The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 3

by Roy MacGregor

  How could it make sense? thought Travis.

  The mayor murdered…Now an avalanche…

  What was going on in Nagano?

  Never had a hockey game felt so welcome. The Screech Owls had come to Nagano to play in the “Junior Olympics,” but to Travis it seemed that hockey had become the furthest thing from anyone’s mind. Murder. An avalanche. Nish almost killed. It was time to get back to something that made sense to the Owls.

  They went by bus to Big Hat. Travis had instantly seen where the large arena got its name–it looked like one of the old hat boxes his mother kept in the attic, only thousands of times bigger. The dressing rooms were huge. The rink was a marvel.

  The Sapporo Mighty Ducks, unfortunately, weren’t very good. They had about a half dozen excellent skaters, but only one puck-handler, and a very, very weak goaltender.

  Sarah had taken Mr. Imoo’s advice to shoot a little too much to heart. She fired the puck in right off the opening face-off, which she had won easily with her little trick of plucking the puck out of the air before it landed and sending it back between her own skates. A quick pivot, a shoulder fake to lose the Sapporo centre, and Sarah wound up for a long slapshot that cleared the blueline, bounced once, and went in through the goaltender’s five hole.

  Next shift, Andy Higgins, who with Nish had the hardest shot on the team, fired a slapper from outside the blueline that stayed in the air all the way and went in over the Sapporo goalie’s outstretched glove.

  Owls 2, Mighty Ducks 0.

  Several of the Owls were laughing on the bench.

  “Next player who shoots from outside the blueline will sit the rest of the game,” Muck announced. He did not sound amused.

  The message got through immediately. From then on, the Owls were careful not to embarrass the Japanese team. They carried the puck in to the Mighty Ducks’ end and made sure they set up a play before shooting, and the Mighty Ducks’ goalie gradually began to gather confidence.

  Travis found when he was on the bench he was paying more attention to the way the Ducks played than to the Owls. He kept trying to figure out which players were the older ones. And sure enough, it seemed Mr. Imoo had been right: the younger players always gave the puck to the older ones if they had a chance.

  Jenny, however, had very few chances. And whatever came her way, she easily blocked.

  By the end of the second period, the Owls were up 5–0, with Dmitri scoring on a breakaway, Fahd on a tip-in, and Liz on a pretty deke after being set up to the side of the net by Wilson.

  The third period was just about to start when Muck made his announcement.

  “Nishikawa–you’re in.”

  Nish had been sitting on the end of the bench, practically asleep in the heavy, hot goaltending equipment. He hadn’t expected to play at all. As backup, he’d concluded his job in Japan was to entertain at practice and daydream during games.

  “I can’t go in,” Nish protested. “I’m no goalie.”

  “Get over the boards before I throw you over them,” Muck said.

  Nish scrambled to get onto the ice, but his big pads caught as he vaulted the boards and he fell, heavily, to the ice, causing the first huge cheer from the Japanese crowd at Big Hat.

  Jenny came off to a lot of backslapping and cheering from the Owls. Muck put a big hand on the back of her neck and squeezed, a small message of congratulations from the coach.

  It took Nish about five seconds to get into it. He hopped over the lines on his way to the net. He talked to his goal posts. He sprayed his face with the water bottle. He skated over to the boards and hammered his stick against the glass, returning fast to his crease, where he slammed his stick hard into each pad and set himself, ready for anything.

  The Mighty Ducks must have thought the Owls were putting in their real goaltender, for Travis could see concern on their faces and hear it in their voices.

  Of course, Travis realized. There were no girls on the teams here. They assumed Jenny was the weak player and Nish was the star–especially when he acted like a star.

  Whatever it was that the Mighty Ducks were thinking, it changed their style. Instead of holding on to the puck too long and trying to get it to an older player who might get a shot, the Ducks started throwing long shots into the Screech Owls’ end. The first one went wide, Nish dramatically swooping behind the net to clear the puck as if he were Martin Brodeur.

  The second one skipped and went in under Nish’s stick!

  Owls 5, Mighty Ducks 1.

  The goal brought the Ducks to life. They began skating harder. Their one good puck-carrier began to challenge the Owls’ defence and twice slipped through for good shots. The first hit Nish square on the chest. The second went between his legs.

  Owls 5, Mighty Ducks 2.

  “Where’s his force shield?” asked Sarah, giggling.

  Twice more the Ducks scored, and in the final minute they pulled their own goalie to try to tie the game.

  Sarah’s line was out to stop them, Travis hoping he might finally get a goal, even if it was into the empty net.

  But the Sapporo Mighty Ducks had other ideas. They were flying now, and the good puck-carrier beat Travis and then Dmitri before putting a perfect breakaway pass on the stick of one of the Ducks’ better skaters.

  He split the Owls’ defence and came flying in on Nish, who went down too soon.

  The Duck fired the puck high toward the open top corner.

  Nish, flat on his back, kicked his legs straight up.

  The puck clipped off the top of his skate toe and hammered against the glass.

  A second later the horn blew. Game over.

  Nish was last into the dressing room, his uniform soaked through with sweat, his big pads seemingly made of cement.

  “I guess I saved your skins,” he announced. “If it wasn’t for me, we’d have been lucky to come out of that with a tie.”

  Back in the dressing room, Travis was first to notice something was wrong. His clothes were hung up in a very strange order. If he had taken off his jacket first, then his shirt, then his pants, they should not be on the peg pants first, then jacket, then shirt. Not unless they’d been taken off and replaced by someone in a hurry.

  “How’d your clothes get on my peg?” Fahd was asking Andy.

  This was even more curious. There was no mistaking big Andy’s clothes for anything of Fahd’s.

  “Someone’s rifled through my hockey bag,” said Lars.

  “Mine, too,” said Jesse.

  They carefully checked through everything, and nothing appeared to have been stolen. Mr. Dillinger apologized, saying it hadn’t seemed like they ever locked dressing-room doors in Japan, so he hadn’t insisted. But someone had obviously been in the room.

  The mystery began to clear, if only slightly, once they got back to the Olympic Village apartments. Travis had the key to their apartment in his left pants pocket–or so he thought. When he dug deep for it, he found nothing.

  Travis wasn’t alone. Three others couldn’t find their keys either.

  Whoever had stolen them had known where the Owls were staying and had raced back to the Village before the team arrived. Someone had been inside the little apartments. Drawers were left open and clothes thrown about the rooms.

  “Looks like I unpacked for everybody!” said a surprised Nish when he saw what had happened.

  No one could figure out what the burglar was after. Money? Clothes? It was hard to figure out, because nothing had been taken.

  In the morning, still with no idea why their apartments had been broken into–the Screech Owls set off to visit the Zenkoji Temple. They took the bus down to the train station and walked up Chuo street toward the sacred temple.

  Mr. Imoo met them at the front gate. Until he smiled, the Owls might not have recognized him. He was wearing the frock of a Buddhist priest and looked much like any of the other priests hurrying about the entrance to the various temples–except, of course, for the missing teeth.

 
“You must see all of it,” he told them. “Zenkoji is nearly three hundred years old. But even before that, for hundreds of years, this was a place of worship. Come–let me show you a bit.”

  Mr. Imoo’s tour was incredible. He showed them the walkway to the main hall–“There are exactly seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-seven stones here,” he told them. “Good mathematics problem, designing that”–and he showed them the darkened area in the main hall where the sacred image of Buddha is said to be, which only the highest priests are ever allowed to see.

  “More important than Stanley Cup!” Mr. Imoo said, laughing.

  Travis couldn’t figure him out. Here he was, a priest in a church–Travis guessed this Japanese temple was much the same as a North American church–and though it was clear that the hundreds of visitors milling about were deadly serious, Mr. Imoo was forever joking about things. “Buddha likes laughing,” he said at one point. “Buddha enjoys good joke same as anyone.”

  He showed them the huge stone pots where visitors burned incense, the air sickly-sweet with the smell. He showed them a statue of a man where older visitors lined up just to rub their hands over the smooth stone. “Binzuro,” Mr. Imoo explained. “Smartest doctor who ever lived. They rub him to feel better. Try it–it works!”

  Some of the Owls did rub their hands over the smiling figure, but they could feel nothing. “Because you’re young,” Mr. Imoo said. “Come back to Nagano when you’re old–you’ll see it works.”

  Mr. Imoo had his own chores to do and couldn’t stay any longer, but he left them with a tour guide and some maps of the huge temple complex and told them all that there was one thing they really should do if they got the chance.

  “You must experience O-kaidan,” he told them. “Under the main temple is tunnel. You can see people over there lining up for it. It is very dark down there. Sometimes people get frightened. But when you reach the end, you will find the way out. Stick to the right. And feel for the latch to the door. We call it the ‘Key to Enlightenment.’ I can not explain it to you, but after you have been through it, you will know.”

  “I’m going right now!” said Nish.

  “You certainly need some enlightenment,” said Sarah.

  “I’m not going down in some stuffy room with him,” Fahd said. “Nish’ll stink it out.”

  “This is a temple!” Nish barked at him, outraged. “You don’t do things like that in a place like this.”

  “Hey!” cheered Sarah. “It’s working! Nish finally sees the light!”

  “C’mon!” Nish said to Travis.

  Travis shook his head. “Maybe later.”

  Travis moved off quickly. He only had to imagine the dark tunnel underneath the temple and he shuddered. Travis hated enclosed dark spaces. He didn’t even like long elevator rides. He’d do whatever he could to avoid going.

  Travis moved on toward the souvenir section, where visitors were lining up for incense and postcards and small silk banners with paintings of the temple on them.

  Data wheeled up to him, smiling and excited.

  “The others are going to push me through,” Data told him. “Here, you hang on to the camera. There’s no point taking it down into a dark tunnel. Take some shots of the other temples if you get a chance.”

  Travis nodded. It was a beautiful sunny day. The pines surrounding the temples were bright and dripping with melting snow.

  There were pigeons strutting all over the walkway. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. An old woman was dumping out bags of dried bread, and the sound of hundreds of more pigeons landing was almost deafening. They darkened the sun. They landed on her arms, her shoulders, her head, all around her. People cheered and children danced and cameras were raised to record it all as the old woman, grinning from ear to ear, stood with both arms out and pigeons by the dozen tried to find a roost on her.

  Got to get this for Data, Travis thought.

  The video camera was easy to work. He simply pointed and pressed a button with his thumb.

  Everything seemed smaller through the lens. Smaller, but somehow sharper. A cloud of pigeons would fall, another would rise, and in the centre of the shot the old woman turned as if on a pedestal, her grin almost as wide as her outstretched arms as the pigeons fought for a foothold.

  A small child ran out into the middle and spooked the birds, a thousand wings roaring as the pigeons rose as one and headed back toward the trees. The child spun, bewildered at their sudden disappearance. Travis giggled, knowing he had caught a delightful scene on Data’s camera.

  He raised the camera back toward the old woman and for the first time saw, through the lens, that someone was pointing at him.

  It was Eyebrows.

  The waiter who had run over Nish.

  The man at the ski hill.

  Travis paused for a moment, his heart rising like a frightened pigeon. There was just no doubt about it. It was Eyebrows. And he was pointing right at Travis.

  How does he even recognize me? Travis wondered, the camera still raised to his eye.

  But there was no time to figure out how. Eyebrows was scowling and beginning to move around the square in Travis’s direction. There was another man with him, and he was headed around the square in the other direction.

  There was no time to ask questions. Travis knew he had to get out of there.

  He stepped backwards and turned, but there was no exit behind him–only a long walk to another temple, and no visitors there.

  His best bet was the crowd. But to get back amongst the people, Travis had to go straight ahead.

  The pigeons were landing again by the thousands, the old woman dumping out another large bag of broken bread. The clamouring sound of the birds was enormous. The crowd of tourists was growing.

  Travis checked the sides of the small square. Both men had their eyes fixed on him and were circling toward him, sticking to the outer edges of the square so they could skirt around the loose circle of tourists.

  Travis had no choice.

  Like the small child, he broke straight for the centre. The pigeons exploded, rising in terror, their thousands of wings blurring Travis’s view as he raced past the old woman toward the other side.

  Some of the people had covered their ears, the sound was so great. Others were making faces at him, as if disgusted that he would be so thoughtless. But there was no time for Travis to stop and explain.

  He allowed himself only one backward glance as he headed back toward the main temple area.

  Eyebrows was running! And right behind Eyebrows–the other man!

  Travis ran flat out now, twisting and turning through the heavy crowds of pilgrims and tourists, pigeons flying, families scattering as the little foreigner in the Screech Owls jacket broke as fast as he could for the front gates, where the largest crowds seemed to be.

  Travis’s mind was racing too. He couldn’t stop and ask for help: who here would speak English? And he couldn’t seem to lose himself in the crowds. His team jacket and his face set him apart from everyone else.

  I have to hide! Travis thought. But where?

  And then it struck him.

  The tunnel.

  If he could reach the tunnel, he might find the rest of the team there. Or Muck or Mr. Dillinger.

  But the tunnel was dark and airless, with thick, heavy walls bearing in on him.

  There was nothing for it. He turned just enough to see that the men were gaining, and he knew it was now only a matter of time before one of them reached him. And then what would the people watching do? Help him? Not likely. They’d assume that the men had been chasing Travis to get him to stop running and scaring up the pigeons. He’d never be able to explain. They’d take him away. He had no idea what for, but he knew it would be bad.

  Travis flew over the seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-seven stones heading to the main temple. He slipped through the thickening crowds as if he were on skates, dipping and deking to find an opening. He was now moving faster than his pursuer
s.

  Up to the main temple he flew. At the top of the wooden steps he saw that everywhere in front of him were mats covered with the shoes and boots of people who had gone inside. Knowing he must, he kicked off his boots and ran, in his socks, over the soft spongy matting that led to the rear of the temple.

  There were pilgrims there, lining up to head down into the tunnel.

  Apologizing, Travis eased his way through. No one seemed to mind very much. They must have thought he was just catching up to his teammates. Perhaps that meant Nish and Sarah and everyone else were still down there. He hoped so.

  A few feet into the tunnel, the dark and silence descended on him like a blanket. There was no sound but for the breathing of others in the tight line working their way along the nearest wall.

  Travis tried to breathe deep, and felt his nostrils fighting to seal out a rush of damp straw–the smell of the mats on the tunnel floor.

  He couldn’t breathe!

  His heart was pounding now, slamming against his chest as if it, too, desperately wanted out. His breath was coming fast and jerky, never enough, and he choked.

  He reached out and felt for the wall. He tried to remember what they’d been told: Stick to the right wall, trust in yourself, and you will feel the key.

  Travis lunged against the wall, finding instant comfort in its solidity. He held Data’s camera tight with his left hand and felt ahead with his right as he inched along. He thought he might be crying.

  He almost dropped the camera, and then it struck him.

  The camera!

  Data’s video camera!

  That’s what they were after! They hadn’t recognized him at all. They saw the Screech Owls jacket–and the camera!

  That’s what they had been searching for in the dressing room. That was why they had stolen the keys and broken into the apartments. But they hadn’t realized that Data had a separate apartment on the ground floor.

  Data had recorded something on the camera that they wanted. But what? Did Eyebrows have something to do with the murder?

  There was Eyebrows at the banquet. And Eyebrows and one of his friends at the ski hill. But what was the connection?