Captain Quad (30 page)

"Get up, numbnuts," he taunted. "C'mon, chickenshit, get up before I spear out your eyeballs." He chortled like a lunatic, stabbing at Sam with his stick.

"Back off, Kiley," the referee warned, "or you're out of the game."

Kiley ignored the threat. The fans were on their feet now, thirsty for blood, shouting jeers and tossing debris onto the ice—and Kiley loved every minute of it.

Dazed, Sam started to climb to his feet. When he was halfway up, Kiley drove the blade of his stick into the back of Sam's knee, dropping him to the ice again. A linesman made a grab for Kiley, and Kiley shoved him away.

"That tears it," the referee bellowed, giving another sharp blast on his whistle. "Kiley, you're out of the game!"

"Nothing to lose, then," Kiley said.

A scrap broke out between an Ottawa defenseman and the Sudbury left-winger. One of the linesmen skated in to break it up, and then another skirmish developed. On the margins of the circle that had formed around Kiley and Sam, opposing players hugged and shoved, their fuses shortening by the second.

The fans were going wild.

"C'mon, fag," Kiley crowed. "Get up. Whatsa madda? Your momma not here to look out for you?" The light of cruel inspiration shone in Kiley's eyes then, and he leaned over Sam's heaving frame. "Hey, Gardner. Been to any good barbecues lately?"

Sam's body jerked as if shot. He got to his hands and knees on the scarred surface of the ice and spat out a mouthful of blood.

Bobby's brother Rhett had clambered down to the boards with his perpetual companion, Jerry Jeter, and now the red-faced mechanic egged Bobby on.

"Good call, Bobby!" he roared, having caught his brother's last comment. "Serve him up a plate of fried Momma!"

Still grinning, Bobby glanced proudly at Rhett as he glided past the net.

Then Sam was up and skating, head down, stick up, shoulders hunched like a rhino's. Rhett's eyes widened to astonished saucers, and he pointed a grease-blackened finger, trying to warn his unheeding brother.

He was too late.

Bobby windmilled around with his stick, meaning to slash his unseen attacker, but Sam came in low, catching Kiley in the midsection, driving him into the now vacant net. The iron crossbar connected with Kiley's thick neck, the force of the impact lifting the goalposts off their pins. Sam, Kiley, and the net collided with the boards in front of the goal-judge box. Regaining some leverage, the heavier Kiley scrambled free of the net and caught Sam's jersey by the right shoulder, twisting it down and over in an effort to disable Sam's punching arm.

But Sam was a southpaw.

Sam's fist arced over Kiley's right arm and smacked the brawler on the beak, cracking it. Blood exploded from Kiley's nose in a startling gout, spraying Sam's face and drenching the front of his jersey. Locked in the classic scrappers' embrace, the two players commenced a rapid-fire exchange of blows, hammering away with furious abandon, turning flesh into pulp. Sam felt no pain, only a grim satisfaction each time his knuckles ground into Kiley's ugly mug. A particularly well placed uppercut dazed the big brawler momentarily, and now Sam worked his right ear, mashing it into a bloody rag. Reaching around with his suddenly free right hand, Sam caught hold of Kiley's jersey and yanked it over his head, temporarily blinding him. Exploiting this advantage, Sam hooked a leg behind Kiley's and tripped him, the abrupt shift of balance slamming him down on top of his thrashing foe. Dangerously vulnerable, Kiley cried out for a linesman, but by now the entire rink was a bloody battlefield littered with sticks and gloves and writhing bodies. Skaters came off the benches and joined in the fray. Even a few junk-tossing fans had hopped over the boards.

There was no one to save Bobby Kiley.

Sam straddled Bobby's chest, clutched him by the throat, and rained blows into his face. Kiley struggled for a while, but under the steady piston of Sam's fist he soon lay senseless and still.

Sam continued to pound.

A half-full bottle of Jim Beam buzzed past Sam's ear and shattered on the ice behind him. Sam looked up at Rhett Kiley, still safely stationed behind the boards.

"Get off' ’im, you’ fuckin' freak, "Rhett roared, his face the color of clay. "It's over! You're gonna kill 'im!"

Sam drew back to hammer Bobby again.

"Hey! Let 'im up or I'm gonna turn you into a fuckin' zucchini, just like your fuckin' brother!"

In that instant Sam came totally unhinged. Later he would have little recollection of the events that followed. He sprang off Kiley's moaning frame and rocketed toward the boards. Blanching, Rhett and his sidekick turned tail. Rhett was furious, but he'd seen what this fucker had done to his kid brother, who was three times as tough as Rhett could ever hope to be. He headed for the stands at a run, Jerry Jeter hot on his heels.

Sam barely touched the boards as he vaulted over them. "Come back here, you bastard! You take that back!"

Then he was up in the aisles, frenzied fans shrinking back, sparks flying from his skates where the blades gouged the greasy cement. He ran headlong into a soda boy, sending his tray of wares flying, and charged after the fleeing hecklers.

On the ice below, the chaos continued, both teams locked in blood-battle. The referee and linesmen had abandoned all attempts at keeping the peace and were now engaged in the delicate business of staying out of the way.

Through a rear exit, a dozen helmeted policemen tramped into the arena.

"Come back here!" Sam screamed, a lifetime of repressed anger at long last given vent. "I'll kill you! You hear me?" Tears tracked his sweat- and blood-streaked face. An incisor dangled from his gumline by a bare tag of tissue. "Come back!"

Taking the corner at the top of the flight, Sam tripped over a discarded popcorn container and pitched to his face in the aisle. Ahead of him, Rhett and Jerry vanished through an exit, elbows still pumping.

Drained, hurt, and humiliated, Sam climbed back to his feet.

"Hey, kid," an excited fan shouted. "Look out!"

As he spun, Sam ducked his head, avoiding Bobby's slashing stick by bare inches. The blade struck the cement and splintered. Dazed and furious, Bobby threw down his stick and kicked at Sam with a skate. Releasing a warrior's cry, Sam came up inside the lethal kick, catching Kiley on the blunt knob of his chin with the last ounce of strength he had left.

Kiley's skates left the floor. His contorted face went suddenly blank, its only color a grisly smear of blood he'd cuffed across one cheek from his still bleeding nose. This time when he landed, he did not get up.

Ignoring the congratulatory shouts of the fans, Sam headed for the nearest exit, needing all of his will to avoid collapsing to the littered cement.

On the rink below, the havoc continued.

After changing and stowing his gear, Sam slunk quietly out of the arena. He had no idea how the game had turned out, nor did he care. Tessaro had been right: he should have stayed out of it.

But in many ways tonight had been inevitable for Sam. The tension had been building inside him like steam in an unvented pressure cooker, and if he hadn't cracked tonight, it would have come some other time, some other place. He was glad it was out. He was hurting—his mouth was still slick with the taste of blood, and his tooth was so loose he could wiggle it with his tongue—but he felt good, purged somehow.

The air was balmy on this mid-January eve, and a cheerful snow was falling. After a few minutes' walk, Sam unzipped his parka. The air felt good against his neck and abraded face. He could not remember having been so tired, but even that felt agreeable. The fatigue lay inside him like a gentle narcotic, and he lost himself in the easy pace of his stride. A block up from the arena, he crossed the street to cut through the parking lot of the Ledo Hotel. Behind him, headlights flickered on and a car crunched out of the lot, the low grumble of its engine receding into the night.

As he reached the crest of the Paris Street bridge and the hospital came into view, it occurred to Sam to stop in and see Peter. . . but more and more often of late when he visited his brother after dark Sam found him sleeping—or rather, off in one of his "trances." It was weird. In the two weeks since their mother's death Peter had been almost manically cheerful—although Sam sensed something counterfeit and distracted in this cheerfulness—reporting to Sam each day of his increasing ability to leave his body. They'd set up the computer ten days ago—the morning after their mother's interment—and already Peter had mastered the word processing software. Yesterday Sam had walked in to find him busily tapping the keys with the mouth-held striker one of the occupational therapists had rigged for him. . . but when Sam tried to sneak a peek, Peter had scrolled the screen blank.

Sam picked up his pace. On his way past the hospital, he glanced up and noticed that Peter's window was dark.

Suddenly his weariness didn't feel so good anymore. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to fall into bed, though he didn't relish the thought of that empty apartment. He still hadn't touched any of his mother's things, and he didn't know if he ever would. Maybe he'd have the Neighborhood Service people come by and fish through the litter. The reel-to-reel was still on the coffee table where she'd left it. There were even a few of her empties left scattered about.

Christ, that godforsaken tape. . .

Sam turned down the last dark street before his building, thinking that maybe in the spring he'd give up the apartment and find a room in residence. Yeah, that'd be better. Maybe even meet a few girls. He chuckled at this thought, barely mindful of the big champagne-colored Caddy that drifted past him from behind, high beams blazing. It rolled to the end of the street, the tarnished chrome of its bumpers gleaming as it glided beneath each mellow streetlight, then U-turned at the end of the block. Now it motored slowly back, its snow tires reeling up the tracks it had laid down during its first pass along the street. Sam squinted in the glare of the headlights.

Accelerating a little, the Caddy swerved into the curb ahead of Sam and then braked suddenly, its rear deck fishtailing. The hood, a large circle of which had been cleansed of snow by the heat of the Caddy's big motor, seemed to go on forever, and Sam wondered why a sane person would expose such a cherry antique to a northern Ontario winter. This baby was at least thirty years old.

Assuming its owner to be in need of directions, Sam started around the hood to the driver's side.

The Caddy lunged forward like a skittish horse, then nosedived as the driver stomped on the brakes. The front bumper buckled Sam's knees and he nearly fell. Angry and a little afraid, he whanged the hood with his fist, then got quickly out of the way. Cautiously he proceeded to the driver's side window, which was slowly humming down.

"Hey, man," Sam warned. "You ought to be more careful—"

The words died in his throat. He was looking into the inebriated face of Rhett Kiley. Underlit by the swampy green glow of the dash lights, Kiley resembled none other than Satan himself. And there were at least three other ape-size heads in there with him. The familiar reek of whiskey wafted out on a bank of cigarette smoke.

"Hey, boy," Kiley crooned. "You're the one who ought to be careful."

Roaring with laughter, Kiley flicked on the dome light, killing that wicked green shine but revealing a frightening convention of psychos. Sam recognized all but one of them.

Next to Rhett sat Jerry Jeter (and wasn't that a tire iron in his grease monkey's paw?). In the back on the far side slouched a still-grinning but subdued Bobby Kiley. The other guy, a barrel-chested giant with the big-boned features of a half breed, Sam had never laid eyes on before. But of the lot of them, this guy looked the meanest.

Sam decided to shin it.

"Get 'im!" Kiley squawked, and threw open his door. Sam leaned into a sprinter's stride, swinging his gym bag at the half-breed who popped out of the back with an almost magical swiftness. He'd managed barely a step before he lost his footing in the light dusting of snow. As he scrabbled for purchase, the opening door clipped him in the Achilles tendon, spinning him around and flipping him to the pavement.

He looked up into a circle of sneering faces.

A boot shot out and caught him in the ribs, Rhett Kiley's boot, and Sam felt something splinter inside him.

"Hit a man when he's down," Kiley roared. "How's it feel, fucknuts? You like it?" He lashed out again, grazing Sam's upper arm. "Eh, you gutless little spider?"

"Yeah!" Bobby cheered from the backseat. "Cave his fuckin' head in, Rhett."

Sam tried to get up, and the half-breed kneed him in the chest. "This the way you homos fight?" Sam rasped, clasping his damaged ribs. He was in a world of trouble here and he knew it. Tanked as they were, there was every good chance these crazies would kill him. "Three on one?"

"Fuckin' A!" Jeter crowed, and hammered Sam's kneecap with the tire iron.

Unable to help himself, Sam cried out.

"Listen to the piggy squeal," Rhett chanted in the merry tones of the brain-dead. "Why don't you call your bowling-ball brother? He'll come save ya. Just like he al—"

Lightning quick, Sam sprang up onto one bent leg like a Russian dancer and drove a boot into Rhett Kiley's nuts, doubling the big man over. Kiley's air rushed out in a whoosh, and he puked up a bellyful of booze.

Sam was almost standing when the tire iron tagged him on the side of the head.

Under the force of the blow, the commotion around him receded into a high-pitched pinging sound, like an approaching outboard heard from deep underwater. Drifting snowflakes turned into violent pinpricks of light, brilliantly coruscating, then faded to yawning black holes. Sam swung a fist that connected with nothing, registered a distant, hollow laugh, then collapsed in a boneless heap.

"Pick him up," he heard someone say. Far away.

(the half-breed)

Now he was rising effortlessly through space.

Floating. . . ?

Billy Moon, a half Cree Indian who owed Rhett a favor, drove a fist into Sam's exposed vitals, then kicked him in the face.