Winter Hawk Star (10 page)

“Riley! Please!” Samantha said.

“I'm sorry,” Riley said. “It's just that—”

“Enough already,” she told him. “I thought jocks didn't think. You're supposed to be stupid.”

I knew I felt stupid. There was a police car right behind us. I couldn't think of a single thing to do to get their attention. I wondered if yelling would get the attention of the cops.

Probably not. If they were talking with the windows closed, they wouldn't hear us. And Ron and Louie in the front would definitely hear.

On the other hand, if we were going to die anyway, what would we have to lose by shouting?

I lifted my head to get a good lungful of air, and my face tangled on some electrical wiring.

“All right then,” Riley said. “I'll change the subject. How's this? Tyler wants to invite you to the high school dance, but he's too
afraid. So I'll ask for him. Would you go with him?”

I kicked Riley. He grunted.

“Well—” Samantha said.

“Of course, you're going to say yes,” I said. “We're about to die. You're not going to hurt my feelings by turning me down to a dance we'll never get to.”

It made me mad that Riley had embarrassed me. I slapped at the stupid wires. I sucked some air in again and almost began to yell, even knowing how useless it would be.

Then I realized what the wires meant. Now I might be able to get the attention of the police in the car behind us.

I grabbed the wires and yanked as hard as I could.

The Cadillac took off slowly when the traffic light turned green. One minute later—I was counting the seconds heartbeat by heartbeat—I saw the sweetest sight I'd ever seen.

Red and blue flashing lights filled the tiny circle of my peephole as the police car closed the gap and tried to pull us over. I told Riley and Samantha what was happening.

“Cops!” Riley said. “They're stopping this car?”

“I just hope Ron and Louie don't try to outrun them,” I answered.

“But—”

I interrupted Riley. “Here's the deal. As soon as this car is stopped and the police get out of their car, start yelling and screaming and kicking the trunk lid.”

“They'll shoot us if we make any noise,” Riley said. “Remember?”

“With the cops right there? Not a chance. Kidnapping is one thing. But are they going to murder us with the cops watching?”

We felt the Cadillac swerve as Ron and Louie decided to pull over. And why not? Ron and Louie probably didn't know about the rust hole that I was able to peek through. I was willing to bet they figured Riley and Samantha and I had no idea they were stopping for the troopers. If we didn't know it was troopers, we sure wouldn't be brave enough to make noise. If we didn't make noise, the troopers would have no reason to
look in the trunk. So why risk everything by trying to outrun the police?

The Cadillac settled on its springs as it stopped.

I heard the crunching of tire on rocks as the police car stopped behind the Cadillac. Again, all I could see through the peephole was the shiny silver grill.

The police car doors opened and slammed shut.

Footsteps approached the Cadillac.

It was now or never.

“Guys, start pounding and screaming.”

We did. We hollered and bellowed and kicked at the trunk lid. Dirt fell into my face and nostrils, and I choked as it coated the inside of my throat.

No bullets tore through the backseat. No screeching of tires as the Cadillac took off.

We found out later that as soon as the troopers heard the screaming and thumping, they pulled their guns and held them on the surprised Ron and Louie.

We kept hollering and screaming and
kicking until the trunk popped open and a flashlight blinded us.

“Teenagers!” a deep voice said with great surprise. “Three of them.”

He clicked the flashlight off. We were able to see his tall silhouette above us, the wide brim of his hat clearly outlined against the streetlights.

“Come on out,” he said. “You'll be fine now. Just tell us what this is all about.”

We climbed into the glare of headlights and flashing lights. Louie and Ron were braced against the side of the Cadillac. The other policeman guarded them with his revolver.

“Tell you what this is all about?” I repeated. I drew a deep breath. “Sir, I would be happy to do just that.”

Within ten minutes, the state troopers had Ron and Louie handcuffed and in the back-seat of the police cruiser.

The larger of the two troopers stood outside the cruiser, speaking into the handheld mike of the police radio.

The shorter one joined me and Riley and Samantha.

“We've called for a backup cruiser. The boys will take you to the station. We'll need to file a report. Don't be surprised if it takes a few hours. Are you okay with that?”

Riley and I gave each other high fives. I winced at the pain of my palms slapping on his.

“We're okay with that,” Riley said.

The trooper pushed back the brim of his hat and surveyed us with his hands on his hips.

“Lucky for you that the tail lights on this old Cadillac burned out,” he said. “Otherwise we would never have pulled it over.”

“Um, I'm not sure it was luck,” I said.

“What do you mean, son?”

I opened my hands and looked down at my palms. Both were cut where the wire had sliced through the skin when I yanked on the electrical wires.

“Well, sir, last summer I was pretty mad at the police because I got a ticket when a fuse on my Jeep went out and my brake lights didn't work. But if I hadn't gotten that ticket, I would never have thought of the idea.”

I showed him my hands. “I was hoping if I disconnected the wires to their tail lights, you would do the same to them.”

The trooper laughed. “Impressive, son, mighty impressive.”

Another state police car arrived, ending our conversation.

Riley and Samantha and I walked over and climbed into the backseat of the second cruiser. I went first and then Samantha and then Riley.

The trooper in the front seat hadn't even taken the car out of park, when Samantha leaned her face close to my ear.

“Tyler Watson,” she whispered, “the answer is yes.”

“Pardon me?”

“The high school dance,” she said. “The answer is yes. Unless Riley lied and got my hopes up for nothing.”

“Tomorrow night,” I said quickly, before she could change her mind. “I'll pick you up at seven.”

“How was the dance?” Riley asked as he saw me in the lobby of the ice arena. “Did you and Samantha smooch when you drove her home?”

“Very funny,” I said. “Are you ready for the Seattle Thunderbirds?”

“Changing the subject, are we?” “She'll be in the stands tonight,” I said. “Is that enough of an answer?”

“Sure.” Riley grinned. He waved at a couple of the guys heading toward the dressing room for the usual pre-game warm-up.

“It's been a wild week, hasn't it?” he said as we joined the guys.

“Yup.” The cuts sliced into my palm were nearly healed. We had endured dozens of phone calls for newspaper interviews. We had faced police, lawyers and television cameras. Most of it had happened because Ron and Louie had decided to testify against Beckstead Pharmaceuticals in exchange for reduced jail sentences. Without their testimony to match ours, it would have been hard to prove that the ADD kids had been used in an experimental program. Now, because of upcoming lawsuits against the company, it looked like every one of the kids involved in the program would get a hundred thousand dollars, enough to help their families and put them through college when they were older.

Even Riley and I had gotten some reward money. Not much, just enough to buy in-line skates and hockey equipment for every kid in our Youth Works group. It sure had been fun watching them try out their new skates when we played street hockey with them.

Yes, it had been a wild week. But that was the past. This was now. I had a WHL hockey game to worry about. Coach Estleman had moved me to the second line, and I wanted to stay there.

“I've got a question for you,” I said as we walked past Coach Estleman's office. He was sitting behind his desk. He gave us a friendly wave through the open door.

“Fire away,” Riley said.

“Now that you're back to your usual one or two goals a game, what do you think of just before you score a goal?”

“Huh?”

“You've got the puck on your stick, a chance to score. What do you think of in that moment?”

Riley stared at me and scratched his head.

“Nothing, I guess,” he finally said.

“Nothing?” His answer didn't surprise me.

Riley frowned in thought. “It's like I'm in a zone. Just me and the puck and the net. I don't hear anything. I don't feel anything. So the answer is that I don't think about anything.”

“Do you worry about missing the net?” I asked. “Falling down? Making a mistake? Becoming a hero? Winning the scoring race?”

“Not when the puck is on my stick.”

I nodded agreement. “One more thing. Over the last few weeks you were worried about going blind. It took your concentration away, didn't it? That's why you hit the slump, right?”

“I'm not worried about going blind anymore, if that's what you mean. I haven't forgotten about the other stuff, like what happens when you die. I mean, if you think about it, you've got to wonder why people believe in God.” He grinned. “Heavy duty philosophy, hey?”

I could learn from Riley. He never held back in hockey or anything else.

“Tell you what,” I said, deciding that a person doesn't need to be invisible with what he believes. “Any time you want, let's talk about it.”

“Not on the ice,” he said, still grinning. “I'm through thinking and worrying out there. If you want the puck in the net, that's all you can have on your mind when the puck's on your stick.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You've said a lot I needed to hear.” I gave him a grin and stepped into the familiar chatter and the familiar sweat and heat-liniment smell of the dressing room. I ducked a pair of socks someone was throwing at our goalie and found a place to sit.

As I dressed in my hockey equipment, I thought about what Riley had said. I also thought back to some of the other things that had happened in the last month or so.

I'd stepped out of the Jeep, armed with only a hockey stick against Ron and Louie with their switchblades. At the time, all I had been concentrating on was how to knock the knives from their hands. I hadn't worried about getting cut or about being a hero for
Sam. My only thought had been on their switchblades and knocking them away.

When I'd fired a beauty of a slap shot into the corner boards and accidentally hit Coach Estleman, my only thought had been on ripping the puck. Not on where it might go. Not on whether it would score.

When I'd stepped into another slap shot and broken the window at Youth Works, again, my only thought had been on making contact with the ball. I'd been pure, fluid motion in perfect timing, with nothing in my head except the desire to smoke the shot.

The game against the Medicine Hat Tigers, I'd skated back onto the ice with a butterfly bandage on my jaw. I'd been so mad at Coach Estleman that all I wanted to do was skate hard and shoot hard. I hadn't worried about whether the shot missed the net, how the crowd would react, or if I'd be in the sports section of the newspaper the next day.

And in the trunk of the car, when I'd finally stopped worrying about what would happen when we went off the cliff and had
concentrated on getting the cops' attention, my mind had found a way to solve the problem.

All of this was interesting to me. Real interesting.

Part of what made Riley Judd so good in hockey was that he concentrated on the puck. Nothing in his head got in the way.

Could I learn to do the same?

I hoped so.

I slipped my shin pads into my hockey socks, taped the shin pads tight and snugged the top of my socks with my garters. I stepped into my hockey pants and put my skates on, leaving them unlaced. I put on my shoulder pads and my elbow pads.

My helmet was on the bench beside me. Along with my Winter Hawks jersey.

All I needed to do was tie my skates, pull my belt tight on my hockey pants, get my sweater on and strap my helmet into place.

I didn't though.

I sat without moving for a couple more minutes, letting the chatter of the dressing room flow around me.

Maybe that was the key. I would concentrate on the task, not on the result. When I had the puck, I would try to get into the zone of nothingness where all that mattered was what I was doing in that very second.

Could I find that zone when I needed it?

Probably not every time. But I was willing to believe if I worked at it, I'd learn it better. And hockey would be more fun.

Someone slapped my shoulder. I broke out of my thoughts and looked up at Riley. He was already in his equipment, ready to step onto the ice for pre-game warm-up.

“What do ya say, Tyler?” he asked. “Gonna score a couple of goals tonight with Samantha watching in the stands?”

“Tell you what, pal.” I grabbed my sweater and pulled it over my head. “Don't be surprised when it happens.”

Sigmund Brouwer is the best-selling author of many books for children and young adults. He has contributed to the Orca Currents series (
Wired
,
Sewer Rats
) and the Orca Sports series (
Blazer Drive
,
Titan Clash
,
Cobra Strike
). Sigmund enjoys visiting schools to talk about his books. Interested teachers can find out more by e-mailing [email protected].