The Mystery of the Russian Ransom Page 2

  Mr. Petrov, Dmitri’s father explained, had become Russian hockey’s greatest benefactor. He had helped out members of the old 1972 team, who were getting elderly now and many of whom were sick. He had also given a lot of money to hockey development, particularly to the Russian junior hockey program and to women’s hockey in Russia, which, unlike men’s hockey, lagged far behind other countries in international competition.

  Mr. Petrov had heard about the Screech Owls and the fact that some of their best players were girls – Sarah at center, Sam on defense, Jenny in goal – and wanted to bring them over to Russia so that the people who ran hockey there could see the benefits of having girls and boys play together at young ages. He believed that this was what had made Canadian and American women so dominant in women’s hockey – with either the Canadians or the Americans taking the gold medal in each Winter Olympics.

  His offer was simple. He would pay for flights and accommodation for the entire Screech Owls team. No need for the usual big bottle drive or selling chocolate bars door-to-door to fund this trip.

  Muck Munro was harder to convince than the kids. Once the Owls heard about the possibility of going, they couldn’t contain their excitement. Nish even announced he might set his all-time record for mooning people in Russia. Sam said she hoped he would so they’d throw him in jail and toss away the key and she’d never have to look at his ugly butt again.

  The parents met and held a vote. They were all for it, even if not all of them would be going along. Parents had to pay for themselves, and it was expensive. The team would stay together at the Astoria; parents would have to find their own accommodation elsewhere.

  Muck began to come around after Dmitri’s father stressed the historic significance of where they were going. Ufa might be unknown in North America, but it was famous in Russia. In the months following the Russian Revolution of 1917, it had been a place of great power. And it had been founded nearly five hundred years ago, Dmitri’s father added, “by Ivan the Terrible.”

  Travis saw Muck’s eyes light up at the mention of this name. He knew at that moment that the Owls would be taking up Mr. Petrov’s generous offer.

  Travis swallowed hard.

  Ivan the Terrible?

  Wasn’t he, Travis Lindsay, distantly related to Hockey Hall-of-Famer “Terrible” Ted Lindsay?

  Maybe Travis was meant to go to Ufa.

  5

  “And that’s the last you saw of her?” Muck asked. Travis nodded. His lower lip was trembling; his eyes were stinging. He couldn’t stop the tears. He felt no shame. He felt only that he had failed Sarah.

  Muck and Mr. Dillinger were blurs and swirls of color as Travis stared at them through his tears. He wiped his eyes hard with the backs of his hands. Mr. D stepped forward, his thick mustache twitching, and took Travis’s head in his hands and hugged him against his ample stomach. Travis burst into sobs.

  “You did everything you could, Travis,” Mr. D said. “They were three grown men. You can’t beat up on yourself.”

  Travis had described what happened as best he could: the walk, the stop for photos at the monument, the men running, their balaclavas and tracksuits, the first blow that knocked him over and the second blow that almost knocked him out.

  “You couldn’t make out any of the faces?” Muck asked. Muck was so calm, his voice so comforting, even though Travis knew the coach had to be as worried as everyone else.

  Travis shook his head.

  “Mr. Yakushev has gone for the police,” Mr. D said. “I’ve called the parents at their hotel, and they’re on their way over.”

  Mr. D was doing what Mr. D did best: organizing the details, being a friendly presence. He was the perfect team manager.

  Muck was doing what he did best: staying calm, quietly talking things over, not panicking. Travis had no idea how Muck did it. He never seemed to change. The coach had sat only two rows ahead of Nish and Travis on the jet that flew them across the Atlantic Ocean to Heathrow Airport in London, then three rows ahead of them for the Aeroflot flight to Moscow, then just across the aisle for the long flight to Ufa. They had traveled for more than thirty hours, but Travis never once saw Muck asleep. He sat there, reading a fat book on the czars of Russia, while others slept and watched their little televisions. A few times, Travis saw Muck get up and stretch his legs, especially the one that he’d injured in junior hockey, but the rest of the time, he just sat up straight and read his book.

  Something about Muck’s calm manner settled Travis down. He was no longer sobbing.

  There were sounds in the hallway. People. Both Russian and English being spoken. He could hear Mr. Yakushev’s voice speaking both languages.

  There was a knock at the door and Mr. and Mrs. Cuthbertson burst in. Mrs. Cuthbertson was crying, which caused Travis’s eyes to start watering all over again. She ran to Travis and squeezed him so hard Travis thought he was going to burst.

  Right behind the Cuthbertsons came Mr. Yakushev, Mr. Petrov, and two uniformed police, one a man and one a woman. They looked very serious.

  Mr. Petrov, the billionaire who had brought the Owls to Russia, looked worried sick. Travis knew he would be blaming himself. But so would Muck, who had let Travis and Sarah walk back to the hotel alone. But the real person to blame, Travis knew, was himself. He’d suggested they walk back through the park. He’d failed to protect Sarah from the men.

  “I am so happy you’re safe,” Mrs. Cuthbertson said as she kissed Travis’s cheek. “I know you tried to help our Sarah.”

  Travis broke inside. What good was trying when you were a twelve-year-old boy? And a small twelve-year-old at that? He had failed his friend, his line mate.

  Mr. Cuthbertson put a big hand on Travis’s shoulder and gently pulled his wife away. He smiled at Travis and mouthed the words thank you. Travis could see that Mr. Cuthbertson was trying hard to be calm and not look scared. But Travis could see the fear.

  “The police do not believe any harm will come to Sarah,” Dmitri’s father told Muck and Mr. D. “They are convinced this is a ransom kidnapping. Unfortunately, with all the new wealth in Russia now, it sometimes happens.”

  Muck and Mr. D nodded, seemingly comforted to hear that it was about money rather than causing harm to Sarah. Money was only money. Sarah was much more precious.

  “Travis,” Mr. Yakushev said.

  Travis looked in his direction, his eyesight still blurred from the tears.

  “Travis,” Mr. Yakushev continued, “do you think you could tell us again what happened? Right from the beginning? I will translate for Mr. Petrov and the police. Go slowly, and try to remember absolutely everything that happened, okay?”

  Travis nodded. He knew his voice would sound small and childlike. He could feel it in his throat even before it came out. But he also knew he had to, for Sarah.

  He began to tell his story all over again.

  6

  I am back in the room. There was a meal waiting for me. Sort of pierogies – cheese and bacon inside them. They were good. And this time an energy drink. Not so sweet. Perfect.

  I have time to write in my diary again. I can tell what happened, so far, but I don’t have a clue what any of it means. It is weird. I don’t know if I should be scared or not. The only thing I know for sure is, I WANT OUT OF HERE! When I think of my dad and mom and how upset they must be, I start to cry. When I think about Muck and Mr. D and how worried they must be, I start to cry. When I think about Travis and if he’s hurt from that man hitting him, I start to cry. When I think about anything, I start to cry. So better not to think and just write down what happened.

  I had the red tracksuit on with the golden double-headed eagle crest. I had new Nike track shoes, top-of-the-line.

  The woman came to get me. She says I can call her Olga, but she didn’t give a last name. She keeps smiling at me, but I refuse to smile back. I don’t trust her.

  We went out into a long hallway and down some very twisting corridors. I didn’t see a single person th
e whole time. Just Olga and me.

  We came to a door and she opened it. We walked through a long corridor. It was cold. It was sort of like being in an arena. We followed some turns in the corridor and came to another door, which Olga opened and indicated I should go in first.

  It was warm inside and the room was very large and open. There was an office area where some people were busy on computers. I was tempted to call out to them, but something made me hold back. They never even looked up as Olga hustled me past them. It was as if I wasn’t even there. We came to another door, and she opened it up and motioned to me to step through.

  It was a full gymnasium. There were treadmills and weight machines and gymnastic mats and stationary bicycles and every workout machine you could imagine.

  But no one was working out.

  A man and a woman came walking across the gymnasium floor. They had white coats on, almost like doctors. They acted friendly and they knew my name, though they did not tell me their names and they seemed to know very little English.

  I was weighed and measured by them. Not measured just for height – they took so many measurements of me. They measured my waist, thighs, calves, butt, chest, arms, hands, feet. I thought for a moment they were going to build an actual life model of me out of clay or something.

  Then they had me run on the treadmill. But first they hooked up a tube and a mask so that everything I breathed in and out was being measured.

  They ran me until they could see my heart rate was at a certain level and then they slowed the machine so that it stayed at that high rate for several minutes. When they told me to stop, I almost fell over. I was so sweaty, and my legs felt like jelly.

  But they wanted more. I lifted weights for them. I did flexibility tests for them. They even had me run in quick bursts around the gym, having me explode as fast as I could for a moment, then slow down as fast as I could. On my jelly legs, it was tough.

  I noticed they were filming all of this. There were cameras all along the little track, and they worked by remote control. I could see them turning with me as I went by. I felt like I was being watched by a herd of strange-looking one-eyed creatures.

  It gave me the willies.

  7

  “Get your equipment and be in the lobby in ten minutes.”

  There was something about Muck’s orders that brought everything back down to earth. Travis’s head had been spinning with all the horrors that might have befallen Sarah. Sam had been in tears virtually from the moment news went around the hotel that Sarah was missing. Even Nish had seemed out of sorts. He hadn’t done anything stupid for hours – a slow day for Wayne Nishikawa.

  Muck’s words changed all that in an instant. Travis had a purpose. He was to get his equipment. They were off to the rink. He could hardly collect his bag and sticks fast enough.

  By the time Travis reached the lobby with his equipment, the place was buzzing with activity. Mr. D was assembling the equipment bags in a pile for the shuttle bus and collecting the sticks together so they could be stashed underneath with everything else. Mr. Yakushev and Mr. Petrov were deep in discussion with the hotel manager, and the policewoman was with them. Mr. and Mrs. Cuthbertson were sitting at a coffee table, waiting. They seemed fairly calm.

  Once Travis had dropped his equipment and sat down to wait for the bus with Andy Higgins and Lars Johanssen and some of the other players, Muck moved to the center of the lobby and blew his whistle.

  “He thinks this is a practice,” Nish hissed under his breath, giggling.

  “Listen up, now!” Muck said, the entire lobby going quiet as he spoke. “We all know about Sarah. Thanks to the police and Mr. Petrov, we have people out all over the city looking for her. No one knows what happened, but the police are convinced no harm will come to her. They believe they will be hearing shortly from her captors and that it will be a ransom case. They are looking for money. For Sarah’s safety, the police have not contacted the media. They want to keep things quiet so that the kidnappers don’t panic and do something stupid.

  “As you may be aware, Mr. Petrov is a successful businessman, and the kidnappers must have known that he would consider the Screech Owls to be under his care while visiting his country. He is likely as much a target of this crime as Sarah is herself, and has already informed the police that he will pay whatever it takes to get Sarah back to us. This is for you to know but not for you to say. It stays with all of us in this room, understand?”

  All around, there were murmurs of agreement and gratitude for Mr. Petrov’s incredible gesture.

  “Good,” Muck continued. “If word got back that Mr. Petrov was willing to pay up, the ransom would just go up and up and up. So we say nothing and we wait.

  “In the meantime, we are here for a tournament. Mr. D and the parents have all agreed that the best way for the Screech Owls to spend their time is not to mope around the hotel. We can’t do anything at all to help the situation, and we know that our Sarah would want the Screech Owls doing what the Owls do best – playing hockey.”

  “Yes!” Data shouted. He did a small wheelie in his wheelchair by shifting his upper body and pumped a fist in the air.

  “Yes!” some others shouted.

  “For Sarah!” Sam shouted, her eyes still red.

  “Sarah!”

  “SARAH!”

  Travis’s world was right again – so long as he kept his mind from going in a certain direction that involved Sarah.

  He was half-dressed, every piece of equipment put on in the proper order, a ritual he followed every time he dressed to play. He tugged his jersey over his head, pausing just as the C for Captain passed his lips to offer a gentle kiss from the inside that no one could see. He pulled on his helmet and tightened the chin strap. He pulled on his gloves, punched them twice and was ready.

  Routine meant everything. He twirled his stick blade as he went out onto the ice. He was first through the far corner, digging in hard so his skates made a sound almost as if he were frying bacon in a pan in the morning.

  Mr. D tossed the pucks over the boards. Still warm, they bounced and stuck on the wet ice. Travis tried that amazing little trick he had seen Sarah do back home in Tamarack. He almost managed to scoop the puck clean off the ice, but it slipped off the blade when he spun it and bounced away on him. He’d have to get Sarah to show him how. Once she got back. Once they got her back.

  Travis shook his head hard, almost as if he could shake bad thoughts out of his head and they’d be gone forever. He picked up another puck but didn’t try the trick. Instead, he skated in and pinged a shot hard off the crossbar.

  He felt right once more.

  Apart from the quick warm-up, there was no time for practice. They would start tournament play immediately. Sarah’s disappearance had so upset the Owls that their first skate in Ufa had been canceled.

  They had no sense of the rink, no feeling for the larger ice surface, no feeling of comfort. All of which was fine with Travis Lindsay, Screech Owls captain. This was a game. And the Owls were a hockey team. Playing hockey games was what they did. And every single one of them was glad for the distraction.

  If Muck and Mr. D were worried, they didn’t show it. Muck had somehow determined just from the warm-up that the team they’d be facing – a peewee team from Minsk – had a weak defense. Muck’s instructions were, as always, simple and to the point: “Be strong on the forecheck. See if you can panic their defense into some turnovers.”

  Travis’s line started, as it usually did. But without Sarah. Instead, Andy Higgins moved up to play center on the first line: big Andy with the long reach and the hard shot. He’d never skate as beautifully as Sarah did. He didn’t see the ice as well as she did. But Andy was still an excellent player. Just not Sarah.

  Dmitri, on the other side, was deep in concentration, staring at center ice as if his eyes were lasers trying to melt the circle. Nish, of course, was back on defense. Travis looked back just before the puck dropped. Nish was looking up into the crowd,
almost as if he expected fans to be carrying signs for him.

  The puck dropped, and Andy used his body to keep the Minsk center from getting to it. Dmitri swept it to the side and fired it hard into the Minsk end, the puck trapped at the back of the net by the little Minsk goaltender.

  Travis was first in, remembering Muck’s instructions. He went straight at the defenseman, who was looping back to pick up the puck. Normally, Travis would do what Muck called a fly past, cutting just in front of the goal to make sure the defenseman stayed back there and tried to pass rather than carry. But Travis came straight for him, not concerned in the slightest that the defenseman could use the net as an opportunity to cut Travis off and slip away on the other side of it.

  The defenseman panicked, just as Muck knew he would. He tried to bounce the puck off the boards and keep it while Travis roared past, but Travis anticipated the move and dragged his left skate so that it picked up the puck. He kicked the puck forward onto his stick and fired a hard backhand cross-ice to Nish, storming in from the blue line.

  Nish wasn’t thinking about the crowd now. Nish was thinking about Nish. As in glory-hog, all-star, superhero, Hall-of-Famer Nish. He raised his stick high and delivered a screaming slap shot.

  Travis, cutting back, saw that Nish’s shot was going to miss. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, a stick blade flashed, ticking the puck ever so slightly, and it blew high into the back of the Minsk net.

  Dmitri! He had ducked in around the defenseman to defend on the shot and somehow managed to tip the shot. Sometimes Dmitri’s eye-hand coordination blew Travis away. He was so skilled, so fast.

  Screech Owls 1, Minsk 0.

  Travis and his line skated back to the face-off, but Muck sent out a new lineup and replaced Nish on defense with Fahd Noorizadeh.

  Travis sat. He could feel Mr. D’s big hand pinch the back of his neck. He could feel Muck lightly pat his shoulder. But Travis knew what it meant: good listening, good job.