There was a note attached. Naomi opened it.
Compliments of Dani Thibault, it was signed. Then underlined: Go to town!
Naomi smiled.
She knew exactly who it was from. This would get the ball rolling.
And underneath, the white knight had written, underlined again, Have you thought it over yet?
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
That Saturday night, at the Hamill rink in Greenwich, the twelve-and-under Trident-Allen Value Fund Bruins took it to the Commack, Long Island, Ducks by the score of six to one.
As the final buzzer sounded, Hauck stepped onto the ice and gave a handshake to the opposing coach as his players raised their sticks in the air and high-fived their opponents. Jared, whom Hauck had brought along, went onto the ice as well, going, “Good game, Kyle! Good game, Tony.”
Some of them skated by, knocking elbows with him, saying, “Thanks for getting us ready, dude!”
As they headed out, Hauck rallied the kids around him for a couple of minutes. “Solid game. Way to play defense, guys.” He clapped. “Okay, remember, we have practice Wednesday at eight. No absentees! Good game, everyone! And remember to collect your gear.”
As the team filed off the ice, one or two of the parents came over to say hi and congratulate him on the game. While they did, Jared grabbed a stick and took the chance to shoot a few stray pucks into the sideboards. Ted, the rink manager, got in the Zamboni and started to smooth out the ice. It was almost ten-theirs was the last match of the night. Annie was at her café until around eleven. Hauck had said he’d drop Jared off, hang out at the bar, and have dessert. Celebrate the win.
Within minutes, the place was virtually empty. Elated kids piled into their parents’ cars. The Zamboni finished up on the ice. Ted dimmed the lights.
Hauck noticed a guy in a black nylon jacket he had never seen before just watching from the other end of the rink.
“Hey, Ted, you got a minute!”
Hauck went over and chatted with the manager, whom he knew from when he was on the force, proposing the idea of a fund-raiser for an assistant coach of one of the other teams who had lost his job and was in need of a kidney transplant. Hauck thought maybe he could get the police and firemen to spar off in an exhibition.
“Jared,” he yelled, “you mind going into the locker room and grabbing me the team bag?” The duffel held a bunch of practice pucks and rolls of tape, some extra equipment. Hauck had tossed his own gear in there after the skate-around.
Jared waved. “Sure, Ty.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” the manager said. “Lemme check the schedule and see what’s free.”
“That would be great, Ted.”
“Solid game tonight,” Ted called, parking the Zamboni.
Hauck tossed him a thumbs-up. “Yeah, guess they listen every once in a while!”
He made his way back across the ice. He grabbed his jacket from off the bench. He waited for Jared to come out with the bag. He’d been in there a long time.
Something wasn’t feeling right to him. Call it twenty years on the job, his antennae buzzing. He glanced to the far end of the ice.
The man in the Windbreaker wasn’t there.
CHAPTER FORTY
Red O’Toole pulled the van into the crowded lot a little before nine thirty and waited outside the rink.
Sonny Merced hunched beside him in the passenger seat. They’d been together before, on the Glassman job. They’d served together back in the Sandbox. But Sonny’s tale was just a bit different than his. He was an expert with a knife, could skin a cat with one, not to mention a man-and O’Toole had seen him. At Camp Victory, he’d been accused of rape three times. But getting female grunts to testify was another tale and each time they backed down. The third time, he got bounced home. Sonny was a liability the army didn’t need. He kicked around with a couple of private security firms, came home, got a job digging pools in Michigan, no chance of a real job. Then he fell into drugs and had to support his habit.
O’Toole looked at what he did as a job, the only one he was qualified for. Sonny looked at it as a thrill.
The parking lot was filled. Some kind of game was obviously going on. A half hour ago, he had gone and stuck his head in the rink and saw the match still in progress. Parents cheering. The scoreboard ticking down. Now, he looked at his watch and nudged Sonny. “Mount up. It’s showtime, man.”
People finally started coming out of the rink. Parents starting up their cars, kids yelping, whooping it up, sticks held high. In a couple of minutes, the parking lot grew empty, except for a couple of cars.
They didn’t see Hauck or the kid.
O’Toole told Sonny, “Go in and see what’s going on.”
Sonny zipped up his black nylon Windbreaker and crawled out of the van.
A few minutes passed. O’Toole put on the radio. He didn’t entirely trust Sonny. The dude was reckless, a little crazed. It always got him into trouble. But O’Toole always knew how to calm him down.
Suddenly his throwaway cell phone rang. “What the hell is going on? I told you to check it out, not go for a goddamn skate.”
“Relax,” Sonny Merced said, “start the car. I’m doing it now.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Jared!” Hauck shouted toward the locker room and waited for a reply.
None came.
The whole rink was dark now. Ted was somewhere in the back. The stranger who he’d seen standing at the opposite end of the rink was nowhere to be found. The antennae for trouble Hauck had built up over the years was buzzing like crazy.
“Jared!” he called out again. Why wasn’t he answering?
Something was wrong.
He grabbed a stray stick off the glass and headed back to the locker room, his blood starting to race with trepidation. This was Annie’s son. He turned the corner, accelerating into a run, and pushed through the swinging doors into the locker room, shouting, “Jared?”
“Ty!” His voice came back. Jared’s voice. Scared.
He turned to the lockers and saw the man he had spotted lurking outside, his hand cupped over Jared’s mouth, the boy’s eyes wide as melons, fear in them. He was dragging Jared toward the bathroom area. The guy had a heavy stubble on his face, sideburns, and a thick mustache. He looked about fifty but he was probably twenty years younger. Wearing a black nylon jacket.
He had a knife held under Jared’s chin.
Hauck froze.
“Hey, hero, get the fuck out of here!” The man glared at Hauck. With one arm he jerked Jared’s head to the side. With the other, he deftly clenched the blade underneath Jared’s jaw. “Do what I say, man, or I’ll split him in two.”
Jared, who didn’t have it in him to hurt a flea, twisted vainly against the man’s grasp, hyperventilating.
Tears flashed in his petrified eyes.
“Let the boy go,” Hauck said. He squeezed the hockey stick two fisted and took a step toward them, fixing on the man’s eyes. “Why are you here?”
“You know damn well why I’m here. Doesn’t he, kid? Ask him why I’m here. Ask him what he’s stuck his nose into.” He dug the blade point into Jared’s Adam’s apple, causing the boy’s eyes to bulge. “You and I, kid. We’re walking out of here. You first.” He motioned to Hauck. “One wrong move”-he twitched the sharp edge-“just one, Mr. Ex-Cop, and you can kiss your goofy little buddy here good-bye.”
Jared freed his mouth momentarily. Gripped by fear, confusion, he uttered, “Why is he doing this, Ty?”
“Jared, I’m not going to let him hurt you,” Hauck said. His blood pulsed with rage and intensity. “He’s an innocent kid,” he said to the man. “You can see he’s not all together. Let him go. Take me. It’s what you came here for anyway, isn’t it?”
“Ty…” Jared’s face was white, his breaths rapid and hard. “Don’t let him hurt me, Ty. Okay?”