Where to begin?
The Screech Owls had left Tamarack the day before to drive down to Washington, D.C., for the International Goodwill Peewee Championship. They were one of three Canadian teams invited to this spring tournament, and one of several teams from outside the United States.
They had been working for weeks for this moment. They’d held bottle drives and bingos. They’d auctioned off a pair of tickets for a game between the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Detroit Red Wings.
Mr. Dillinger and coach Muck Munro had taken turns driving on the way down. Everyone was in a great mood, though the Owls got fed up with Nish’s non-stop tapping on the window – tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap-tap – and forced him to sit on an inside seat where he couldn’t bug them any longer. It was always something with Nish. A new yell, a new way of talking – and now a stupid rhythm he couldn’t get out of his head and soon his teammates couldn’t get out of theirs.
Mr. Dillinger had called for a “Wedgie Stop” just after the border so they could all stretch their legs and loosen up their underwear. And he’d stopped twice for “Stupid Stops” – Nish stocking up on plastic vomit and sponge toffee and huge cannon cracker fireworks that weren’t legal at home.
He used the plastic vomit to gross out Simon Milliken and Jenny Staples, and a couple of hours later, after six straight sponge toffees, grossed out drivers passing by on Interstate 70 with his own, real-life vomit while poor Mr. Dillinger stood beside him handing over paper towels – but that’s another story altogether.
The Screech Owls had made it to their very first practice at the MCI Center, the huge downtown NHL arena where the Washington Capitals played. The Owls had rarely been so excited to get to a new rink, and it wasn’t just because this was the home of the Caps. Right after the Owls, the Washington Wall were scheduled to practise. And everyone knew about the Wall, the team with the most famous peewee hockey player of the moment: Chase Jordan – the twelve-year-old son of the President of the United States.
Everything had seemed fine, at first.
Nish, looking a bit green, had got off the bus first and headed up a back street for a little air. All the other Owls had gone to the back of the old bus to help Mr. Dillinger get the equipment out.
It was a ritual they could do without thinking. Derek Dillinger was up at the rear door, helping his dad and Muck toss down the bags. Wilson and Willie and Andy, three of the bigger Owls, were carting the equipment bags to the side and stacking them with Fahd’s help. Travis and Jesse got Sam and Sarah to help with Mr. Dillinger’s skate-sharpening machine. Jeremy and Jenny took care of their own goaltending equipment. Simon and Lars and Dmitri carried the sticks over to Gordie and Liz, who stacked them and sorted them out according to players’ numbers. Data, working from his wheelchair, ticked off the equipment on a special sheet he and Fahd had designed to keep track of it all.
They were almost finished when a large van sped around the back of the big rink, squealed to a halt, and four men jumped out. They were all big, all in suits, and each had a small earplug in his left ear with a clear plastic wire coiling down inside the back of his shirt collar. They all wore sunglasses, Travis noticed. He also noticed the handgun that flashed briefly in its holster before one of the men caught his flapping jacket and buttoned it quickly.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the lead man had barked at the Screech Owls.
Mr. Dillinger, sweat pouring down his face, smiled from beneath his big moustache.
“We have the ice booked at three for a practice,” he said.
The man ripped a sheet of paper out of his vest pocket and studied it.
“Screech Owls?” the man said. It was more accusation than question.
Mr. Dillinger nodded. “We’re from Canada.”
The man paid no attention. He snapped the gum he was frantically chewing and flashed his badge at Mr. Dillinger, who had no time to read it.
“Secret Service,” the man said. “We have to secure the building.”
“President’s son?” Mr. Dillinger asked.
The man offered no answer. He turned to where the kids were stacking the equipment bags.
“Pull those equipment bags over here and line them up!” he shouted.
“We’re on in twenty minutes!” Mr. Dillinger protested. “We have to dress!”
The man paid no attention. He signalled his three colleagues to move into action. Each one grabbed two bags and half-carried, half-dragged them over to a roped-off area at the rear of the parking area. They laid the bags out in a row.
“Get your bags over there and put them the same way!” the lead man barked.
Muck, who hadn’t said a word so far, signalled the kids to do as the man said. Travis moved his bag over and dropped it beside Sarah’s.
“This is ridiculous!” Sarah whispered as they turned back.
“It’s like a movie,” Travis said.
“A stupid movie.”
“Okay!” the lead man shouted when Lars had dropped the last bag in line. “Now back off against the building. And no sudden movements!”
Sam rolled her eyes at Travis.
Another van had pulled up. Its doors opened, and this time two soldiers with large dogs on leashes got out.
“Sniffer dogs,” said Fahd.
“What for?” said Sam.
“Standard Secret Service procedure,” explained Fahd, who always knew such things. “They secure any building first where a member of the First Family’s going to be. We better get used to it.”
“What a pain,” groaned Sarah.
The dogs were frisky. One was a German shepherd, the other a black Labrador. They seemed more interested in playing with each other and their handlers, but one sharp hand signal from each handler and the dogs instantly went to work.
The dogs started at opposite ends of the long line of bags. They sniffed up and down, in the side pockets and around each bag, then moved on, with their handlers holding tight to the leashes.
Suddenly, the Labrador’s tail stopped moving. The Lab crouched down. The hair on its back rose. It lay down, muzzle pointing towards one of the bags.
The lead man now shouted excitedly into his wrist, “K-9 Four! K-9 Four!”
“He’s gone off the deep end,” Lars giggled.
“It’s a wrist radio,” Fahd explained. “Code for something.”
There were sirens now. And it seemed the temperature had suddenly risen even further.
The Secret Service men were scurrying. One shouted “Explosives positive!” into his own wrist radio.
“Whose bag is it?” Dmitri asked.
Travis craned his neck to catch the number stencilled on the side of the bag.
Forty-four.
Nish’s bag.
The firecrackers from the Stupid Stop!
Travis shouted out to Muck and Mr. Dillinger that it was Nish’s bag, and Mr. Dillinger, understanding immediately, had tried to catch the attention of the lead Secret Service man – but there was near panic now, and no one would listen to him.
Within moments the area had been cleared, blocked off, and the Owls had been told to lie flat on the pavement and not to lift their heads.
But even so, they could still see much of what was happening.
An armoured vehicle arrived almost immediately. Soldiers scurried to move away all the equipment bags the dogs had checked, leaving just the one – number 44 – in the centre of the cordoned-off area.
Another vehicle screeched to a halt and its back door opened.
A ramp extended from the doorway, and a shiny metal robot rolled out. Directly behind it walked a heavily armoured soldier fiddling with a control box.
“A bomb robot!” whispered Fahd.
“What for?” asked Wilson.
“They’re checking the bag for a bomb!”
“Maybe they should be checking it for poisonous gas!” giggled Sarah.
“Shut up over there!” barked the lead Secret Service man. He was still furiously snapping his chewing gum.
The Owls went silent. They watched, helplessly, as the robot whirred over to the bag, seemed to take photographs of it, then backed off.
Soldiers gathered around the man with the control box, studying its screen.
Yet another armoured vehicle arrived. Two soldiers, also heavily armoured, scurried out. One held a huge, bazooka-like gun. Several other vehicles backed away quickly.
The two soldiers took up position, one holding the weapon, the other aiming it.
“They’re going to blow up Nish’s bag!” Sam said, her voice skipping between a scream of terror and one of absolute delight.