by Dan Dowhal
“Yeah, there was some trash talking. Linton is … was … a chirpy little, um … player.”
“So he got under your skin, and you decided to get even with him, is that right?”
“No, that’s not right. Please don’t put words in my mouth.”
“We’re trying to get to the bottom of a great tragedy, that’s all. We’re asking the things that all of America wants to know.” She pauses and glances down at her clipboard before resuming. “So, are you saying you had no intention of making contact with Ken Linton — that you ran into him by accident?”
“Well, no, obviously I meant to hit him, but it was a clean check. I mean, it’s a contact sport. What I did was part of the game.”
“Really? Killing people is part of the game? Come now, Shane. Didn’t the referees feel differently? Didn’t they try to remove you from the game? And didn’t you fight them, too?”
“No, they didn’t. The crowd was going crazy, so they said they were doing it for my protection. And I didn’t fight them. We all got tripped up and fell down. It was an accident.”
“I see, you all tripped. Another accident.”
Shane can feel sweat forming on his forehead as the lights radiate heat, and the portable camera moves in for a close-up as if they’ve been waiting for it to happen. He finds himself wondering if walking out of the interview now would invalidate his fee.
“Let’s talk a little about you, Shane,” Julia resumes. “You’re paid to fight, correct?”
This question he can field easily. He’s been asked it countless times before. “Well, no, Julia. I’m paid to play hockey.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’d prefer to think that. But you are expected to fight, correct?”
“Fighting is part of hockey. A lot of players get into fights. It happens.”
“Yes, but in your case it happens all the time.” She looks at her clipboard. “Would it surprise you to know that you’ve been in over two hundred fights since joining the NHL? That’s more than a professional boxer.”
“A boxer doesn’t play eighty games a season.”
“What about those wounds you’re sporting right now? Did you get them in a recent fight?” The portable camera swoops in even closer until it is right in his face. Across the room, a video monitor catches his eye, and suddenly he realizes that the makeup artist did not, in fact, cover his stitches and cuts, but enhanced them so they look raw and recent.
“You bastards set me up!” he shouts.
“Please, Shane, control yourself. In fact, let’s talk about that famous temper of yours. Isn’t it true that while playing in Los Angeles, you were enrolled in anger management therapy as part of a plea bargain following an altercation at a night club?”
“Yes, it’s true, as you obviously already know. But did you know that the judge who sent me there used to send half the people that went through her court to anger management? It was a dozen night classes at the local community college, a big waste of time.”
“So, you’re saying the class did nothing for you?”
“Look, lady, over the years I’ve been enrolled in classes on confidence building, assertiveness training, self-esteem, effective communication, lateral thinking, leadership, yoga, figure skating, crystal therapy, and even past-life regression. This sport is big business, and as soon as some yahoo in the front office realizes that the game isn’t really played on the ice, but played between the ears, there’s nothing they won’t do to mess with the players’ heads, especially if you’re on a losing skid.”
“It sounds like you’re carrying a lot of resentment.”
“Oh, so now you’re a shrink, too? I suppose this is where you’ll cut away to game footage of me breaking a stick over the edge of the bench, or that time in Philly I went after the fan in the stands.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees two producer-types exchange a look before one of them writes something down on a clipboard. Shit, he thinks, I handed that one right to them.
He plunges onward. “The thing is, every one of those times, I was provoked. I’m not some simmering volcano about to explode. But when push comes to shove, I fight back.”
“And did Ken Linton provoke you?”
“No. I mean, yeah, he pissed me off, but I didn’t go after him, if that’s what you’re implying. I mean, they’ve got their tough guy, too, you know?”
“What guy?”
“Their enforcer, Toby McNeil. If I go after Linton, then I’ve got to answer to McNeil. Same as if someone tries to go after one of my guys — they have to answer to me. That’s what I am, you see. A protector … a guardian.”
“You were afraid of Toby McNeil, so when you saw a chance to vent your anger on Ken Linton, you took it.”
“Of course not! I’ve fought McNeil lots of times. I mean, he’s no pushover, but I’m not afraid of him.”
“So you say, but isn’t Toby McNeil the one who gave you those stitches in a game just two days before you killed Ken Linton?”
Again the secondary camera swoops in for a tight shot. This time she gets in so close he could lick the lens. “Get that thing out of my face,” he growls. The videographer scampers back into the wings.
He turns back to Julia. “Yeah, McNeil gave me these stitches.” He holds up his right fist. “He also gave me these bruised knuckles, ’cause he wouldn’t take off his headgear. Me, I fight fair. As soon as I know we’re gonna go, I drop my gloves and flip my helmet off. So yeah, he got some good shots in. But I bloodied him up, too. Like I said, it’s all part of the game. I’m just giving the fans their money’s worth.”
The fans! he thinks. That’s it. Screw her, I’ve got to get through to the fans. He turns and looks directly at the camera, ignoring a flurry of hand signals from the crew telling him to look at Julia.
“The reason I agreed to come on and do this interview is because I want the fans to know that I never intended to hurt Kenny Linton. What I did was legal — a clean hit. He had just dished off the puck, and the rules say he’s fair game. Honestly, I expected him to dance out of the way, he’s a great skater. The rest of it — the helmet coming off, him hitting his head on the ice — that was a million-to-one chance. I can’t begin to tell you how bad I feel about it. I’ll have to live with it for the rest of my life.”
“At least you have the rest of your life, unlike Ken Linton. You say it’s all part of the game. Are you aware the Chicago District Attorney is considering bringing homicide charges against you? Or have you been too busy sightseeing?”
If her intention is to distract Shane from the camera, she succeeds. He glares at her. “If it happens, I’ll welcome my day in court.”
“Perhaps we can give the courts something else to consider. What I want to talk about now, Shane, is your history of violence against women.”
“My what?”
“I’m referring to an incident last July when your fiancée, Brandi Simpson, called the police to your penthouse apartment —”
“Okay, first of all, she was never my fiancée. Second, she only called the cops to get even with me because I threw her dog out the window —”
“You threw her dog out the window?”
“It wasn’t a real dog. It was a stuffed toy. She has, like, a hundred of them. And she started it … she threw my Cream LP out the window first.”
“But you don’t deny that you were living with Ms. Simpson at the time and that the police were called to your home to investigate a case of domestic violence.”
“Sure, we were shacked up, but I’m telling you, the whole thing was bogus. There were no charges. The cops came, they asked a bunch of questions, they had a look around, and they left. I mean, they were just doing their job, and you could tell they pretty much knew she was making the whole thing up just because she was pissed at me.”
“That’s not what Ms. Simpson has to say. She told CelebTV in an exclusive interview that she called the police after you assaulted her, and that she only withdrew her complaint for fear of her life.”
“Fear of her life? That’s bullshit. Look, I grabbed another of my albums out of her hand before she could throw it out the window, too — that’s all. I mean, they’re vintage vinyl. The cops asked her if she felt threatened and wanted to go with them to a women’s shelter, and she said no. I figure she realized her little stunt had gone too far. If she had any problem with me she could have left anytime. Like you said, this was last July. We were together almost a year after that.”
“But victims of domestic abuse often stay in the abusive situation due to fear, a misguided sense of loyalty, or financial hardship. Ms. Simpson says that only after the public outcry over the death of Ken Linton and the rise of the #MeToo movement did she find the courage to come forward and tell her story. Would you like to see what she had to say? We can play it for you.”
Oddly, Shane’s surging anger suddenly dissipates, like the heat of a red-hot iron doused in water. He was so very close to calling Brandi a lying bitch on camera and shouting that she is using them the same way she used him … but what Julia has just said about domestic abuse victims hits home. Brandi’s lies are an insult to real victims of domestic abuse. Women like Tammy, Yolanda, and Maybelline have been mistreated, battered, and hurt so badly that their emotional wounds may never heal. They deserve better than to have their suffering exploited by the likes of CelebTV and Brandi, who’s not even in the same league as them in terms of courage and strength. And you know what, Shane? his suddenly wiser inner voice tells him. You deserve better than to let these media vultures exploit you and try provoking you into a temper tantrum on camera.
When he resumes talking, he is so calm that he almost feels disembodied, like he’s watching himself from the other side of the lens. “Julia, for the record, I never hurt Brandi Simpson in any way, nor have I laid a hand on any woman in my entire life. Also for the record, yes, I’ve had some off-ice incidents and have lost my temper on occasion, but I am not a violent man. I never tried to hurt Kenny Linton. I’m sick about what happened, but it was a terrible accident. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
He stops. “What time is it?” he asks.
Julia glances at her watch. “Six thirty-two,” she says. “But we’ll stay all night if you want to talk some more. You owe the world the truth.”
“Seems to me the truth is the last thing the world’s going to find here.” With that, he removes his microphone and gets up to leave.
Behind him he hears Julia firing more questions in rapid succession, like a tabloid journalist’s version of shooting drill. “Shane, don’t you have any remorse? What do you have to say to Ken Linton’s family? What do you think will happen to you if you have to go to prison? How did you get that cast on your arm, Shane? Were you in another brawl? Is it true that substance abuse was the reason for your divorce?” He pulls the door shut behind him, careful not to slam it, and goes out into the serene silence of the hallway.
TWENTY-TWO
“This is the place. Turn here,” Vern exclaims. Following a crack-of-dawn breakfast at the hotel, they have been driving for two hours. For the past five minutes, Vern, in addition to asking for regular odometer readings, has been scouring the roadside for the turnoff into the mountains. Shane is still a little vague about the nature of their errand, besides dropping off a crate and making a pickup in exchange. Seeing as this side trip was the key to Tammy granting permission for the journey, he assumes it is important. Still, there is something oddly furtive about the entire mission.
“You sure this is it?” he asks Vern. All he can see is a vague tract heading off into the wilderness.
“Uh-huh. See, there’s the marker.” He indicates a small pyramid of stacked stones practically overgrown by brush.
“All right, if you say so. Looks like a pretty rough road. Let’s hope this old truck can take it.”
They drive for another forty-five minutes, and as the dirt road grows steeper, changing into a series of switchbacks, Shane has to turn on the four-wheel drive. The pickup rattles and groans, but doesn’t fail them. The trail dead-ends at a small clearing in front of a sheer face of rock. Shane was expecting to see a building of some sort, but there is only wilderness all around. The cliff in front of them rises at least ten storeys into the air. Although majestic, like something out of one of Shane’s Westerns, it is not promising as an end destination.
“We’re here,” Vern declares, flinging open the door.
“Where? There’s nothing. The road stops.”
“We go over there,” Vern says, pointing at the rock face. Shane follows his finger, but sees only a sheer wall of stone.
“You’re kidding. How are we supposed to haul that huge honking box up there?”
“Don’t fret none. Beñat’ll help us. There he is now.”
Turning around, Shane now sees a narrow footpath emerging from a crack in the cliff, which he hadn’t spotted before. A laden burro is being led along it by a small, ancient-looking man who appears to have stepped out of centuries past. He wears a white tunic and trousers woven from coarse cloth, and his footwear consists of homemade, ankle-high rawhide moccasins with ornate beading around the top. The one incongruity in his pre-Columbian attire is a giant black beret, several times larger than the common variety, sitting atop his head.
The man has a peculiar gait, like he is gliding over the ground rather than walking upon it. He comes up to Vern and kisses both cheeks, much to the boy’s embarrassment, then places his palm on top of the youngster’s head.
“Bienvenido, chico. Eres más alto.”
“Buenos dias, Señor Beñat. Yeah, I reckon I’ve grown maybe two inches since I seen ya last.”
“And I have probably shrunk as much,” the old man replies in heavily accented English. When Beñat turns his attention to Shane, a look of astonishment lights up the old man’s face.
“Mon dieu! It’s you! So, so, so … here you are at last. Bonjour, mon ami. Bienvenue!”
Shane shakes the man’s hand and is surprised by its iron-like grip. This moment of welcoming has a dreamlike déjà vu quality. Shane wonders how the man happened to arrive on the scene just as the pickup pulled up. The impression he’d gotten was that their visit to Beñat was spontaneous, so he would not know they were coming. Unless the old man was perched up high in the rocks, watching, how did he know they had arrived? Why did he greet Vern in Spanish but Shane in French? And what did he mean by here you are at last? Most likely he was referring to their delivery errand, but the way he looked at Shane — or almost into him — made it seem like Beñat meant he was waiting for Shane personally.
Shane opens his mouth to get some of these questions resolved, but Beñat has already started the exchange of cargos. When Shane steps over to help, Beñat shoos him away and starts placing boxes into the bed of the pickup in a precise manner. The containers have holes drilled in their sides, and Shane realizes they contain living creatures. As he leans in for a closer look Beñat catches his interest and gestures to where the boxes now sit in two neatly arranged rows.
“Death row,” he says, then grins impishly as he indicates the other line of boxes. “And row of death.”
Shane peeps through the holes and gets the joke. The first row of boxes contain a half-dozen different kinds of wild rodents, while the second row houses a collection of rattlesnakes, their natural predators.
“Well, I guess we’ll get going,” Shane says, anxious to return to Rancho Crótalo and Tammy, but Beñat, Vern, and the burro are moving down the path that plunges into the tower of rock.
Shane follows, fighting claustrophobia as the cliffs squeeze in on them. Only a tiny swatch of sky is visible overhead. The trail looks to be a combination of natural fissure and manmade pathway through the rock. The amount of labour necessary to have hewn the rock and made the trail passable seems monumental.
The zigzagging nature of the route makes it hard to estimate distance, and time itself seems to dim in the shadow of the rock. When they again emerge into the open, the sunlight is blinding. Even
after spots stop dancing in front of his eyes, Shane has difficulty processing the scene before him. They are in a small, lush ravine that runs, like the green slash of some titanic painter’s brush, up into the hills. In the near distance, hundreds of sheep are grazing, their occasional bleats echoing off the canyon walls. Presided over by a hyperactive black-and-white dog, they add a surreal soundtrack to the scene. Vern immediately runs over to pet and play with the dog, who responds with barks and spins.
What commands Shane’s attention, however, is a collection of square-shaped dwellings high up in the cliffs on the far side of the valley, nestled beneath a gigantic natural dome in the canyon wall. The view is impressive on a scale that defies his perception. Some parts of the abodes have been hewn out of the rock, and the rest of the construction has been done using red-coloured brick. Wooden poles project from the rooflines of the buildings like tines of forks. A path winds halfway up the cliff, and a series of ladders provide the final access. The houses are clearly ancient, yet they appear to be perfectly preserved.
“Oh, hey, I read about these places back in school. This is, like, one of those pueblos, right?”
Beñat nods. “Oui, c’est ça.”
“Wow … and you live here?”
“I am a shepherd, so mostly I make my home wherever the sheep graze. But, yes, I sleep here whenever I can … the animals are especially fond of the grazing in this part of the valley, and it is always nice to have a roof over your head.”
“So, are you Indian … oh, shit, sorry, that’s not politically correct. What is it I’m supposed to say — First Nations?”
Beñat laughs. “No, this is my second nation … although it has been my home longer than my first. No, not Indian. Je suis Basque.”
“Basque? That’s, like, in Spain or something, isn’t it?”
“Or something. And you are a Canadian, no?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“The sheep told me you would be from the far north, at the end of the earth.”
“Not quite, but close. The sheep told you I was coming, eh? Pretty smart sheep.”