This explains why the autopsies had discovered the man was killed some time before the dolphin. It also explains the markings on the dolphin, which had previously been mistaken for gill-net markings.
Once the drugs were taken to Vancouver, an elaborate scheme was devised to get the drugs across the border into the U.S. Shipment was to be arranged through the use of “mules”–innocent drug carriers–which in this case turned out to be peewee hockey players.
Teams from all over the United States and Canada were coming into Vancouver for a special 3-on-3 hockey tournament, and the smugglers arranged to have snow globes and new bags given out to each player participating. The smugglers then arranged to add an “extra” bag to each team, which would contain a snow globe with roughly $300,000 worth of high-grade cocaine in it.
Each team would play a single game just across the Canada–U.S. border at Bellingham, Washington, and the organizers would transport the teams’ equipment in a truck separate from the buses carrying the players. Once at the Bellingham rink, the “extra” bag containing the cocaine would be removed from the rest of the bags. The likelihood of border guards checking through the sweaty equipment bags of several dozen peewee hockey teams was remote indeed.
Had it not been for the work of Larry Ulmar, known to his teammates as “Data,” the trick would never have been discovered. And had Wayne Nishikawa, better known as “Nish,” not used his ingenuity to draw two of the smugglers to Wreck Beach, where they were immediately apprehended by police, the smugglers might have gotten away with their drugs and the murder of Brad Cummings.
Travis, on second thought, would change “murder” to “murders.” He could not forget the poor innocent dolphin whose only crime was to obey instructions.
We better find Sam,” Sarah whispered to Travis. She looked worried. Travis nodded and folded up the newspaper he’d been reading. The stories were all beginning to repeat themselves anyway.
“She’s in the parking lot,” Travis said, but when they got outside they could see nothing. The parking lot was empty but for some swirling candy wrappers.
“I know where she’ll be,” said Sarah.
She led Travis out back where the garbage dumpster was, and there, as expected, was Sam, sitting on the curb, her legs folded in front of her. Her head was down. She was staring, almost as if hypnotized, at a dried leaf she was holding in one hand. Beneath it, in her other hand, she held a cigarette lighter, the flame licking upward towards the bottom of the leaf. The leaf began folding in on itself, almost as if panic had somehow struck it, as first smoke and then orange flame licked up through the centre.
Neither Sarah nor Travis said a word. They waited. And for a while it seemed Sam had no idea they were there.
Sam shook the leaf until it was nothing more than a stem and some black, curled char. She clicked off the flame, dropped the burned leaf onto the pavement, and getting up she tossed the lighter into the dumpster. She turned and looked at the other two. Her eyes were red. Possibly from the smoke of the leaf, but probably, thought Travis, from something else.
Sam looked a bit sheepish.
“The cigarettes are already in there,” she said, nodding at the dumpster. “I’ve had my last smoke–I almost got us caught…”
Sarah looked perplexed, but Travis understood. Sam was looking straight into his eyes, as if searching for a signal–but what kind? Forgiveness? Blame? Travis could not blame her. Sam had helped as best she could. She had run for it with Travis and Nish when the easy thing to do would have been to stay in the motel and wait for the police. She had carried the snow globe when Travis had faltered. She had simply run out of gas, just like in the hockey game.
Travis smiled a smile that made words unnecessary. And from the look in Sam’s eyes and her shaky smile in return, it was much appreciated. Sarah, ever wise, asking for no explanation, also smiled at Sam.
Sam caught Travis off guard with a huge hug. For a moment it was he who had trouble breathing. Then Sam broke it off and hugged Sarah, who hugged her back.
“I wasn’t a very good smoker anyway,” Sam said, half laughing, half crying, “was I?”
“No, you weren’t,” agreed Sarah, also laughing.
All three turned at a sudden voice, calling out from the front corner of the motel. It was Fahd. He’d come looking for them.
“Muck wants to talk to us all together!”
“The tournament goes ahead,” said Muck.
He was standing in the centre of the little motel lobby, turning as he spoke to the Screech Owls and the handful of parents who had come out to Vancouver with the team.
“I just got off the phone, and it’s still a go,” he continued. “The city has taken over and wants to ensure that the original intent comes off. Every team has agreed to a new format that will shorten things up.
“We’re not playing any games in Bellingham. We’re going directly to the finals. They did some kind of calculation to work out where each team stood, and for us it means some good news, some bad.”
Muck pulled a sheet of motel stationery out of his pocket. He unfolded it, turned it around, and stared hard, trying to make out the scribbles he’d made in pencil.
“Dmitri?” he said slowly, looking up in search of the Owls’ quickest skater. Dmitri raised his hand from the chair he was sitting in. “Your team’s out, I’m afraid. Means nothing, okay? Just the way they juggled things around so they could wind this thing up fast.”
Dmitri looked over at his teammates, Andy and Lars. Out because of a single loss. All they could do was shrug. It didn’t seem fair–but who knew how they’d calculated which teams would continue? Some of the teams had played only two rounds of the 3-on-3, others had played as many as four.
“Liz, Derek, Willie?” Muck read out.
The three raised their hands.
“You’re in the Rockies finals, okay? Game’s in an hour, so you better go get your stuff together.”
The lucky team whooped and high-fived their way out of the lobby.
Muck kept turning the paper one way, then the other, squinting hard as he tried to read his own terrible handwriting.
“Simon?” he said.
Simon Milliken raised his hand. Simon’s teammates, Jesse and Wilson, moved closer.
Muck looked up. “Sorry, boys. Don’t take it personally, though. Two wins and a tie, you should expect to go on. They must have just flipped a coin on some of these final match-ups.”
The three looked stunned. They hadn’t lost a single game. They’d played as well as they possibly could. Jesse slammed his fist into an open hand, Wilson dropped into an open chair, sighing.
Muck kept fiddling with his paper. He looked up a couple of times, peering about the room as if in search of someone who could help.
But there were only the two teams left. Sarah’s team, with Travis and Nish, playing in the Elite Division, and Sam’s team, with Fahd and Gordie, playing in the Canucks Division.
Travis’s heart sank. Muck was just stalling. He hadn’t the nerve to tell them they were out of the tournament, that the most fun Travis Lindsay had ever had in a pair of skates was about to come to an unexpected end.
“Sarah, Travis, Nishikawa?” Muck read.
“Yes,” Travis said, speaking as captain.
But Muck didn’t even acknowledge him. He read on: “Sam, Fahd, Gordie?”
“Here,” said Sam. “Just put us out of our misery.”
A slight grin flicked at the corners of Muck’s mouth. He folded the paper and tucked it back into his pocket. “You two teams are meeting for the overall championship,” he said.
The players looked at each other in shock.
“But we’re not even in the same division,” said Sarah.
“Don’t ask me,” Muck said, grinning. “All they told me was to have both teams there for seven o’clock. Travis, you’re wearing home sweaters. Fahd, your team’s in away, okay?”
Fahd looked at Travis; Travis at Fahd.
“Okay,�
�� said Fahd.
“O-KAY!”
This is embarrassing!”
Nish was almost completely dressed–pants, shin pads, socks, even skates complete with tape around the tops–everything but his shoulder and elbow pads and sweater. He was sitting, but leaning forward over his knees, his face red from the strain. Or perhaps it was anguish, given the way he sounded.
“What’s your problem?” Sarah demanded as she pulled her sweater over her head.
“We’re the Elite Division,” Nish moaned. “We’re not supposed to be playing against Fahhhhdddd.”
The way Nish said the name, it sounded as if Fahd had never held a hockey stick, never worn skates, never touched a puck. It sounded as if he had no feet, no hands, no brain.
“Fahd’s excellent at 3-on-3,” said Jeremy, who had played more games than any of the others, since he and Jenny were in goal for five “teams.”
“It’s em-bar-rass-ing,” Nish howled, as if the mere thought were painful.
Sarah shook her head. “You’re the last person on earth to decide what’s ‘em-bar-rass-ing,’ Mr. Wreck Beach.”
Nish straightened up, looking hurt. “Hey, c’mon, I’m the one who solved the murder, aren’t I?”
Travis was about to argue the point when the door opened and Muck came in, smiling. He’d been in a great mood since Liz and Derek and Willie won the Rockies Division championship in a close 5–4 game against the team from Boston. But it wasn’t his usual smile. It was almost as if Muck was enjoying some little private joke.
“Ready to go?” Muck asked, and they shouted that they were.
Travis pulled his number 7 sweater over his head, quickly kissing the collar as it passed his lips. Now, if he could only hit the crossbar during warm-up, he might have a good game.
“It wouldn’t be fair of me to give you any scouting report on the other team,” Muck chuckled. “All I can say is they’re Screech Owls. That’s usually enough to make any team play their best, and that’s the least I expect of you. Now go out there and have fun.”
“Who’s coaching us?” Nish asked.
Muck winked at Sarah and Travis. “Not me, thankfully. I got the team that listens to its coach.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nish said, trying to look innocent.
“It means, Nishikawa, that your coach is Data. Why don’t you surprise him by doing as you’re told, for once.”
And with that, Muck turned and left. Only Travis was in a position to see that Muck was laughing to himself, enjoying the moment.
Data didn’t have much to tell them. With Mr. Dillinger’s help, Data had settled his chair behind the bench, where he was able to talk to the Owls as they leaned over the boards, but in fact there was little for a coach to do in 3-on-3 hockey. No lines to change. No big breaks or time-outs or ways of mapping out plays. Nothing but a few early instructions and then a lot of loud encouragement.
“Keep your eye on Fahd,” Data said. “He’s pretty good at this.”
“‘Keep your eye on Fahhhhddd,’” Nish mimicked. “C’mon, Data, get with it. This is a hockey game, not a spelling bee.”
Nish turned and skated away, laughing at his own stupid joke. Fahd was, in fact, a pretty good speller at school, but he was also a pretty dependable little hockey player and, in 3-on-3, a crafty playmaker.
Sarah and Travis touched gloves for luck and skated back towards the faceoff circle. It felt odd to be out on the ice with Screech Owls sweaters skating around on the other side. Fahd and Sam and Gordie and Jenny were opponents, not teammates, and even though Travis knew each of them so well, even though he counted them among his best friends, they were a bit like strangers now, their personalities and talents unknown.
But still, he felt good. He’d kissed his sweater. He’d touched gloves with Sarah. He’d hit Jeremy’s pads in exactly the right order–right pad, left pad, left pad, right pad, blocker. He’d even hit the crossbar. He was ready to play.
He couldn’t, however, say the same for Nish, who seemed to be taking this game far too lightly. Perhaps all the publicity had gone to his head.
The puck dropped and there was no more time to think. From now on, for Travis, it would all be action and reaction.
Sarah won the drop easily from Gordie. She fired the puck back to Nish, who turned and began skating casually back towards Jeremy. Nish rounded the net, came out the other side, and lofted a high pass that slapped and bounced past centre. Travis raced for it, but Fahd beat him to the puck.
Travis turned sharply, almost jumping back in the opposite direction. Normally he would have had a check, but Fahd, moving so slowly, so surely with the puck, wasn’t doing what Travis expected. Instead of driving towards Travis’s net, Fahd turned and skated cross-ice to the far boards, and Travis flew by.
Fahd held the puck and deked past Sarah, then flipped a quick backhand to Gordie, who fired a hard slapper as soon as the puck came within range. The puck slammed hard into Jeremy’s pads and bounced straight out into the slot. Sam, driving from the point, hammered the puck home.
Owls 1, Owls 0.
No–Fahd 1, Nish 0.
Ten minutes into the game, Fahd’s side was up 4–2 and dominating play. Sarah was skating well, and Travis felt he was playing fine, but Nish seemed oddly out of it, as if he wasn’t taking anything seriously.
“Let’s get it going!” Travis said as he brushed past Nish just before a faceoff.
“Don’t worry,” Nish said. “I’ve got it completely under control.”
Sarah scored a beauty on an end-to-end rush in which she pulled Jenny out and roofed a backhander Dmitri-style. Fahd scored on another slowed-down play. Nish scored on a deflection. Fahd scored on yet another slow-down. Nobody seemed able to read him.
The rink was loud. It was packed with Owls and parents, and their cheering and yelling bounced off the ceiling and walls to combine into one great roar. Travis was sure he could pick out Lars’s shouts at one point, and he thought he heard his own name being called, as well.
Lars would be shouting instructions. Pass to open space. Use your body to open up holes for the others. Don’t be afraid to slow things down. Travis was trying them all, but it wasn’t working.
Sam picked up the puck behind her own net and used the angle to beat Sarah’s forecheck. She roared up over centre. Travis left her to Nish and concentrated on Gordie, trying to make sure Gordie wouldn’t have space to get a good shot away.
Sam came straight at Nish. He was backing up, his hips working fast, and he was staring right at her. Perfect: just the way Muck taught. One-on-one, ignore the puck, play the man–or in this case, the woman.
Sam shifted the puck out on her stick, teasing.
Nish went for it, trying to poke it away, but Sam tucked the puck back in, and slipped it between his skates and out the other side.
Using her momentum she beat him on the inside, and looped around into the clear, scooping up the puck she’d just slipped through.
Nish turned the other way, sweeping his stick across the ice as he fell.
But it was too late. Sam was clear. She moved to her backhand, delayed, waited with the patience of Fahd, and then drilled a backhand high and so hard that it blew the water bottle off the top of the net.
The rink erupted in cheers. It had been a sweet enough play on its own, but it was the move on Nish that had electrified the crowd.
“Kind of undressed you there, didn’t I, big boy,” Sam said as she skated back past Nish. “Too bad this is a hockey rink and not Wreck Beach.”
Nish never said a word, but Travis could tell he was steaming. And he could hear Sam’s breathing, shallow and hard. She’d just skated the length of the ice, and they were all tired, but her breathing was louder and quicker than the others.
As Sam’s game began to slip, Nish suddenly took his play up another notch. He hadn’t said a word in answer to Sam after her magnificent goal, but Travis knew his friend well enough to know that his beet-red face was a sign Nish was
ready to get serious.
Travis caught Muck’s expression just before the faceoff. Muck was coaching from the other side, but he, too, had seen the change come over Nish. Usually Muck tried to provoke this in Nish to get him into a game, but now Sam had done it for him. Travis decided that Muck would probably be pleased. He wanted all the Owls to play well, even if it was against him. And getting Wayne Nishikawa to play the best hockey he could was something Muck counted among his greatest, if most difficult, achievements.
In the second half, Nish was like a whole new player. He was suddenly faster, smarter, slicker. He checked better. He passed better. He shot better.
Nish scored first on an end-to-end rush when he deked past Sam in a play almost identical to the one she had scored on. Nish scored on a terrific blast from the point after Sarah set him up and used her body to block Sam from getting to him. Nish scored on a two-on-one where Travis kept the puck for a long delay then slid a back pass to him for a hard, high one-timer.
They played, back and forth, for the full two periods of straight time, and when the horn finally blew the score was Owls 9, Owls 9.
It didn’t matter which side was Fahd’s, which side Nish’s. The two teams were tied.
“What happens now?” Nish asked Data as they gathered at the bench to catch their breath and take in some water.
“Shoot-out,” said Data.
“Who shoots?” Nish asked, expecting it would be him.
“Everyone,” Data said. “Three shots–and if it’s still tied, then it’s one after another until one team goes ahead.”
Nish scored. Travis scored. Sarah hit the post. Fahd scored. Sam scored. Jeremy caught Gordie’s hard wrist shot.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 3 Page 30
