Enforcer (45 page)

“Laarkonen,” Travis growled when he stopped between the two players, “Get your shit together. Don’t let their wings get easy pickings through the neutral zone.” Coach Benkula looked down at Connor, the comical cigar rolling across dead lips to the opposite corner. “What are you doing here, Dunzer? You’re a scratch tonight.”

“I wanted to play,” Connor’s mouth answered for him.

“Tough shit, son. You killed me, I forgave you, and let you back on the ice. But you killed Larry. You’re going to have to sit a couple of games for that one.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Connor said.

The coach sat down next to Connor, the stench of rotting flesh making Connor gag and Niklas smile. Coach glared at Niklas until he went back to taping another stick, then turned it on Connor, putting his arm around Connor’s shoulders. Travis’s skin felt dry and hot instead of cold and clammy, surprising Connor. Coach Benkula leaned in, beetles and maggots falling out of his nostrils and ears.

“Listen, son, I know what you did. We all do. If Dana was here, she’d tell you the same thing I’m about to tell you. You’re in a lot of trouble. Not just legal trouble. All of these bodies you got piling up around you, well, they’re getting a little angry that you don’t seem to be learning a lesson.”

“What do you mean?” Connor asked as he began to shake in fear.

“You know what I mean. You can’t keep going around killing people.”

“I don’t… I’m not—”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. You leave bodies in your wake. Sometimes they don’t die physically, but killing someone emotionally is really no different.”

“Dana…”

“You got it, son. She’s dead inside now. Rotting and full of decay, just like your ol’ pal Niklas there.” Coach waved his whiteboard at the Finn, who looked up and directed a rotten smile at the two of them. “Just like me. Can’t you smell me?”

Connor nodded, unsure what to do, his shoulders burning with cold even though Travis’s skin was smoldering, radiating heat like a propane torch.

“And who do you think is going to be next?” his coach asked.

“Me.”

*****

Connor looked at his phone to get the time. He grunted at being woken up by the nightmare three minutes before his alarm would have gone off.
Better than with three hours to go and unable to sleep anymore
, he thought as he went into the bathroom to get his day started. After flushing the toilet, he stood in front of the sink, not recognizing the person staring back at him. He watched the man in the mirror reach for the faucet, then the toothbrush, then mimic Connor’s exact motions as both of them brushed their teeth.

“I’m cracking up,” Connor said after spitting into the sink.

The stranger followed him all day, showing up in the side mirrors and rearview mirrors of the Lincoln, shadowing him as he walked by the gift shop inside the arena, taking peeks at him from the mirrors in the locker room. The stranger even glared back at him from his skates as he pulled them down from the shelf above his jersey.

“You look like shit,” Matheson said from his left. Connor waited for insects to erupt from the kid’s mouth and nostrils.

“Thanks,” Connor replied as he began to get dressed for practice.

A shadow blocked out the light from the overhead fluorescents. Connor glanced up from tightening the laces on his skates.

“You ready for tonight?” Daryl Hockner asked him.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Connor answered his new captain.

“You all right?” Daryl asked him.

“Yeah,” Connor answered again, hoping the captain would leave him alone.

Hockner looked like he might say something else, but instead moved along, greeting the rest of the players as they dressed. Connor tugged on his solid practice jersey, propped his helmet on his head, and made his way out of the locker room to get his body warmed up before the morning skate. He hadn’t been on the ice in almost a week.

*****

“Hey!” Goz called out as he skated up to Connor. He reached out and snagged Connor’s jersey, giving a rough tug that caused Connor to spin around before he could get to the bench for a change. “Let’s go!” Goz gave his jersey another hard yank.

“Fuck off,” Connor said before trying to skate to the bench again.

Goz’s gloves fell to the ice, the winger’s right hand smashing into the back of Connor’s helmet. Connor pumped his legs again, trying to get to the bench. A white hot pain erupted in his right ear as Goz drove his knuckles into the cartilage, one of the few places his helmet didn’t fully protect.

Connor lost control of the rage he’d been holding in all night as the game went on. He spun on his skates as his gloves fell from his hands. Connor machine-gunned punch after punch into Goz’s stomach, taking half as many off his helmet and jaw in return. The Phantom’s rookie dropped his arm down to try and block some of the blows to his gut. Connor let go of Goz’s jersey and reached around to the back of the kid’s head, getting his fingers under the lip of the helmet. He gave a hard yank, feeling the snap on the chinstrap break free. Instead of dropping the helmet like he’d done hundreds of times before, Connor began to swing it at his opponent’s face.

“What the fuck?” Goz cried out, trying to put up his hands to protect his face and head from Connor’s attacks.

Connor’s left hand tightened around the back of the kid’s collar and gave another pull, getting the jersey to break free of the fight strap that secured it to Goz’s hockey pants. The instant the jersey rode over Goz’s head, Connor renewed his swings of the helmet, feeling it connect multiple times while Goz screamed in fear and pain. Blood flowed freely from the kid’s face, his white road jersey turning into a two color tie-dye.

Connor felt two arms wrap around his waist as a hand tried to grab for the helmet. He swung the helmet at the hand, catching the knuckles with a loud pop before continuing to attack Goz. A few seconds later at least ten hands were holding him, one or two fists punching him, the sounds of the crowd and the officials and players on the ice mixing into a nightmarish howl.

*****

“What the fuck was that?” Coach Lamoureux screamed at him.

“I don’t know,” Connor answered, staring at the floor.

“Why would you do such a thing?” Coach screamed another question at him.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you?”

“I guess.”

“You guess? You fucking
guess
? Duns, you’re going to get suspended. For a long time. You
know
you can’t do that shit. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I don’t know.”

Lamoureux breathed heavily for a few moments, trying to calm himself down. He’d seen quite a few meltdowns during his life as a hockey player and coach, but he’d never witnessed anything like the chaos that had erupted in the third period. He sat down hard in his chair, Connor still focused on the floor.

“Fucking shit,” Coach Lamoureux grumbled. “You’re gone, probably going to be twenty-five games or more. Matheson gone, maybe a game or two for him. Krispy is at the emergency room getting his jaw x-rayed. Goz is probably in the next bed over getting his face rebuilt and stitched up. Tank took out Hocks three shifts later and we lost two more guys. What the hell was going on out there? What did they say?”

“Nothing,” Connor said to the floor.

“Listen to me, Connor. Don’t sit there and tell me shit like that. I’m not your mom, and you’re not five years old. You’re a man. Treat me with respect and tell me what the fuck was going on out there that you would go after that kid with his own helmet. Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“It had nothing to do with the game,” Connor said, finally looking up at his coach.

“What do you mean it had nothing to do with the game?”

“I just lost it. That’s all. They didn’t say or do anything.”

“So you just caved in the guy’s head with a helmet because you lost it? That doesn’t make any sense.” Lamoureux gave him a hard look. “Does this have anything to do with your other ‘job?’”

Connor looked back to the floor, refusing to answer, giving Lamoureux all the information he needed.

“Right. Look, I don’t want to know anything, and I know you weren’t going to tell me. But just in case you decide you need someone to unload it all on, don’t unload it on me, or anyone else on the team. Whatever trouble you’re in is some shit I don’t want to be involved in, and I don’t want any of my boys involved either. If it’s that bad, go talk to the police, or a priest. Or a therapist, I don’t know.

“But for right now, you’re done. The league is going to stomp on your balls hard for this, so I won’t have to look like the bad guy. You almost killed that kid. I don’t want you anywhere near the locker room until your suspension is up
and
you’ve gotten your shit together. I can’t afford your brand of instability. You’ve been heading south for a while now, and I’ve kept my mouth shut. Mostly because I don’t want
him
coming down here and stepping all over everything I’m doing. Whatever you’re into, you need to do something about it because you aren’t touching the ice until you do.”

Lamoureux stood up, letting Connor know they were done. Connor trudged to the door and grabbed the handle. Lamoureux’s voice made him pause.

“Get some help, Connor.”

*****

The knocks on his door turned into bangs, as if someone was hitting it with a large hammer. Connor panicked, thinking it was Dracul, until he realized he’d already be dead if it was. He dragged himself to the door, and opened it to find Petre waiting on the other side. Connor tried to wrinkle his nose in disgust, but was too drunk. He stumbled back to the recliner and fell into it.

“Mr. Ojacarcu wants to know when you will be driving again,” Petre said after he closed the door and put himself between Connor and the television.

“Fuck that motherfucker,” Connor slurred.

“This is dangerous, what you are doing,” Petre frowned.

“Fuck you too, you killer. Motherfucking killer.”

“You are putting yourself in danger. Putting
her
in danger. He will hurt you by hurting her.”

“I don’t care anymore.” Connor could barely see the three Petres floating around in front of him.

When Petre reached down to grab Connor’s arm, Connor tried to pull the Romanian’s pistol from its holster. Petre locked his hands onto Connor’s wrist and stepped back, trying to get away from his drunken friend. Connor’s grip was a vice, and he was pulled out of the chair as they both struggled for control of the gun. Petre finally broke Connor’s grip and shoved him back into the chair. Petre backed up until he bumped into the television.

“Fuck you anyway,” Connor said from the chair, then began to laugh.

“You must pull yourself together,” Petre commanded.

“Or what?” Connor asked with a sneer. “You going to kill me too? Wrap your nice little white rope around my throat and bury me next to Larry? Or will you dump me into the incinerator and let me blow into the wind?”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Petre said.

“That’s too bad,” Connor said.

He tried to goad Petre again, but threw up instead.

CHAPTER 37

The nightmare didn’t come, though Connor thought he was having one as he tried to make his way to the bathroom without throwing up. He almost made it before his feet slid in something cold and slimy. He fell to his knees as his stomach lurched and gave in. Only bile came out, the contents of his stomach having been emptied hours earlier.

The spins turned into the shivers, his skin burning, sweating, and cold all at once. He hugged the bowl of the toilet, trying to get his face over it. He wondered if he’d cleaned it recently, or if he was putting his face on the edge of a porcelain rim that was coated in dried dribbles of urine. It pushed him over the edge and his stomach recoiled, a string of liquid only making it halfway out of his mouth. He spent almost a minute trying to hack and cough until the rest of it made its way out.

Connor woke up sometime later, one arm still around the base of the toilet, the other pinned underneath his torso. He cried out in pain as he pushed himself up and tried to move his arm. It was completely dead, immobile other than when he swung his torso and made it flop around from a sitting position with his back propped up against the bathtub. The sensation was frightening, and it made Connor wonder if Petre had done something to him, maybe cut him open and sliced the main nerve to his arm.

He almost threw up in fear from that thought until the pins and needles began to explode, firing off in ones, twos, and thousands. He yelled through gritted teeth for almost a minute while the feeling slowly came back into his arm. He was massaging his wrist and forearm when Petre entered the bathroom.

“I thought you cut the nerves in my arm,” Connor said, unsure if he was dreaming or not.

“I would cut your arm off. To find nerve is too much work,” Petre said, his face expressionless.

“You probably would, you fucking thug,” Connor said, feeling his stomach begin to bubble again.