“You must be from the camp,” she said.
“We are,” said Travis.
“We heard what happened. My dad didn’t like Mr. O’Reilly.”
“Who did?” said Nish.
The dogs quieted as she approached. Travis realized that they weren’t trying to get at them to kill them; they wanted to greet them. The girl ran her hand along the pens as she passed, the dogs lining up to lick at her fingers.
They came to the work shed and she opened the door. Her father, Roger, was sitting inside, painting several more of the woodpecker knockers that Travis had seen on the front door. All around were tiny wooden creations: windmills that looked like flying geese or Sylvester the Cat running on the spot; ducks and ducklings; old men and women who seemed to be bending down so their underwear showed.
“G’day, boys,” Roger said. “What brings you down here?”
Roger picked up a cup and spat into it. Travis could almost hear Nish go “Yuk!” Travis looked at the girl and she rolled her eyes.
“We’re trying to clear our coach,” said Travis. He didn’t know what else to say.
“There’s a hundred people round here might take a shot at Buddy O’Reilly if they thought they could get away with it,” said Roger. “I’m one of them.”
Roger spat again. “But I didn’t do it,” he said. He looked at his daughter. “We were up fishing in Algonquin Park. Ain’t that right, Myrna?”
Travis couldn’t help but turn to Myrna. She was nodding. “We went camping with my cousins,” she said.
Travis and the others looked at her. Myrna seemed sure of herself. She didn’t sound like she was lying, and she certainly didn’t look like a liar.
“The bullets Muck pumped out of the gun when he took it,” Travis said. “Do you know what happened to them?”
“Sure,” Roger smiled. “Your coach ground them into the dirt with his heel.”
“There were five of them. The police found only three.”
“Is that right?”
“Somebody must have taken the others and used them on Buddy. That’s why the police think it was Muck. The gun he took from you had been fired recently.”
“Yah, but at a fox, eh?”
“The police would say it doesn’t matter. They can’t tell what a gun was aimed at. Just whether or not it was fired.”
“Meaning?” Roger said. He didn’t seem to follow.
“They think Muck took one of those bullets and put it in the gun and then shot Buddy. And we can’t prove he didn’t.”
Roger took another long spit into the cup. Then he turned and looked suspiciously at Travis.
“What do you know about guns, son?”
Travis was caught off guard. “N-nothing.”
“Any of yous?”
“Nope.”
“Not me.”
“No.”
“No, sir.”
“Well then, you boys can just relax. If that’s what your coach did, they’ll soon know for sure. And if he didn’t, as you believe, they’ll know that, too. The bullets can be exactly the same, and I guess that’s what they’re going on right now, but even if the bullets are exactly the same–same batch, same colour, same weight–and are fired from two different guns, they can tell. They call that ‘forensic science.’ You ever hear of it?”
They had, on television.
“You give the police time to do the proper experiments,” he continued. “They’ll sort it out.”
Travis could feel new hope. He saw that Nish was giving the thumbs-up. Andy was smiling.
But Travis still had one question: “How come you quit?” he asked. It was obvious that Roger needed the job.
Roger eyed him carefully before he spoke. “I quit because I couldn’t live with myself if I stayed on with that man. I know you mustn’t speak ill of the dead, but Buddy O’Reilly was an evil, evil man. I seen the way he treated people. Didn’t matter if you were a kid or a coach or a business partner, he treated you like dirt. And I won’t be treated like dirt.”
“Why did you work for him in the first place?”
“I worked for Mr. Morley Clifford, son. The finest man I have ever known. Mr. Clifford built both those camps into what they are. He only took Buddy on as a partner because he needed someone who could run a hockey school. The only way camps around here survive any more is if they specialize. Mr. Clifford decided on hockey, which was a fine idea, but then he took on Buddy, which was a very, very bad idea.”
“We thought Buddy owned everything.”
“Buddy thought Buddy owned everything! He’d already cheated Mr. Clifford out of the main camp–the island camp was just a matter of time, the way I seen it.”
“What do you mean, ‘cheated’?”
“Mr. Clifford had to take out a bank loan to hire Buddy and get the hockey school going. But I have always believed, and will believe until my dying day, that Buddy O’Reilly deliberately kept the enrolment low at the hockey camp in order to put Mr. Clifford in a position where he couldn’t meet his payments on the loan. When it looked like Mr. Clifford was going to lose everything, along comes Buddy with a couple of ‘partners’ he suddenly discovers–one of them’s his brother-in-law, for heaven’s sake–and they bail out Mr. Clifford. And who do you think ends up controlling the main camp?”
“Buddy?” said Nish.
“Bingo! You got it.”
The boys walked back to the camp in the midday heat, their hands in their pockets and their feet kicking up the dust in the road as they went over everything they now knew. The longer they thought about it, the more it became clear that, despite what Roger Sprott had said, it still looked bad for Muck.
They had barely turned into the camp laneway when Simon, half out of breath, came running up to them.
The whole camp had been looking for the boys. There was a big meeting about to get under way at the main building.
Mr. Cuthbertson and Mr. Lindsay were running the meeting. Standing to one side was the older policeman who had twice interviewed Travis. Everyone looked very serious. Travis had never seen his father look so grey and grim.
“Inspector Cox has a brief statement for us all,” said Sarah’s father, and even before the policeman opened his mouth, Travis knew it was not going to be good news.
Inspector Cox waved a piece of paper above his head. “This is from the forensic office in Toronto, where they’ve been doing ballistic tests on the rifle we discovered in the lake and the single bullet that killed Mr. O’Reilly. It’s a match.”
Travis’s heart sank. He felt Nish’s hand on his arm, tightening.
“In district court this morning,” Inspector Cox continued, “a charge of first-degree murder was laid against Mr. Albert Munro.”
None of the kids had heard Muck’s real first name before. It almost seemed as if it wasn’t him. But it was Muck, and it was hard to imagine worse news.
Travis was afraid to look at Nish. He was afraid they would both start crying. He looked, instead, to the far side of the room, where most of the Aeros were gathered with their parents. Sarah had her arms around her mother and was sobbing into her shoulder. Travis felt his own eyes tighten and sting and knew that a hot tear was rolling down his cheek. He didn’t care.
Mr. Cuthbertson had something else to say: “Under the circumstances, the Provincial Police have told us we can now do as we wish. We think it best we close down the camp and head back home. You should return to your cabins to pack. Departure time will be six p.m., sharp.”
The room emptied without a sound, apart from a few sobs that couldn’t be held back. Travis and Nish and the rest of the boys from “Osprey” walked back without a word, their heads down.
They passed by the main equipment shed and then by Buddy’s cabin. The police had already taken down the yellow plastic ribbon that had marked it off as a restricted crime site. It seemed the investigation was over.
“I can finally get my tape recorder back!” Data exclaimed when he noticed.
Travis turned on Data, furious.
“Get a life!” he shouted. “Do you ever think of anybody but yourself?”
But Data was already running toward Buddy’s cabin.
“Jerk!” Nish called after him.
They packed in silence. Travis stuffed everything back in his knapsack–pants, shorts, shirts, sandals, bug spray, sunblock, flashlight–and gathered together his fishing equipment and his hockey bag. The hockey bag was toughest. Every piece of equipment he picked up and stashed away reminded him of Muck.
Travis felt on the verge of tears. And all he could think about was Muck sitting in a jail cell somewhere, his big meaty hands folded in his lap, waiting.
Data came in with his boom box. Travis had to resist the urge to rip it out of his hands and heave it down the steps. Data was thinking not of Muck, but only of his poor tape recorder and how hard it had been used.
“You wrecked my tape machine, you dummy!” Data said to Nish.
Nish turned, shocked. “Whatdya mean, ‘wrecked’?”
“You pushed the wrong button with that stupid stick. You hit the record button instead of play, and now my batteries are run down.”
Andy pushed the eject button and examined the tape.
“You ruined the mosquito recording,” he said to Nish.
“How?”
“Taped right over it. It’s gone.”
“Damn it!” said Nish. He snatched the tape from Andy and threw it against the wall. It bounced onto Travis’s bunk, landing square in the centre of the pillow.
The record button? Travis’s mind was racing. He leapt for his bunk, grabbing the tape before Nish could pick it up and heave it again.
“What’s with you?” Nish demanded.
“What if the phone call’s on this tape?” Travis yelled, holding it up over his head. “Maybe it could give us some clues!”
“Huh?” the others said at once.
“The call that came in to Buddy’s cellphone,” Travis explained. “It could all be here if Nish accidentally recorded it!”
“Put it in!” Gordie shouted.
“Batteries are all dead!” said Data.
“Empty your flashlights!” Travis commanded.
The boys rooted frantically in their packed bags and came up with enough batteries to supply the boom box. Travis put the tape back, rewound it, and pushed play.
They waited, the room heaving with their tense breathing.
The tape hissed, then they heard Buddy’s cellphone:
“Rrrrriiiiinnnggggg!…Rrrrriiiiinnnggggg!…What the–Click! [the light going on] …Who the hell–?… [a crash, the cellphone dropping, Buddy swearing] …Hang on! Hang on! Just a damned minute, okay? Some kid snuck in here and…”
Buddy’s cursing went on for some time. The boys listened, picturing Buddy trying to beat off the shaving cream while keeping up the conversation.
Buddy didn’t seem to have much respect for the person he was talking to–but then, Buddy had never shown respect for anyone. The swearing and contempt in his voice reminded the boys how much they had disliked him.
“Now you listen here…I thought we were perfectly clear on that matter. You had until midnight tonight to meet those payments, otherwise the island camp is in a default position…. Just a damn minute here, mister, I’m talking!…You already know that my partners are more than willing to bail you out one last time, but in order for them to forward the funds to your bank account, you’ll need to sign those papers I gave you…. [a long pause, while Buddy listens]…Morley, please, I don’t need any of your whining right now. It comes down to a simple choice for you, the way I see it. You sign the papers, my group assumes control of the entire camp, or the island camp fails completely. Think of it this way, Morley, my friend: you sign the papers, you get to stay on. You don’t sign them, you’re out of business tomorrow morning…. [another long pause]…Fine, the boathouse at eleven tonight…. I’m glad you finally see things my way. This is going to work out just fine…Click!…”
The tape continued to hiss quietly, still recording after Buddy had ended the call. They could hear him swearing, still, as he wiped his hand and the cellphone clean. They could hear him moving about the cabin, probably starting to dress, and still cursing the kids who had broken in and filled his hand with shaving cream.
Travis got up and stopped the tape. They had heard enough. He walked over and hugged a startled Data.
“What’s that for?” said Data.
“For thinking only about your stupid tape recorder.”
“What about Nish?” Andy asked. “He’s the guy who pushed the wrong button.”
“I did it on purpose,” Nish claimed. No one, of course, believed him for a moment.
“Who’s Morley?” Lars asked.
“Mr. Clifford, dummy,” Nish said. “The guy who murdered Buddy.”
“The suspect,” Travis corrected.
“C’mon–we have to get Data’s tape to the police.”
The police brought Muck back in a squad car. No handcuffs–just Muck in his sweatpants and his Screech Owls windbreaker, and the same sure look on his face that he’d had when he left. The parking lot was filled with players and parents, and a great cheer went up when Muck got out of the car. Sarah Cuthbertson broke out of the crowd and raced toward him, hugging him around his big middle. When she broke away, his T-shirt was wet from her tears.
Mr. Cuthbertson made an announcement that the six o’clock deadline had been cancelled. They’d finish out the week. There was still time to practice. And, of course, they still had to have the big tournament, Screech Owls against Aeros.
“What about the World’s Biggest Skinny Dip?” Travis whispered to Nish. “Is it still on?”
“Of course–even if the rest of you are so chicken I have to do it alone.”
“You haven’t the guts,” laughed Travis.
Muck was swarmed by the parents, who shook his hand and slapped his back and generally embarrassed him. He seemed relieved to be back, but also anxious to break away from the attention and get back to being nothing but the coach of the Screech Owls.
The boys were headed back to “Osprey” when Muck called to them and came over.
They stood about, not knowing what to say to each other, and then, one by one, they all hugged Muck, and he hugged back. And after that, no one could speak anyway.
Mr. Cuthbertson had found out all the details. Inspector Cox told him that poor old Mr. Clifford had confessed everything the moment they played Data’s tape for him.
The police figured that, under pressure from Buddy O’Reilly, the former owner of the camps had finally snapped. Mr. Clifford could no longer take the way Buddy was running things. They disagreed on everything, but particularly on the way Buddy treated the kids. He couldn’t stand the idea of Buddy forcing him out and taking full control.
When Morley Clifford witnessed the fight between Muck, Roger, and Buddy over the gun, he saw his opportunity. He took the rifle from Muck’s cabin, but he couldn’t find the box of bullets and he’d had to dig up two of them from behind the shed. He never meant to leave that empty shell in the boathouse, but he probably couldn’t find it in the dark. He panicked then, and decided to dump the rifle in the lake. He had been sure that Muck would have an alibi in case they found the gun and somehow connected the bullet to it–that way, the police would never figure out who had killed Buddy O’Reilly.
“It’s a pretty sad story,” said Mr. Cuthbertson. “The desire for revenge makes people do things no one would ever expect of them. But nothing justifies what he did. Nothing.”
Mr. Cuthbertson looked at the boys from “Osprey” cabin. “It’s a lucky thing for everyone that the police ended up with that tape recording, otherwise we might never have known what was going on.”
Nish looked around, smiling, his right hand raised in a royal wave.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. Thank you very much.”
The Summer Hockey Camp World Peewee Champions
hip would be a single match, Screech Owls against Aeros, winner take all. Muck Munro would be behind the Owls’ bench, and Sarah’s father, Mr. Cuthbertson, would handle the Aeros’bench. Simon and Jason would referee. Starting centres: Sarah Cuthbertson for the Aeros, Travis Lindsay for the Screech Owls.
Travis couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so alive before the puck had even dropped. It was better than before the championship game in Lake Placid, the big game at the Little Stanley Cup in Toronto, the fantastic final against the Waskaganish Wolverines at the First Nations Pee Wee Hockey Tournament in James Bay. And yet nothing was at stake here. There were no reporters in the stands, no scouts, almost no fans. If you took away the parents, the seats would be completely empty. The game wasn’t sanctioned, the officials weren’t real, and the score wouldn’t count for anything but a bit of good-natured ribbing.
But it felt good. It felt absolutely right when Travis was taping on his shin pads–right one first, then left–and Muck had walked in and scowled at them. It felt perfect when he’d come in after everyone was dressed and Nish had started holding his gut and bouncing lightly so his head kept dipping down toward his knees. Muck had stood there and waited for everyone’s attention, Nish’s included. He reminded the forwards to keep to the hash marks in their own end, and the defence not to get caught pinching, and told them all to watch their passes.
Muck was right back where he belonged.
Sarah smiled at Travis just before Simon dropped the puck. It was great to be back playing with Sarah–even if she was on the other team. It was great to be reminded what a beautiful skater she was and what a brilliant playmaker. Travis wished she was still with the Owls, but he understood; she said she was headed for the 2002 Olympics in Salt Lake City, and everyone was absolutely sure she would make it.
The puck dropped, and the roar that burst from the parents was as loud and excited as in any real tournament.
Travis used Sarah’s own little trick and plucked the puck out of the air before it hit the ice. He pulled it into his skates, turned so his hip blocked Sarah from checking him, and sent a quick pass back to Nish.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 1 Page 33
