Arctic Thunder (7 page)

The big boy's eyes widened behind his glasses, and a huge grin returned to his face. “I'm Donnie Debastien.” He extended his hand.

Mike smiled back. Hesitating, he sighed and gripped the boy's hand, pulling and hoisting himself to his feet.

“This just hasn't been my day,” he said, sighing.

“And the morning isn't even over.”

Mike grimaced. “Thanks, Donnie. That makes me feel a whole lot better. By the way, my name's Mike Watson.”

Donnie blinked. “Well, look at it this way, Mike. You've already done battle with Monster Kiktorak
and
Gwen Thrasher. It doesn't get any worse or scarier than that. From here on it's pretty easy.”

“Monster Kiktorak?”

Donnie nodded solemnly. “Joseph Kiktorak. He's one mean dude. Hates everybody just as much as you, so you don't need to feel special or anything.”

Mike started gathering the papers still scattered on the floor. “You know what, Donnie? As strange as this might seem, that actually
does
make me feel better. I guess that just shows how bad my day's gone so far.

What's that guy's problem, anyway?”

Donnie tried to bend at the waist and help, but his ample belly wouldn't let him double over. With a sigh he lowered himself to his knees and began assisting Mike. “Well, I guess Joseph's had it pretty rough. His mom and dad split up a couple of years ago. His dad moved back to Tuktoyaktuk. That's where he's from. Then his mom took a job in Cambridge Bay in Nunavut. That meant Joseph had to start living with his granny. She's really nice and all, but it just isn't the same as having a mom or dad around. He seems to be angry at everyone and everything now. It's kind of hard on his granny because he seems to get in some new trouble every second week.” Donnie paused for a moment, then shook his head. “You think he'd learn. I mean, he's almost two metres tall, for Pete's sake. How do you do bad crap and expect not to be noticed when you're our age and that tall? Duh!”

Mike nodded and fought the urge to laugh. Not because he found what had happened to Joseph funny. That was all pretty serious, and considering the guy wanted to kill him, it was dead serious. It was just that Donnie's eyes got so big and he moved his arms around in such an animated fashion that he resembled a funny cartoon character. A lovable and
big
cartoon character. Mike figured that Donnie was likely considered a bit of a nerd by everyone else in Inuvik, but he liked the guy already.

“That's pretty crappy about Joseph,” Mike said. “If my parents broke up, I don't know what I'd do. It's hard to even think about.”

Donnie was about to say something when the bell rang harshly, making both boys jump.

Grabbing the rest of his books, Mike said, “Hey, Donnie, it was great to meet you.”

Donnie nodded, his eyes reaching a new record for big and wide. “Maybe we could do something after school?”

Mike was already hurrying down the hall. “Yeah, that sounds good,” he said over his shoulder. “I'll find you later.” Reaching the end of the hall, he quickly darted around the corner.

CHAPTER 7

T
he rest of the school day was pretty ordinary. No more Joseph Kiktorak or Gwen Thrasher. No more embarrassing moments. Mike managed to sit through classes quietly after brief introductions, then slipped out before anyone had a chance to confront him. He also succeeded in keeping his head up and didn't run into any new problems along the way.

When the final buzzer rang, Mike considered searching for Donnie but quickly changed his mind. He was standing by the front doors, trying to decide what to do when someone slammed into his shoulder. His first reaction was to say he was sorry to whoever it was, even though the collision hadn't been his fault. Then he saw Gwen angrily glancing over her shoulder as she bulled through the doors. How could someone so pretty be so bitter about everything? Mike wondered.

He took that as a sign and decided not to push his luck by waiting to see if Donnie wandered by. Mike had survived his first day … barely. As he walked home, the big moon boots on his feet crunched loudly on the snow, and his breath floated in front of him before trailing around the sides of his head.

One day. Two enemies. One kind of friend. Nice teacher. No homework. Pretty sizable accomplishments for a first day. A lifetime in St. Albert hadn't resulted in a single enemy, so two in one day had to be some kind of world record. And Donnie, well, he seemed pretty nice, but Mike remembered someone saying that the first person you met in a new place was usually a misfit or a nerd supreme. He was fairly certain Donnie met both of those descriptions. But he still liked the guy. Every time those huge eyes almost burst out of their sockets behind those thick glasses, Mike couldn't help but smile with real fondness for the kid.

When Mike reached his new home, he spied his father getting into an RCMP pickup. Then he caught sight of the two snowmobiles sitting on the driveway.

“Hey!” Mike greeted his father.

“Hey, yourself.” When Ben noticed Mike grinning at the snowmobiles, he added, “Maybe we can take them out for a spin in a couple of weeks.”

“A couple of weeks! That long?”

“Look, Mike, they have to be insured and licensed before we can run them in town. That takes time, and being new here means I have heaps of work to do. Speaking of which, I have to get going.” He started to pull out of the driveway. “I'll see you at supper.”

Mike sat down heavily on the snowmobile closest to him. It was a Yamaha, while the other one was a bright blue Polaris. The Yamaha had a long body and looked like a working machine. The sleeker Polaris had white racing stripes on its sides.

“The Polaris will be fast for sure.”

Mike glanced up and spotted Victor Allen standing in the nearby police yard. “Hi, Mr. Allen. It does look pretty fast.”

“They're both nice machines. The Yamaha has a long track and will be excellent for pulling a sled. The Polaris, though, will be fast and fun to drive.”

Mike tried to smile, but he was still unhappy about having to wait so long to try out the snowmobiles.

“You know, I have a Polaris pretty much the same as that one. Maybe if I asked your father, I could take you out for a spin sometime soon.”

Mike sat up straight. “Really?”

Victor laughed. “Really. I'll talk to your dad tomorrow. Now your mom needs help with some unpacking, so you better head in to see what you can do.” He turned and walked toward the police station.

Mike entered the house through the back door. Kicking off his boots, he shrugged out of his parka and let it fall to the floor.

“Mike, is that you?” his mother called from somewhere deep inside the house.

“Yeah, Mom!”

“Put your boots on the mat and pick up your parka. Then come upstairs. I need help deciding where to hang the last of these pictures.”

“Jeez!” He stooped to pick up the heavy coat. Between Victor and his mother, he was beginning to think he was surrounded by psychics.

Supper that night was quiet. Ben had to work late, so it was just Mike and his mother. Jeannie tried her best to lighten the mood and get Mike to talk. She described her first trip to the Northern Store and how expensive everything seemed to be. Maybe, she told her son, the first thing Mike and Ben would have to do once they had the snowmobiles going was shoot a caribou or moose so they could afford to eat. Mike responded with nothing more than grunts and a faint smile.

After supper Mike headed to his room. The guy from the local cable company hadn't come to hook up their television and Internet service yet. He didn't know if cellphones and texting worked in Inuvik. Even if they did, he didn't know anyone here to call or text, and that sucked! No friends, no TV, no Internet, no text messaging. They
were
at the end of the Earth!

Mike threw himself onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. The walls were so short due to the steepness of the roof that he was actually looking at the posters and pictures he'd tacked up yesterday. There was a classic image of goaltender Patrick Roy in a Montreal Canadiens uniform, a poster Mike's dad had given him. LeBron James in full flight, mouth open, seemed about to fly over a basketball hoop. Gary Gait, one of the greatest lacrosse players of all time, followed through on a shot while playing with the Colorado Mammoth of the National Lacrosse League. The last picture was perfect. It was so clear that it was almost surreal. It had been taken over Gait's shoulder after he took the shot. You could follow the path the ball took after it left Gait's stick, then see it as it bulged the mesh of the net just over the goalie's shoulder.

Next, his eyes settled on all the athletic accolades he'd accumulated through the years — participation medals, trophies from tournaments, gold medals, most valuable player awards. There was a picture of Mike that had been taken at the Jack Crosby Tournament in Burnaby, British Columbia, when he was a novice. It showed him following through on a shot he'd just taken at the net. They had won that tournament. It was the first time a team from St. Albert had won a major competition outside Alberta, and the banner with Mike's name and the rest of the gang still hung from the rafters of the Kinnex Arena in St. Albert. Mike had played lacrosse with the same bunch of guys for years, and now all of that was over.

He rolled onto his side and took a deep breath. His eyes settled on an object sitting on the bedside table. It was getting dark in the room, so he reached over and clicked on the small bedside lamp.

The object he'd noticed was a shortwave radio. His father had given it to him before they left St. Albert. His mother must have unpacked it today and put it in his room. Mike had been so upset with his father and about the move that he hadn't even thanked him for it. He had simply stuck it in the bottom of a box and piled books and other items on top.

Mike's father had told him he'd had a similar shortwave radio when he was a kid on the farm and that on cold winter nights he could pick up radio stations and signals from around the world. Ben had said it would be fun to play around with the shortwave in Inuvik. A radio! Fun to play with! To Mike it represented everything that had gone wrong with this life. No friends, no lacrosse, no TV, no computer, no texting. Nothing but a radio and cold winter nights. Nothing at all.
Nothing.

With a surge of pent-up rage, Mike smashed a clenched fist into the radio. The shortwave spun into the air, stopped abruptly as it reached the end of its cord, clattered off the wall, and fell to the floor with a resounding thud. One of its knobs broke free from the impact, popped off the chair, and disappeared under the dresser.

“Hey!” he heard his dad holler from downstairs. Mike hadn't heard him come home.

“You okay up there, Mike?” Ben asked from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yeah.”

“How was school today?”

“Okay.”

“Just okay?”

“It was okay.”

“Make any friends? Find a girlfriend?”

“Dad!”

“Okay, Mike, I won't bug you. First day is always hard. I'll pop in to say good-night when I come up.”

Mike didn't respond, and after a moment or two, he heard his father move away from the bottom of the stairs and head back into the kitchen. There was silence for a moment and then the murmur of voices as his parents began to talk.

Mike lay quietly on the bed and thought about his day. Donnie was sort of a friend. A weird one, but at least he didn't hate Mike. And Gwen was a girl, but she sure wasn't a friend. Man, she had an attitude. Then there was Monster Kiktorak. How could someone fourteen years old be so big and have such a chip on his shoulder? The guy could kill Mike if he really wanted to. Mike shifted his eyes around the room, and once more they fixed on the shortwave radio that now lay on the floor.

Slowly, he sat up, then got to his feet and picked up the radio. After he put it back on the nightstand, he squatted in front of the dresser and groped underneath it for the missing knob. He stretched a little farther, closed his hand around the knob, and pulled it out. Returning to the bed, he sat and flipped the radio back and forth until he spotted the stub where the knob had once been. Luckily, it wasn't broken. The knob had simply popped off the stub that controlled the volume. Fumbling, Mike moved the knob across the stub until the opening caught and it sank back into place. He returned the radio to the nightstand and moved his hand along the cord. Grabbing the plug, he bent over and pushed it into the outlet between the bed and the nightstand. Then, sitting back, he stared at the radio as if it were a fearsome creature that might suddenly leap for his throat.

A radio!
How desperate had his life become? Who listened to radio these days? Shrugging, he leaned forward and flicked on the power button. Static. What did he expect? They were at the top of the world. Picking up the radio, he placed it in his lap and studied the buttons: power, volume, tuning, some kind of “band” thing, and a spot for an antenna wire. The thing likely wouldn't work without some kind of antenna. Just his luck. Not wanting to give up just yet, Mike took the tuning knob between his thumb and forefinger and twirled it.

He had barely moved the knob when voices shot through the static. They spoke a different language, but it was amazingly clear. He listened closer. It sounded like Chinese. After a few seconds, he adjusted the knob again and another voice crackled through. This time there was no mistaking the language. It was Russian, a tongue he'd heard before. Holy crap! The voice took on a sinister tone. Some kind of spy broadcast! Sending secret messages across the top of the world?

Mike rotated the knob again, then stopped abruptly. There was no mistaking the tone of an excited sportscaster in the middle of a play-by-play. He bent down and pulled the radio close to his ear. It was a basketball game coming all the way from Madison Square Garden. The Knicks and the Philadelphia 76ers. Mike loved all sports, and in his own right wasn't that bad a basketball player. He listened hard as the play-byplay man called the game, picturing the crowd at the fabled arena as the Knicks sank a basket and hustled back on defence.