He took a long breath, shivering from the cold or from whatever drags he was on, or some combination of both. He looked at the men on either side of me. I could feel their grips tightening on each arm. I didn’t know what the two men behind me were doing. They were probably just getting ready to kick me again when the time came.
“She was here,” he said. “And she brought something with her. Where is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He didn’t hit me this time. He took a two-handed grip on the gun, pointed it between my eyes, and said, “Where?”
“If your friends will let go of me, I’ll get it,” I said. I thought about the gun in my right-hand pocket.
“Tell me.”
“Let me get it.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s in this pocket,” I said. I looked down to my left. Please don’t go for the other pocket, I thought.
The man on my left dug into my pocket and came out with the hockey puck.
“What is it?” Bruckman asked.
The man threw it to him. Bruckman caught it and looked at it. “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s your hockey puck,” I said.
“My hockey puck.” He kept looking at it like he had never seen one before.
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“This is a joke, right?” he said. “You think I came all the way out here for a fucking hockey puck?”
“It’s signed by Gordie Howe,” I said. “I knew you’d want it back. That’s why I saved it for you. And now that you’ve got it back, why don’t I get us all a beer?”
There was a silence, then a slight flex in his hands. Then the gunshot ripped everything apart. As it roared through my ears I was back in that apartment in Detroit, lying on the floor next to my partner.
The blood. I am dying.
The gunshot ringing in my ears.
I am dying and my partner is dying because I didn’t go for my gun.
No. I’m not bleeding. I am in my cabin. Bruckman fired over my head, into the wooden wall. The men have let go of me. My arms are free. The gun. My right pocket.
I went for the pocket. I fumbled around for what seemed like an eternity, finally found the opening and reached in for the gun. I felt the cold weight of it. Pull it out and fire. Shoot the fuckers one by one, starting with Bruckman.
I tried to pull out the gun. I felt a hand on my arm. Then another. My arm bent back, the tendons stretching to the breaking point. The gun falling to the floor; the dull thud of the metal hitting wood.
Then Bruckman’s voice against my ear. “I’ll fuck you up so bad, McKnight. I swear to God I’m gonna fucking kill you.” He gave me a shot to the ribs, the same place he had hit before. My breath was gone again. This time I thought I would never get it back.
“Somebody’s gonna hear us,” one of the men behind me said. “Did you ever think about that?”
“Joe, we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere,” Bruckman said to him without taking his eyes off me.
Breathe, goddamn it. Why can’t I breathe?
“There’s other cabins,” the man named Joe said. “They’re gonna call the police.”
The other man behind me spoke up. “The police ain’t our biggest problem,” he said. “Look at this place.”
“Who did this?” Bruckman said. “Who trashed your place?”
Breathe. I still cannot breathe.
“Who did this?”
I held my hand up as I fought for air. Finally, it came to me, as if I had just come up from the bottom of the ocean. “You,” I said. “You did this.”
Bruckman grabbed my hair and put the gun under my chin. “You’re really pissing me off here, you know that? Now listen to me very carefully. I’m gonna go through this nice and slow so even you can understand it.”
His face was less than six inches from mine. There was a sickly sweetness to his breath that was worse than any gin drank.
“She came out here Friday night,” he said. “She found you at that bar down the road. Am I right?”
I didn’t say anything. He dug the point of the gun into my neck. I swallowed and said, “Yes, she was there.”
“She left with you, didn’t she? In that piece of shit truck of yours with the window missing.”
I nodded.
“Did she give you a little hummer in the parking lot before you left?”
I stared into his eyes.
“Then you came back here to your cabin, right? An old man like you, she probably wore you out in five minutes. Am I right?”
“Lonnie,” the man on my left said, “cut the shit.”
“Shut up, Stan,” he said to the man. And then to me, “How many times did you fuck her, McKnight? I want to know.”
“I didn’t touch her,” I said.
“I know most goalies are faggots, McKnight. But I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe,” I said.
“Fine,” he said. “You were the perfect gentleman. Now tell me where the bag is.”
“What bag?”
“She had a white bag with her. Made of cloth or something.”
“Canvas,” the man on my left said. The man on my right hadn’t said a word yet. His only contribution had been nearly twisting my arm off my body and making me drop the gun. Was it on the floor still? I couldn’t see it anywhere.
“Canvas,” Bruckman said. “Thank you. The bag was made of fucking canvas.”
I tried to remember. Yes, she did have a bag with her. It was white, and yes, it looked like it was made of canvas. She wouldn’t let me carry it for her.
“I’m telling you the truth,” I said. I didn’t see any reason not to. Although I knew he wouldn’t like it. “The next morning she was gone. The bag was gone, too. I thought you had taken her. That’s why I was looking for you.”
“You’re lying,” he said. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Look at this place,” one of the men behind me said. “Lonnie, I’m just thinking, you know, about who could’ve done this.”
“Shut up, Stan! Goddamn it, will you just shut up for a minute!”
“Look around, Lonnie! Who else could it be?”
“If it was them and they found the bag here,” he said, looking at me, “then this fucker would be dead already.”
“Something’s wrong here, Lonnie,” the man said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
Bruckman put both of his hands on the collar of my coat, the cold gun metal against the left side of my face. “I cannot believe this is happening,” he said. He was still looking into my eyes but he said it like he was talking to nobody in particular. “I cannot fucking believe that this is happening! ”
“What are we gonna do?” the man on my left said.
Lonnie let out an animal shriek and hit me in the ribs with the gun again. The other four men took their cue and started beating the hell out of me. Or maybe one of the men held back this time. I wasn’t counting.
When they pulled me off the floor, my left eye was starting to swell shut. Everything else was hurting so much, it made me wish I was unconscious.
“Give me that rope,” I heard somebody say. I had lost all ability to separate the voices. It was all one monster now, with ten arms and ten legs.
I felt my hands being tied together, so tight that the rough hemp bit into my wrists. And then my legs. I was picked up like a big bag of rock salt and taken out into the cold air. I felt a stinging over my left eyebrow and felt the blood dripping into my eye.
I was dropped into the snow, which opened to receive me, then closed back over me, the cold white powder covering my face. I could see nothing but white.
Footsteps. Walking away from me. I am being left for dead. In the spring they will find what’s left of my body, after the coyotes have had their way with me.
It was quiet. Only the distant sound of the wind and the newly fallen snowflakes collecting over my head.
Then the explosion as all five snowmobiles started at once. The metallic whine of engines racing, then the hollow clunk of gears engaging. They will leave me and I will go numb with cold until I am dead.
Then the sudden jerk on my legs. My body moving. I am… I am sliding. They’re pulling me. Somebody is pulling me behind his snowmobile.