After several minutes, they heard a door close in the hallway. Sam couldn’t resist a look.
It was the men. This time the tall one was carrying a new hockey equipment bag – and it was stuffed with something heavy. They weren’t heading for the fire exit; they were coming in Sam and Sarah’s direction.
Sam’s intake of breath caused Sarah to look. The elevator announced its arrival with a ping, and Sarah pulled Sam closer to the doors. They had to follow the plan, even if it meant getting on the same elevator as the thieves.
But the men weren’t coming. They stopped at the service elevator. The doors of the service elevator opened, and Sarah caught a glimpse of one of the hotel staff – a man with a white beard and glasses. She hadn’t seen him before.
The doors closed on both elevators.
When the girls arrived at the lobby, they got out and moved to the corridor where the service elevator came down, but it had stopped at the second floor.
“They must be getting out there and taking the stairs,” Sarah said.
“It’s coming again,” said Sam.
They heard the elevator stop, and the doors opened. Out stepped the white-bearded man, who headed immediately for the front desk. He seemed nervous, licking the sides of his mustache like a snake.
“C’mon,” Sarah said.
18
“I can’t do it!”
Nish seemed frozen, unable to move.
Travis was frantic. He shook off the rising dizziness once, twice, cleared his head, and acted. “We have to do it!” he shouted at his friend. “Now get on!”
The plan was on the verge of falling apart. Travis knew the thieves were on their way. The two Screech Owls were to go up the Incline ahead of the robbers and see if they could get a photo of the getaway car with Fahd’s phone. Then, if they could do it, they were to stop the thieves from getting all the way to the top by shutting down the Incline.
The girls would be at the bottom, following the thieves but not trying to stop them. That would be dangerous, and all four of the Owls knew it. If they were going to stop the theft, it would have to be with their brains, not their brawn.
“You’re coming!” Travis shouted, and with all his might he pushed Nish onto the empty cable car waiting at the bottom of the Incline. He was surprised at his own strength. But he was desperate.
Travis put enough coins into the slot to start the cable pulling them up the side of Mount Washington. The car moved slowly and had windows on all sides, so Travis could see the metal tracks and the cables inching them up the hill. He looked out through the snow at the city below. It looked magical. Peaceful. Completely in contrast with what Travis was experiencing inside. He knew he was still feeling the concussion. He knew he probably shouldn’t be there any more than he should be playing. But he couldn’t quit. He had to go on. He shook off the sick feeling and steeled himself to do whatever was necessary.
“I’M GONNA HURL!!!!”
Nish was crouching on the floor in a corner. It looked like he was praying – and perhaps he was. Travis had almost forgotten Nish’s terrible fear of heights. He was scared silly.
“Keep your eyes covered,” Travis said. “We’re halfway up.”
Sarah and Sam crouched at the side of the building, just out of sight of the rear door heading out on the river side. They saw the guy with the hockey stick – “Some player,” Sam said, “he doesn’t even have it taped!” – and watched as the door opened and the tall skinny guy and the short fat guy came out, the short fat guy holding the door open as the tall skinny guy swung the duffel bag out, careful not to hit it on the door frame.
Sam took a quick photograph with her phone.
The handoff took mere seconds. The young guy with the hockey stick put the stick on one shoulder and slung the equipment bag over the other. He seemed fit and strong, and when he began quickly walking away, he did indeed look just like a hockey player heading off to practice or a game of shinny.
The other two thieves went back through the door, which the short man had kept open with a foot. “Good thing you took that shot of them,” Sarah said. “We can give it to the police.”
Sam nodded. The two girls slipped out of their hiding place and moved quickly across the rear of the hotel, snow now stinging their faces as they ran into the wind.
“We’re here!” Travis said.
Nish, red-faced and teary, bolted with a groan of relief out of the cable car and onto the platform overlooking the city. But if Nish felt relief, Travis felt none. Inside his head, everything was in turmoil. He knew where he should be – back in bed, resting in the dark – but here he was: right in the middle of a very, very serious situation. The dizziness faded in and out. Travis knew he had to concentrate.
The two boys walked along to the first lookout and pretended to be taking photographs of the city with Fahd’s phone. They could not help but notice the large black SUV parked near the entrance to the Incline. A man was sitting in it, smoking, and he kept checking his watch.
The cable car was headed back down the hill, empty. That meant someone below had called for it.
Travis and Nish walked back while Travis very discreetly managed to take several pictures of the black vehicle, making sure to get the license.
They went to another observation post and pretended to be taking more photographs, then began wandering back toward the Incline.
Travis walked close enough to the edge that he could see the cable car at the bottom.
It was coming up!
It was time for the final piece of the Owls’ plan.
While Nish pretended to be paying for more tickets for the Incline, Travis edged his way over to a small cabin-like building where they must have sold tickets in the past. Now it was all done by machine. There was no one there to help them.
Travis knew what he’d find there; he’d seen it earlier when he and Nish arrived at the top. A red button under a sign saying “EMERGENCY STOP.” There was a notice announcing a fine for misuse and warnings not to touch the button unless there was a real emergency.
The stealing of the Stanley Cup qualifies, Travis thought. He looked back down. Sarah and Sam were at the bottom. Sarah had an arm in the air. She could see Travis.
He waited until the cable car was halfway up. Then he pushed the emergency button.
Immediately the Incline rattled to a stop.
“Keep moving!” Travis hissed at his friend.
The two boys moved along, heading for another observation platform. Travis hoped it looked as if they’d decided to stay up a while longer rather than head back down.
He knew that, right now, Sam would be calling the police.
He heard a car door slam. He turned and saw that the man in the black SUV was now out of the car, checking his watch again and seemingly greatly concerned about something. He began walking toward the Incline.
“Can he start it up again?” Nish asked.
“I don’t know,” Travis replied. He felt a surge of dizziness, thought he was going to throw up.
Before the man could reach the Incline station, however, the boys heard sirens coming along the street at the top of Mount Washington. But it wasn’t police sirens. It was the fire department.
A large fire truck, lights flashing, sirens screaming, whipped around the corner, past the two boys, and came to a grinding halt at the Incline.
“Sam called the fire service?” Nish asked, astonished.
“It must have been the Emergency Stop button,” Travis said. “It automatically calls the nearest fire station the second it’s pushed.”
Firemen were running into the Incline station. Travis was running now, too. The man who had been waiting up top was hurrying back to his vehicle.
“Stop!” Travis found himself yelling at the firemen. “Call the police! The man trapped in the cable car down there stole the Stanley Cup!”
But there was no need. Sam had already called the police. Other sirens were now screaming, one cop car pulling up at th
e bottom of the Incline, where the girls were waiting, two coming fast into the area at the top, where the fire truck was.
The man in the black SUV was backing up, his tires squealing.
Nish was running toward the two police cars, his face like a pumped red beach ball.
“Don’t let him out!” Nish screamed. “He’s the getaway driver!”
The first policeman out of his car looked at Nish as if he were making some sort of joke, but he held up his hand to stop the black vehicle from leaving. The man opened the door, stepped out, and started running.
Two other police officers gave chase, the three running along the walkway toward the observation deck. They arrived at the same time, the policeman in the lead tackling the driver just as he stepped onto the platform.
Nish turned to Travis, his eyes wide as pucks and blazing.
“Did you see that?” Nish said. “I caught him! I’m the one who got him!”
19
“Next time,” Billings had warned Travis with a smile.
Travis could not believe that “next time” had come so quickly.
The day had been a whirlwind. The Screech Owls had foiled the theft of the Stanley Cup for a second time – only this time it was the presentation cup that the players actually got to hold. The firemen had started the Incline again and brought it to the top of Mount Washington. The man inside the cable car had at first tried to pretend he was nothing more than a pickup hockey player on his way to a game when a couple of foolish kids had pushed the emergency button. But when he saw the police waiting, and when he saw the driver of the SUV in handcuffs, he knew the jig was up. He put down his untaped hockey stick, handed over the bulging equipment bag, and raised his hands.
There was much excitement back at the hotel. The keeper of the cup had eaten his brunch and returned to his room. His key still worked fine, but the Stanley Cup was gone. He was calling the police himself when they showed up at the hotel with the cup in the backseat of their cruiser.
Thanks to the photograph taken by Sam of the thieves handing over the cup to the fake hockey player at the back of the hotel, the police were able to round up the two men. They’d been loading their car in the parking lot, just about to leave. And they also took into custody the white-bearded man who had copied the key.
There’d been no time for newspaper and television interviews, to Nish’s great disappointment. There was no time for anything but for the four Owls to join their teammates for a light meal before the shuttle over to Heinz Field and the championship game of the Peewee Winter Classic.
Travis couldn’t believe it. The Owls would be meeting the Portland Panthers to decide the championship. The winners would have their photographs taken at center ice with the most famous trophy in the world: the Stanley Cup.
Mr. Dillinger had explained how it all worked out after the round-robin. The Owls were on top in points; the Panthers, who had been beaten by the Owls, were in second place, tied with another team. But as the Portland team had defeated this team in the one match they had played together, the Panthers ranked higher.
The Owls would be playing Billings and Yantha. Travis’s old familiar foes – and friends.
Travis was standing by the boards, watching the other Owls go through a team warm-up, when he felt a light tap on the side of his arm. It was Billings, smiling.
Not a word was said between them. The little Portland defenseman skated away quickly, going backward, his stick raised in a quick stick salute for Travis.
“I’ve never seen so many fans,” Sara said, looking up from the bench.
“Me neither,” said Travis.
He was excited, but shattered at the same time. He wouldn’t be playing. Even though it was the championship game, even though he now felt 100 percent recovered – he’d almost forgotten about his concussion during the plan to thwart the theft of the Stanley Cup – there was no way Muck or Mr. D would allow him to play until he had been cleared by the doctor back home. As Muck put it, “Winning today means nothing if you lose tomorrow.” Travis wasn’t sure what Muck meant by that, but it sounded good, and he figured it was about the importance of showing caution.
Too bad he wasn’t playing, though. Heinz Field was an amazing scene. The snow had stopped, and it was a gorgeous winter afternoon. The ice on the outdoor rink glistened from a fresh flood. The sun danced between scudding clouds.
And the noise! Travis had never heard such noise – even in a covered arena. The stands were packed with thousands of fans and family. The crowd roared like an animal when each player’s name was announced and his or her hockey card appeared on the scoreboard. They cheered both teams equally, which made it even better. Both Portland and Tamarack were far away from Pittsburgh, so there was no way the stands could be crammed with supporters of just one side.
Travis shivered. Not from the cold or the light wind but from excitement. No Screech Owl had ever played in front of this many people. Not even half this many people.
Muck sent out his first line for the opening face-off. Sarah at center, Simon on left in Travis’s spot, Dmitri on right, Nish and Lars back on defense, Jeremy Weathers in net. Travis burned with envy, desperately wishing he were lining up with them.
Mr. Dillinger called over the players on the ice for a quick huddle. The five skaters and Jeremy came and leaned on the boards while Mr. D gave one of those speeches that he thought were inspirational and the players thought were hilarious. “There has never been a larger crowd for a peewee hockey game,” he told them. “You have a chance here to make history! The day the great Fred Shero’s Philadelphia Flyers won the Stanley Cup, Shero said to the team, ‘Win today and we walk together forever!’ ” The players on the bench slammed their gloves into the boards while the players on the ice cracked their sticks again and again on the ice.
When the sound died down, there was only Sam’s voice, cutting through the roar of the huge crowd.
“Hey, Fat Boy – didn’t you forget to streak?”
Nish punched his helmet tight to his head and stuck out his tongue at her.
“Tournament’s not over yet!”
20
It certainly wasn’t over.
Big Yantha won the opening face-off by spinning on his skates so his size blocked Sarah and he had time to kick the puck onto his blade and fire it back to little Billings on defense.
Billings did something unusual then. Instead of mounting an attack, he skated back into his own end, stopping behind his net and softly stickhandling while staring down the ice as if he were calmly looking out over the river.
The crowd roared with impatience. It might have been the roar, might have been Billings’s seeming lack of focus, but whatever it was it caused Simon to rush hard at Billings on the forecheck.
This, of course, was exactly what the smart little Portland defenseman wanted. As Simon came drifting around the Panthers’ goal, Billings clipped a pass to himself off the bottom bar of the back of the net. Simon went flying by, and when he tried to turn to steal the bouncing puck, he lost an edge and went spilling into the corner.
Billings was already at the blue line when Simon regained his skates. Billings floated a pass up to Yantha, who knocked it down with his glove at the Owls’ blue line and, with a quick leap over Lars’s stick, was in clean with the puck. A shoulder deke and Jeremy went down, his pads opening just enough for Yantha to slip the puck in the five-hole.
Travis watched the scoreboard flick up the score: 1–0 Panthers. The scoreboard showed a full replay – they had cameras here, covering several angles! – and Travis had to wonder if it would have been different if he’d been on the ice instead of Simon. He knew Billings’s little play off the back of the net. He didn’t think he would have been fooled. But who knew for sure? It was unfair to think the goal was Simon’s fault. Maybe it was Lars’s fault for playing the puck instead of the man. Maybe it was Jeremy’s fault for letting his five-hole open up like the Zamboni doors.
Maybe it was no one’s fault. M
aybe it was all about credit – credit to Billings for making the play, credit to Yantha for finishing it. What was it Muck called it? Yeah, puck luck.
The Owls fought back hard through the opening period. But they had trouble breaking through the neutral zone, as the Panthers coach always had a winger dropping back and only rarely did they forecheck.
Travis had a new vantage point to see Muck at work. He’d always been either on the ice or sitting on the bench in front of Muck. And Muck so rarely yelled or said anything at all that Travis realized he hardly knew what his coach did during an actual game. Now Travis was standing behind the players’ bench with Mr. Dillinger and Muck – and he was seeing his coach in a whole new way.
Muck hated “trap” hockey. He didn’t even like the old saying that good defense was good offense. He liked to say, “Good offense is good offense – period.” He liked to call his style of coaching “attack hockey,” meaning you always pressed forward. You took care of your own end, you lived up to your defensive responsibilities, but you always looked for the moment to attack and score.
Muck wasn’t a numbers guy, and he wasn’t much of a chalkboard guy. “You’re not building a house,” he used to say about coaches who were always diagramming plays in the final minutes of games, “you’re playing a game.” Muck often said that the most important thing to understand in hockey was that “things happen” out there, and much of play is reflex. You know your position, you know your responsibilities, but you must always be ready to take advantage of the unexpected. It could be a lucky bounce. It could be the puck coming off the glass or boards oddly. It could be an opponent losing an edge or making a mistake. It could be an opposing defenseman joining the rush when he or she should not have joined. You see an opening, Muck would say, you race through it.
Panic in Pittsburgh Page 6