by Brian Keene
Jeremy Chambers checked the hockey bag for leaks.
They’d frozen the body parts, wrapped in garbage bags and duct tape, but he still smelled blood. Probably would for weeks to come. He strapped in to the co-pilot’s seat and put on his earphones while his dad did a final pre-flight check on Roger’s plane. Doctor Hannan took a seat in back, as far from the hockey bag as he could, and stared out the window.
Vancouver was three hours away. There they would turn over the body, what was left of it, to authorities who would ship to the family in Oakland for burial. A place called Chapel of Chimes.
Roger stayed behind despite evacuation orders. The fire was still on the other side of the hills. He said if it got too close he’d load what he needed in the jet boat and wait in the middle of the lake for pickup. The old caretaker watched from the dock as they taxied out for take-off.
Oakland Tribune, September 15, 1992
Is Sharp Benched for Good?
Local Player #22 Fails to Impress in
Pre-Season Matchup
San Jose Sharks power forward Brent Sharp was pulled from play last night in his first game against the Boston Bruins since the incident early last season that left him in a coma, and left the Sharks floundering for their first season on the ice.
“He’ll be back and better than ever.” Sharks Coach George Kingston sounded confident in an interview yesterday. The Sharks built the entire team around Sharp, the highest paid rookie in NHL history, claiming #22 as the next Gordie Howe. Without Sharp, the Sharks’ second season looks likely to go belly up.
September 28, 1992, Eutsuk Lake, British Columbia, Canada
“It’s a miracle he’s still walking around.” Ted Chambers rubbed his knee and shook his head. “One tough SOB. You see that game?”
“Nah. Missed it. But I did see the hit. They showed it on TV every day for a while there.” Jeremy felt queasy remembering the incident. He poured coffee from the silver Thermos his dad kept full throughout the day, but passed on the whiskey bottle that sat between the sugar and the powdered creamer. Roger had already filled his cup on his way out to dump the garbage. He took the John Deere and a small thermos that held mostly whiskey. Took his gun, too, to scare off the bears that prowled the dump site.
“Head first into the boards. Like a dang torpedo. Kid kept getting up, trying to get to the bench. That’s what got me. All jelly-legged and swerving. Three tries before he stayed down.” His dad pulled the checked curtain aside. “Look at him now. Fit as a fiddle.”
In the news from two years ago journalists reported Sharp’s brain had swelled up after the accident, and he lay in a coma while everyone—teammates, coaches, commentators—speculated on his fate. On the fate of the team. Then there was the recovery, months of testing and rehabilitation, and his miraculous return the next season. But it looked like the season was over for him now, possibly his career before it even really started.
Jeremy and his dad watched the hockey player in the amber wash of dawn. Brent Sharp sipped coffee and stared out at the lake and the mountains beyond. Even the grand expanse of wilderness couldn’t make him look small. From the moment he stepped onto the Twin Otter, ducking through the pill-shaped door, hockey bag slung over his shoulder, Jeremy had marveled at the man’s size.
Two people had come with him. His petite, dark-haired fiancée, Tamara. Her sunglasses and makeup almost hid the bruising around her eye. And Doc Hannan, built like a tennis player, with a quiet voice and a salesman’s smile. Jeremy helped them board the float plane, handing up suitcases and fishing gear, the roar of the propeller behind him. When Brent Sharp stepped on the pontoon, the metal flexed. Next to them all, the man was a Goliath.
“You going to take him trolling, or casting?”
“Casting, I think. It occupies the brain a little more. Apparently he liked it as a kid. Mr. G said to keep his mind off hockey and whatever’s going on with his fiancée.”
“That’ll be tough.” Ted nodded out the window. Tamara, hair wrapped in a towel, the rest of her bound in spandex, approached Brent. She stopped a few meters behind and he turned, likely in response to her voice. He frowned and took another sip of his coffee. Her mouth moved rapidly and she raised her arms in a shrug of frustration, then strode back to their cabin.
Jeremy’s dad cleared his throat. “Well, you boys catch us some dinner. Got the barge coming later with fuel and supplies. Good thing, too. With that fire over by Vanderhoof, people are going to be pretty busy up there.”
Mist rose from the lake in cumulous drifts that spun away from the bow. Jeremy headed for the far end, cutting through the mercury grey water to where the Eutsuk River spilled in with its load of kokanee and trout. The hockey player sat hunched in the front of the boat, turning his head to track a flock of ducks that sped low over the water.
From the plane the lakes spread like a circlet of glinting blue jewels, connected by rivers, on an undulating velvet of forested hills. But from the boat the lakes were huge, feeding one into the next, completely isolated.
Brent Sharp remained quiet, his gaze drifting like the haze on the water. They ran the boat up on the grassy point just east of the river mouth and unloaded their gear. Brent squatted with his rod laid out in front and tied on a weighted lure.
Once his own rig was ready, Jeremy walked over to check the hockey player’s rig. Brent was testing the knot on his lure as Jeremy came up beside him.
“How are you—”
A fist hit him in the stomach like a sledge hammer and he fell, landing hard on his back. The rest of the wind knocked out of him when he hit the ground. He lay there, staring up at the sky, blinking back tears, body screaming for air.
“Shit man. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you.” Brent stood over him, grabbed his hand and pulled him up. “Breathe, man. You’ll be fine.”
Jeremy tried to answer, but all that came out was a strangled groan.
“See, better already.” Brent slapped his back.
When Jeremy could breathe again, he asked, “Who’d you think it was, if it wasn’t me?”
Brent shrugged and grabbed the gutting knife. He trimmed the loose ends of line close to the knot, then laid the knife aside. “That’s what the doc keeps asking. And Tamara. I don’t know.”
“Wow. This has happened before?”
“I take it you don’t watch hockey?” Brent smiled and stood, giving the rod a few test sweeps before casting his line.
“Sorry. Not really my thing.”
“That’s why they pulled me this season.”
Brent told his story while they fished, in short spurts between casts. He’d clearly been over it so many times his voice took on a flat, matter-of fact tone.
“When I came out of the coma I bounced back pretty quick. I just wanted to get out on the ice. They did a few tests and then the doctors gave the green light. Practice went good. Just like before. I was in the zone, making plays.” Brent swung the rod in nice easy strokes, then let the line fly.
“Our first game was with the Bruins. Same team as before. But I wasn’t worried.”
It started like any other, Brent said. At first the lights, the noise, the music overwhelmed him. But that quickly faded until all that was left was the scrape of metal on ice, the smack of the hockey sticks and the grunts and shouts of the players. Sharp focused on the game, the puck, the geometry of the play. It was easy…all the visualizing techniques their coach subjected them to, the Doc with his talk of embodied images and seeing the win…didn’t factor. Go, puck, play. He sped across the ice, turned, and the puck came to him. Every time he was where he needed to be.
Halfway through the third period something fell out of place. Sharp skated behind the goal, bringing the puck around for a pass up the ice and someone came toward him from the side, fast. Faster than any Bruin could skate. Coming hard so his gut clenched in anticipation of the crunch against the boards. Sharp stopped, blades shearing a wave of ice off the rink, and changed direction, leaving the puck behin
d. The Bruins #8 came in, took the puck and the game-winning goal.
Brent watched the play later with his coach, watched himself flinch, stop short, and reverse. Alone in the corner. No one there bringing a challenge. And that was just the first of many. In the next few games he ducked, feinted, changed direction when there was no player checking him. He sometimes threw his arm or shoulder at someone skating by, his own teammate, the ref, on-ice and then off.
“So you thought I was a Bruin? That’s what you saw?”
Brent landed the trout he’d been playing. It flopped on the mossy ground. He picked up a rock, held the fish down with one hand and crushed its skull in three sharp blows.
“Kinda. I don’t know. I saw something. Anyways, Doc says he’s gonna figure it out. They did lots of tests in case there was some damage, to my brain, I guess. Nada. They sent me home for a bit, me and Tamara, to my folks in Oakland. But the media kept at us. So I’m here under orders to relax. Talk to the Doc. Catch some fish. Make things good with Tamara … if that’s possible.” He reeled in, and set his rod down. When he turned to face Jeremy his eyes held a glint of desperation. “I just want to get back to the game. That’s all.”
Jeremy spent the afternoon sketching while the hockey player had his therapy session. He sat on an outcropping under the main lodge. The expanse of lake stretched west, no end in sight. The wide dock in front, two planes resting like water bugs on either side. With charcoal sticks he tried to capture the contrasts, the mirrored gloss of the lake, the stone cast shadows of the shoreline, the way tree branches cut dark swaths from the sky.
He listened to his Walkman, flipping the Dire Straits tape back and forth, but clicked the music off when Brent Sharp walked into view.
In swim trunks that stretched over the bunched muscles of his legs, he strode along the dock, stopped at the end, wind-milled his arms and shrugged his shoulders, his back rippling and flexing with the movement.
Jeremy flipped to a new page and sketched—the convex curve of flesh on either side of the spine that rose from the solid arches of his buttocks, the smaller ligaments and tendons, like little animals wrestling under his skin. A different kind of landscape with power surging beneath. Jeremy held his breath as Brent launched himself into the Eutsuk Lake. He slammed into the water and surfaced with a whoop of exhilaration.
A creak from the deck above and Tamara’s voice. “How did it go?”
Chairs scraped across the floor as two people sat to watch Brett swim the lake. Jeremy tried to tune them out and concentrate instead on his sketch. He tore the quick figure drawing out and started on a new page, wanting to create a more detailed image.
Doctor Hannan’s voice caught his attention. “… might still be the trauma of the accident. That he’s afraid of it happening again, afraid of another injury. Medically the doctors said he was fine.” They were talking about Brent, his fiancée and his therapist. “We did some work on visualization, looked at some tapes to see if he could tell me more about what happened. He said there haven’t been any incidents since we got here. At least that’s progress.”
“If he can’t play next season … my dad says they’ll have to take the team in a different direction. Without Brent.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. We need you to stick by him for this to work.” Doc Hannon’s tone was neutral and soothing. “You two are the Kennedys of the sport. Well, maybe that’s a bad example. But you’re hockey royalty. You can have it all. You just have to give him time.”
“Well, if he doesn’t play next season, I’m out. Without hockey, I mean, look at him. He’s lost.”
The hockey player surged through the water with force and focus, ripping across the reflected sky.
Jeremy lay awake in the dark, listening to the restless scuff of branches against the roof. He wondered if Brent remembered hitting him in the stomach while they were fishing, or if he was just keeping it from his Doctor. An intermittent snore permeated the wall from his father’s room. The distant call of a loon haunted the dark, and then the sharp voices of Brent and his fiancée arguing cut across the water.
Bristling undergrowth scraped at Jeremy’s ankles as he ran. The morning light slanted through the trees, striping the ground with long shadows. He stayed in front, setting the pace, but he’d started out too fast and now he struggled to control his breathing and the cramp that sliced through his side. The hockey player ran behind, the rhythmic thud of his feet on the ground was the only sound he made.
They ran along the track that led to a weedy old airstrip, and on around the lake.
“Thanks for letting me tag along. Can’t let the training slide too much.”
Jeremy gave a thumbs up; it was all he could manage.
“Couldn’t do this back in Oakland. In case reporters tracked us down. Especially after what happened with Tamara. Had to keep that out of the paper.”
Jeremy was going to ask what he meant, but it really felt like Brent talked to himself, that if he had to deal with a question he might stop. Besides, earlier Jeremy had seen Tamara approach her fiancé, and when he turned in her direction, fist coming up fast, not knowing she was there, or what was there, she flinched and stepped back, her arms coming up to shield herself. They faced each other, saying nothing. Brent looked at his fist, uncurled his fingers and lowered his arm. Tamara left him standing there, hands limp at his sides.
“This is a great summer job you got. Mr. G said you’re at Stanford. Good school. What are you taking? Art? I’ve seen you drawing. You look really into it.”
“Law.” Jeremy managed to speak without panting.
“Huh. You like that?”
All he could do was shrug. A loaded question, and in the face of Brent’s honesty a real answer seemed like the right thing. “My grandfather was a lawyer.”
“That’s wild. Mine played hockey. My dad too. Both team captains and all that. It’s the family business, I guess. Gramps is probably half of the money behind the team.”
“But you like hockey, right?” Jeremy slowed down and turned to look back at Brent. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“Like? I live hockey.”
They hit the top of a rise and the path opened up onto rocky slope with a view down to the lake. They stopped running. Jeremy bent forward and put his hands on his knees, breath coming in short rasps, sweat raining down on the ground.
“Must be a lot of pressure.” He gasped out the words.
“Pressure’s part of it, man. Sure you can drop out. Come to a place like this and disappear. That’s easy. But if it’s something you love, you gotta stick with it. Otherwise you lose.” The hockey player turned and set off for the lodge at his own pace. Jeremy didn’t try to catch him.
The mountains seemed to inhale the remaining light from the sky; they expanded, drew closer, as the remnants of day slipped behind.
Tired and sore, Jeremy approached the cabin he shared with his dad. The door stood open and from inside he could hear the rustle of papers turning. He peered in and watched as his dad flipped through the sketchpad. The first pages contained landscapes, detailed drawings of trees, flowers, a bear Jeremy spotted fishing up river—his dad flipped past those quickly.
Then he turned to a new sketch and recoiled visibly. But he didn’t turn the page. It was the drawing of Brent Sharp, arms out to the side, poised and ready for his first dive into the lake. Ted Chambers studied the drawing, then flipped slowly to the next. The hockey player, in a sweat-soaked t-shirt and jeans, chopping firewood. And the next. Brent sitting on the porch steps, staring intently at a photo of himself, #22, strapped in all his gear, stick up, poised to shoot.
“Hey, dad.” Jeremy pushed the door open the rest of the way and walked in the cabin.
“Oh, hey there. Sorry. It was just sitting here.” His dad held up the notebook, then looked at the last drawing again. “These are really good.”
“Thanks.” Jeremy waited a moment, but his dad didn’t say
anything more. “Well,
good night.”
Jeremy stumbled back to the lakeside, stomach clenched, hands shaking. The morning sun glared off the water, and he blinked the wash of red and dark that nibbled at his consciousness, thundered in his ears.
Brent was cleaning a fish. He rammed the blade into the stomach, splitting the flesh in a perfect incision through which entrails spilled on the rocks in a grey mound.
“You find Tamara?” Brent looked up.
Jeremy opened and closed his mouth, no idea what to say, so he just pointed. Brent stood, still holding the knife, hands coated in a sludge of gore. He stared at Jeremy a moment, then dropped the knife and ran.
Of course he had to go back. As Jeremy approached the clearing he could hear the hockey player’s bellow of horror when he reached the pool, then his frantic cries for his fiancée that moved around as he hunted for her—or her body.
When Jeremy arrived at the spot where the hot spring bubbled up through the stone—where Tamara had shed her clothes and folded them in a neat pile, where the water was stained a dark rust, rocks slick with arterial spray, air heavy with the hot stench of fresh meat—he found Brent, on his knees, blood-streaked hands curled up on his lap like dead insects, eyes stunned flat with shock.
“She’s gone.”
They spent the rest of the day looking. They took guns and flashlights. Roger was the only hunter, but they all knew to follow the drag marks that tore through the underbrush until they lost the trail when the terrain got too rocky. Then they searched for caves that might be used as dens, for niches and ravines. Roger radioed the police in Vanderhoof. He got a dispatcher, but with the fire evacuation underway there it would be a while before anyone could come, he said.
Cougars, bears, wolves—Jeremy knew all the possible threats. Probably more coming this way as the flames drove them south. He pictured what must have happened. Tamara alone in the hot spring, relaxed, vulnerable. Then something—Jeremy imagined it as a black shadow—descended on her, ripping flesh, sending blood out in gusts, the dark tangle of forest swallowing her screams.
