Travis didn’t know what to think. He only knew that, for the second time in a matter of days, he felt like his knees were going to buckle.
“At the high school?”
“Of course at the high school, silly – Tamarack didn’t get a university while I was away, did it?”
“Teach what?”
“I don’t know. Phys-ed. Sciences. Whatever’s available.”
“Why here?” he asked, genuinely surprised that someone with the world at her feet would want to come back to a little town in the middle of nowhere.
“It’s home,” Sarah said. “But there’s something else I’d like to do, too.”
“What’s that?” He had no idea what she might be thinking.
“Help with the Screech Owls.”
Then it happened so fast he hardly felt it.
Sarah bobbed up, kissed his cheek, and was gone.
All he could see was her shadow, hurrying through the cedars toward the path that led back to the new community centre.
He couldn’t chase after her. He couldn’t call out.
He was frozen – frozen solid on one of the warmest nights of the summer.
And again, the loon laughed.
By the time Travis made his way back, alone, to the community centre, the tone of the evening had changed. It was no longer fun and easy going. There was a tension in the air, and it centred around Anton Sealey.
Anton and several protesters had invaded the hall with their placards. They were marching back and forth in front of the stage, chanting slogans while Nish and the Flying Elvises tried to figure out what to do.
Anton seemed alarmingly wound up, his eyes bulging, sweat on his forehead, his hands still bandaged from his run-in with the attackers.
He was carrying a sign that said, “TAMARACK SAYS NO TO ORGANIZED CRIME!”
Travis looked quickly around for Sam, hoping she wasn’t among the demonstrators.
He breathed a quick sigh of relief when he saw she wasn’t.
Before anyone could stop him, Anton had taken the stage, grabbed one of the microphones from the Flying Elvises, and begun berating the mayor and the council for their decision.
“Gambling is all about greed!” Anton shouted into the microphone, the sound system bursting like machine-gun fire in the community centre. “And greed is what the mayor and council of Tamarack are all about! Greed for money at the expense of wildlife that cannot speak for itself. Greed for development at the expense of natural beauty that cannot defend -”
The sound system died as Andy Higgins yanked out the electrical plug. The mayor was on his cell phone, calling the police.
Anton began yelling without the microphone, his words echoing about the room so badly it was almost impossible to hear.
Travis and Lars began moving together toward the stage. Andy joined in. Then Wilson, the policeman, took the lead, and the four of them rushed the stage. Anton was still holding the useless microphone, still screaming and cursing the mayor and council.
“Let it go!” Travis shouted at Anton. Wilson had Anton’s arm in a hammerlock, and Andy had a big arm wrapped around Anton’s shoulders.
Anton twisted like a captured squirrel, clawing at his captors and screaming at Travis as Travis reached out and muscled away the dead microphone.
Travis set the microphone down, and the four Owls wrestled Anton off stage and toward the nearest exit, just as the police came in through the front doors and began herding the demonstrators outside.
“You should count your lucky stars,” Wilson said as he physically picked Anton up and dropped him out the fire exit. “They’d have arrested you if you were still up there.”
Anton swore at Wilson and took an awkward swing at him. Travis caught Anton’s small fist in his own hand and wrestled Anton back against the wall.
Anton spat at Travis.
“You stay out of my way if you know what’s good for you, Lindsay!”
Travis refused to be baited. He spoke calmly. “You’re the one who needs to stay away, Anton. This is no place for this.”
Anton sneered. “And what place is? You and your type are all the same. You’ll stand by and do nothing, and they’ll just keep doing whatever they wish.”
“If I want to fight them,” Travis said. “I’ll do it the right way – not like this.”
“This is our only chance!” Anton hissed. “You want Mr. Dillinger to die first before you do anything?”
Travis shook his head. “He isn’t going to die, Anton – he’s coming out of the coma. Mr. Dillinger is going to make it.”
Anton was finally silent. He was still being restrained by Wilson, and his eyes were bulging like a frightened horse as he looked from Travis to Lars to Andy and back to Travis.
25
After the commotion had died down, after the mayor made a small speech and the Flying Elvises played one more set and everyone had danced and visited and talked and laughed at a thousand old memories, a few of the original Owls headed back to Travis’s apartment for some quiet time together.
Data was already there, working feverishly on his laptop.
He had been in contact with the authorities, but there was nothing new to report. The investigation had gone cold, the police said. They were now waiting for Mr. Dillinger to recover enough to talk to them about the attack.
“Maybe he didn’t see them,” suggested Andy. “Anton didn’t.”
“I think Mr. Dillinger must have,” said Travis. “He fought back so hard. It’s almost as if they just wanted to put a bad scare on Anton – but they tried to kill Mr. Dillinger. I think he must have seen who they were and they thought he would identify them – otherwise, why wouldn’t they just beat him like they did Anton?”
“The card is the great mystery,” said Data. “I told the police about it – how there’s no way it should have been smeared in blood like that – but they just laughed at Fahd and me for playing private detective. They didn’t take it seriously at all.”
“What card?” called Nish, who had just come in through the door with the other Flying Elvises. “I’m a card expert, remember? Licensed Las Vegas dealer, blackjack, poker, take your pick.”
Travis blushed. This wasn’t a time for making fun. He wished Nish would just keep his big mouth shut.
“What do you mean ‘what card’?” Data asked, turning his chair to face Nish.
“Just that,” said Nish. “We have people in Vegas who can tell you your whole life from cards. Every card has a hidden meaning. You just have to know the codes.”
Travis had a sudden flash of memory: Mr. Dillinger asking kids to pick a card and then explaining, in a joking manner, what their card meant for them.
“So, what card was it?” Nish asked.
“Seven of spades,” said Fahd.
Nish thought for a moment, scratching his head. “Sevens are usually lucky.”
“This one wasn’t,” said Travis.
“But each card means something unique,” said Nish. “An ace of hearts means romance, I know that ‘cause I keep looking for it” – he laughed – “and a joker means something unexpected is going to happen. And they call a pair of aces and a pair of eights the dead man’s hand ’cause that’s what Billy the Kid was holding when they blew him away. But I don’t know about the seven of spades. Maybe means nothing.”
Data’s good hand was already flying over the keyboard. He was surfing the Internet at top speed. He quickly found a brief reference to Billy the Kid, the famous Old West gunfighter, and from there linked into a page on “Card Meanings.”
No one said a word as Data scrolled down: aces, kings, queens, jacks, tens, nines, eights …
“Sevens,” Fahd said, stating the obvious.
Each card was then broken down further according to suit. Seven of hearts, of clubs, of diamonds, and, finally, the card they were looking for.
“Seven of spades …”Data read slowly, “betrayal by someone you trust.”
26
Wi
lson drove. He drove like a policeman, with lights flashing and siren wailing, but it was only Travis’s little Honda with the emergency flashers on and Wilson leaning on the horn.
No matter, it worked.
They flew down River Road toward Main Street and the hospital, Wilson at the wheel and Travis sitting beside him, frantically pressing 9-1-1 on his cell phone. In the back were Nish and Fahd.
It seemed like forever before the operator answered.
“Send a police unit as fast as you can to the Tamarack hospital!” Travis shouted as the car screeched around a corner. “Room 334 – Dillinger – we think he’s in extreme danger!”
The operator asked no more questions. She would have a record of Travis’s cell phone number if it turned out to be a false alarm.
Travis could only hope it was, that Mr. Dillinger was in fact safe and sound and still recovering from his injuries.
But Travis had seen the violent look in Anton Sealey’s eyes when the Owls had wrestled him out into the parking lot at the community centre. He had watched as Anton had grown angrier and angrier over the preceding weeks as the fight against the casino wore on.
Travis was certain he knew who had put Mr. Dillinger in hospital.
It was Anton Sealey.
Anton had needed a focus point, something dramatic to call attention to the casino. He had seized on the rumours of organized crime, and, hoping to cast suspicion on the forces seeking to bring in the casino, had himself been the one who attacked poor Mr. Dillinger.
This explained Anton’s own injuries. The entire town had been fooled. They had even felt sorry for Anton, thinking he had injured his hands trying to fight off Mr. Dillinger’s attackers.
And then the full force of realization had struck Travis. Anton intended to kill Mr. Dillinger!
Travis felt ill at the thought. But what else explained it? Mr. Dillinger could not be allowed to identify his attacker. He couldn’t recover as long as the casino project was viable.
Anton had to have Mr. Dillinger dead.
But Mr. Dillinger had proved far tougher than Anton expected. And even more importantly, Mr. Dillinger had found a way to let people know what had really happened.
He must have been playing with his cards when Anton attacked. Somehow, he had been able to shove the seven into his pocket during the battle. It was a message meant for the Owls – and if Nish had not shown up, no one would have caught it.
But the truly frightening thing was that Travis had put Mr. Dillinger in his present danger. It was Travis who had told Anton, “Mr. Dillinger is going to make it!”
Now Travis knew why Anton’s eyes had bulged with fear when Travis said this. Now he knew the impending result of his error.
The murder of Mr. Dillinger.
27
They pulled into the emergency entrance with lights flashing and squealed to a stop.
“Move it!” Wilson shouted. He was in full police mode, firmly in charge. Travis leapt out of the passenger side, Nish and Fahd tumbled out of the back seat. Wilson was already through the automatic doors and running down the corridor, nurses and doctors and hospital workers sprawling for cover.
Alarms began sounding.
Good, Travis thought, they might scare off Anton.
They made the stairs just as police sirens became audible outside. There was no time to wait for an elevator. Wilson took the steps four at a time, Travis and the others right behind them.
It was Wilson who tackled Anton just as he was scurrying away.
Fahd, mercifully, ignored the tussle and raced ahead to Mr. Dillinger’s room, where he found the ventilator unplugged and Mr. Dillinger gasping for air.
Fahd dove to the floor, grabbed the cord and jabbed it frantically back into the wall. The heavy machine beeped and hummed back to life.
Within moments, the police were there to help Wilson hold down the furiously twisting and cursing Anton, and the doctors had raced to Mr. Dillinger’s bedside.
Once Travis and Nish were sure Wilson had Anton under control, they hurried into Mr. Dillinger’s room and joined Fahd, who was desperately watching the doctors check the breathing tubes and ventilator.
Finally, one of the doctors stood back and looked at the three Owls.
He smiled.
“It doesn’t look like he missed a breath. Good work, lads.”
Travis pounded Fahd on the back. Nish gave him the thumbs-up. Mr. Dillinger’s eyes were wide open now. There was no doubt he could see them, no doubt in Travis’s mind that Mr. Dillinger knew exactly what had just happened.
“Uhhhhh!” Mr. Dillinger gasped out, his voice distant and weak.
“Uhhhhhhh!!”
He couldn’t speak for the tubes. He couldn’t say anything they could understand – but he said everything they needed to hear.
He was on his way back.
28
What had started out as a simple naming ceremony had now become a national news story. Greenpeace had called a news conference that morning and distanced itself from anything to do with Anton Sealey. Anton was under arrest, charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder. Wilson Kelly, the Jamaican policeman, was being hailed as a hero for capturing the assailant on his second attempt on the life of Mr. Dillinger.
The media were all over the story, with all its twists and turns. In order to win public support for his cause, an environmentalist – seen by everyone as a quiet used-book dealer – had been willing to murder one of his closest colleagues in order to cast a large corporation and some small-town politicians in bad light.
Such a sad story, Travis thought. Anton had started with good intentions. Fighting for the turtle and fish habitat had been a noble cause, a just one. But it had spun completely out of control.
In some ways, though, the honest work of the environmentalists – Greenpeace, Sam, the local citizens who opposed the development – had paid off. Fortune Industries promised they would not build out into the water, thereby protecting the trout spawning grounds, and they announced that two acres of the nine-acre site would become a protected area for turtles. The company also promised $250,000 for improvements at the public beach on the other side of the river so that the town would not lose any of its recreational waterfront.
It seemed, to Travis, a fair compromise. And if Sam and Anton had never started the fight, this would never have happened.
There had been so many surprises over the past twenty-four hours. Nish had shown up. Mr. Dillinger had started to come back. Anton had tried, a second time, to kill him. Anton had been caught. The casino project had been partially righted. The turtles and fish were going to be all right …
But still, Travis didn’t expect the call that came in on his cell phone.
“I hear you’re still short one defence,” the voice said.
It was Sam.
29
Travis pulled his jersey over his head and kissed the back of the “C” as it passed over his face. Later, he would try to hit the crossbar during warm-up. He was still ridiculously superstitious, and he revelled in it. He was, once again, captain of the Screech Owls.
The neck of his jersey passed over his eyes, and when he looked out it seemed as if a decade had been erased. Nish was in the far corner, fielding shots from all sides about the stink of his equipment bag. His face was beet red: his game face. He was ready.
Wilson seemed louder and more sure of himself than ever before. Perhaps it had to do with him growing older and bigger. Perhaps it had to do with his job as a policeman. Perhaps it had to do with him helping save Mr. Dillinger.
Sam was back, and the mere thought of it almost brought Travis to tears. She had simply asked if she could change her mind and play. There had been nothing else to talk about; Travis understood. He was just glad she had changed her mind.
They were all gathered again as they had been so many times in the past. Nish the joker, Sam the needler. Fahd with his stupid questions. Data with his intricate plays. Dmitri saying very little. Andy wi
th the big shot. Jesse with the big heart …
And Sarah.
This was Sarah’s night. Tonight, they would dedicate the new Tamarack arena in her name. Tonight there were film crews from all the networks gathered to capture this celebration of Canada’s golden Olympic star. The stands were packed. Everyone was there, from Sarah’s proud parents to the Flying Elvises, every one of them having come to celebrate Sarah’s achievements and cheer her on.
And yet Sarah still fit in. It was as if the team had never changed, as if this were nothing more than another league game in the Screech Owls’ season. She was as fussy about her equipment as ever, her skates sharpened just so by Muck (since Mr. Dillinger couldn’t be here), her sticks taped from heel to blade – the only way to do it, she said, contrary to Travis, who always said it had to be from blade to heel.
She was quiet and serious and, Travis knew, she was treasuring this moment. This, after all, was her original team, her original coach, her own town, and her dearest friends.
She dressed with just the slightest smile on her face, periodically pausing to sit back and stare around and drink in the entire dressing room.
Once, she caught Travis staring her direction.
She winked.
She knew. He knew. There was nothing either needed to say about this moment that wasn’t already spoken in their eyes.
Muck came in. He had dressed for the occasion. A sports jacket instead of his old windbreaker. A clean shirt and a ridiculously ugly tie of well-known cartoon characters dressed up as hockey players.
He was pretending not to take this seriously, but Travis knew better. Muck had had his hair cut. He was so clean-shaven it looked as if you could skate on his shiny cheeks. And his eyes were dancing.
“Speech!” Sam shouted, slamming down her stick.
“Speech!” Fahd joined in, slamming his down too.
“Speech!”
“Speech!”
There were giggles around the room. No Owl who had ever heard a pre-game “speech” by Muck would ever forget the experience. If he said anything at all, it might amount to a sentence or two. Never more. Muck always said a good team makes its statements on the ice.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 5 Page 31
