How did they know to look for us?”
“Easy. I told them to.” Dakota frowned, unable to understand.
I shrugged. I’d tell him later. Yesterday, during our stop at customs at the Canadian border, I’d told Kendra I had to go to the bathroom. Which I did. But I’d also made a phone call, telling John Hummel everything I’d heard on the tape, and as much as I knew about the situation. From the moment I’d heard the cassette conversation about blowing up a dam, I’d known this was something Kendra and I could not do alone, no matter how much she wanted to keep people from knowing what her brother had been involved with.
After all, I’m only crazy. Not stupid.
chapter twenty-three
Ten days later, the Thunderbirds were in Saskatoon to play the Blades. It was our last game of the regular season and the most important game of the season for us. We were tied with the Blades. The winner would take first place and have an easy run through the first two rounds of the playoffs. The loser would take second and struggle every single game after, just to stay alive in the playoffs.
Important as the game was, however, I was relaxed—more relaxed than I had ever been. I wanted to win, but I knew a simple secret. If we lost, I’d still be alive.
Maybe life had its rough spots. Maybe I’d gone through rougher spots than a lot of people had. There was nothing I could do about that, in the past or in the future. All I could control was my own attitude. And after facing the dam and expecting to die, I had plenty of questions, like the ones Dakota was asking about life. I’d ask them too, with an open mind. John Hummel would be proud of me.
After the dam, I’d found a lot to be grateful for. Even little things, like drinking a cold cola after a hard workout, laughing at dumb jokes in the dressing room and feeling the wind in my face as I busted up ice to the roar of a hockey crowd, were more important to me.
Of course, big things would be nice too, like winning important hockey games.
For this one, Dakota was back at center. He’d missed some playing time as he worked with military officials on both sides of the border. They’d promised him no legal trouble if he agreed to help them look for the radical militants responsible for plotting to bomb the dam.
He and I were playing a great game against the Blades. He’d scored two goals in the first period. I’d scored one in the second. We rocked during the third, not scoring but each hitting the goalpost twice during the first fifteen minutes of the period.
The clock showed five minutes left. We were up by a goal. Not much to relax on, not against the Blades in their own building.
Dakota got ready to take the face-off in our end, right side. I skated beside him.
“Here’s the deal,” I said quietly. “All you have to do is win this face-off. Get it back to Sharkey.”
“Then what?” He grinned.
“Just do it,” I said. “You’ll see.”
I skated into position. I’d already told Sharkey to give it a try. If he got the puck, I wanted him to fire it along the boards behind the net, up the far side of the ice.
It became one of those few times that a plan works perfectly. When the ref dropped the puck, Dakota managed to slap the puck to Sharkey, back at the defense position.
Instead of taking the puck behind the net and waiting to find an open man, Sharkey spun around and slammed the puck. It followed the curve of the boards around the ice.
I was breaking hard for the far boards, toward a spot just outside of our blue line.
I caught their defenseman by surprise. The puck also caught him by surprise. It bounced past him to where I was already sprinting up the ice at full speed. I scooped the puck with my stick and raced toward their goalie—with no one between us! A breakaway!
I busted up ice as hard as I could. Their defenseman was doing the same as he chased me. Ten more steps and I could shoot.
I knew their guy was behind me and closing in. I knew I couldn’t hold on much longer. Instead of moving in to stick-fake the goalie, I fired a long wrist shot. It was an awful shot. I was off balance and didn’t do much more than give the goalie an easy marshmallow to catch waist high.
I slammed my stick onto the ice, disgusted with myself. How could I have missed after all that work to get the chance?
Someone pushed me from behind.
I spun, instantly ready for trouble.
It was John Oxford, their right winger. I knew him well. I’d played on the Blades with him most of the season, and he had a reputation as an enforcer. He’s not much good with the puck, but he’s a great fighter— someone who would fight better players on the other team to draw them into penalties and get them off the ice.
“Hey, loser,” he said.
“Don’t talk to yourself in public,” I said. “People will think you’re weird.”
His face twisted into an ugly grimace. “Yeah?”
He punched me in the face.
Ten days ago, even knowing what he was trying to do, I would have lashed out and punched him back.
This time I smiled. I wasn’t going to let him control my actions. I could do more for the Thunderbirds from the ice than the penalty box.
He punched again. It rocked me onto the back of my skate blades.
“Once more,” I said. “Last chance. Ref’s almost here to break it up.”
He brought his hand back. I saw it coming. Slow. But I let him hit me. I took it on the side of the head. I shook it off.
I smiled again. No fury. It was almost fun, watching someone else lose his cool.
He moved to throw the fourth punch, but I’d guessed right. He only had time for three. The linesmen moved in on him and wrestled him to the ice.
He took a major five-minute penalty, leaving the Blades short-handed for the rest of the game. We didn’t score. But we didn’t have to. Our one-goal lead stood, and we left the ice as league champions.
After I showered and dressed, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see John Hummel— leather overcoat over his police uniform—in the hallway outside our dressing room. After all, he lived in Saskatoon. And we really hadn’t talked since our helicopter ride. Too many things had happened then.
“Hey, Michael,” he said.
“Hey, Mr. Hummel. How are you?”
“Glad to see you,” he said. He offered his hand, and I shook it.
It was good to see him. I owed him a lot.
“Mike,” he said, “why don’t we move down the hall where we can have some privacy.”
Players were coming out of our dressing room in ones and twos. It wouldn’t be a problem to move away from the door.
“Sure,” I said, although I didn’t know if I was sure. His voice was different, like he had bad news for me. Maybe after all this time someone had decided to lay charges on me from the fur store robbery. It would be just like John Hummel to take the hard job and face me directly instead of sending someone else.
I set my equipment bag down and followed his wide shoulders until we reached a quiet spot in the hallway.
“Last chance,” he said, smiling sadly. “Tell me about those fur coats in your car.”
“I stole them.”
“We both know you didn’t.”
The way he was looking at me—pain in his eyes—made me wonder. Did he too know who had taken those coats?
“As you know, I never believed you,” Hummel said. “I’ve stayed on this case ever since you left Saskatoon.”
He paused, staring me straight in the eyes. “I’ve sent a memo to my commanding officer, asking him to relieve me from the case.”
“Sir?” I felt sick for him, knowing before he told me what he meant by that.
“Conflict of interest,” he said. “No father can or should investigate a crime involving his son.”
I should have known John Hummel would eventually find out. I’d known myself, the instant I saw those coats.
/> His son, Matt, had a set of spare keys to my car. He could have easily borrowed it the night of the robbery while I was sleeping. And the next evening, Matt had been scared to the point of panic when I’d mentioned during dinner that I’d be driving to the dance. Matt had pulled me aside after dinner and tried to talk me into getting a friend to pick me up. Then he had begged to borrow my car, even when I told him my friends were depending on me to pick them up for the dance. I hadn’t understood Matt’s panic until later, when I’d opened the trunk with the cop watching. Then I’d understood who had put those fur coats in my trunk. I’d kept my mouth shut. I’d also promised Matt the next day if he did anything like that again, I’d spill everything.
And now I was staring into his father’s face. There was terrible pain in John Hummel’s eyes. But he wasn’t running from it. Whatever happened, it was how you dealt with it that mattered.
“Mike,” he said, “thanks for trying. I know how much it cost you to keep your mouth shut. I’ll see to it your record is clear.”
With that, John Hummel walked away. A step later, he stopped and turned back to me.
“Oh, and by the way—” “
“Yes, sir?”
He grinned. “You should have scored on that breakaway.”
“Hey.” I grinned back. “We won. You can’t expect life to be totally perfect.”
Sigmund Brouwer is the best-selling author of many books for children and young adults. He has contributed to the Orca Currents series (Sewer Rats, Wired) and the Orca Sports series (Blazer Drive, All-Star Pride, Chief Honor, Rebel Glory, Scarlet Thunder, Tiger Threat, Titan Clash, Cobra Strike, Winter Hawk Star, Hitmen Triumph and Hurricane Power). Sigmund enjoys visiting schools to talk about his books. Interested teachers can find out more by e-mailing [email protected].
Thunderbird Spirit Page 9
