The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 2

by Roy MacGregor

  Travis understood. Now he needed “someone of high courage and good brains.”

  And he knew just the person to turn to.

  “No way!”

  Travis had expected this response from Nish. He knew his plan was the stuff of books, not real life, but they had no choice.

  “Maybe we can get him to confess,” argued Travis. “It works in books.”

  “Books are stupid,” said Nish.

  “You’re stupid,” replied Travis. He couldn’t help thinking that maybe he should have gone somewhere else to find “someone of high courage and good brains.”

  “Tell me how it could possibly work, then,” Nish said, “if you’re so smart.”

  Travis half made the plan up as he went along, hoping that once it was all said, it might somehow make sense.

  If the trap was going to have any chance, Dickens would have to be in his car and he would have to be drunk again.

  But Nish’s questions were only beginning. How would they know Mr. Dickens was drunk again and driving?

  Well, they’d have to be lucky on that part, Travis admitted, but he felt there was a good chance.

  How would they get him to stop?

  Well, they’d have to trick him. Maybe get him to think he’d hit someone again.

  How would he think he’d hit someone?

  “Well…Fahd,” said Travis.

  “What?” said Nish.

  “Fahd,” Travis repeated. He’d had an idea. A sudden, flashing idea. Perhaps even a brilliant one. “Fahd can help us.”

  “Absolutely no way!” Nish shouted this time.

  But no one was listening to Nish. The others–Fahd, Sarah, Andy, and Lars–had embraced Travis’s idea immediately. Sarah came up with the idea of setting the trap along Cedar and River, exactly where the original accident had happened. Andy thought of the snowball. Lars was already trying to calculate the timing and wanted to do a few dry runs first. Fahd thought about how to set things up for the best effect.

  Travis kept his doubts to himself. If he was wrong, if Mr. Dickens hadn’t done it, it was going to be a huge waste of time. But they had to try.

  Nish, on the other hand, had no problem expressing his doubts.

  “No way!” he repeated.

  “Oh, come on, Nish,” said Sarah. “Only you can pull it off. You’re the best moaner I ever heard.”

  Travis knew that Nish would never really turn down the starring role. Everything, in the end, would depend on him.

  Nish closed his eyes tight, opened them, blinked, and chewed his lip. Finally he spoke.

  “Okay, let’s do it.”

  It took three evenings before the conditions were right for the Owls’ daring plan.

  Mr. Dickens’s car had been found parked behind the bar down by River Street. It had snowed hard earlier in the day, and some of the streets had still not been ploughed. Most of the cars were snow-covered, and, just like the last time, some were being driven with “portholes” dug through the snow on the windshield, with no view at all through the rear window.

  Lars had a large flashlight in his coat pocket. He and Sarah would stand watch and be able to signal from the far corner when Dickens turned onto Cedar on his way home. Andy and Travis were responsible for making the huge snowballs. Lars had timed a couple of trial runs, and now one was packed and ready at the top of the hill at the edge of the schoolyard. If they pushed off just as a car passed by the church, it would smack right into its side as it passed below the hill.

  Fahd’s job was toughest of all. He had to make Nish look like he’d just been hit by a car.

  Fahd’s mock-disaster training was key. He had become an expert on gory, slimy, bloody entrails and broken bones and missing eyes and caved-in skulls. For nearly a month, every day had been like Hallowe’en to Fahd. But his big test wouldn’t be the mock disaster. It would be tonight.

  “He’s ready!” Fahd called up the hill.

  Travis and Andy watched as Fahd attended to Nish, whose leg seemed set at a weird angle. It was bent all wrong, and he seemed to be shuffing along on his other leg. But then they realized: Nish had put both feet through one pant leg, the other, shattered one was phony.

  They could barely make Nish out in the streetlight. But then, he hardly had a face any more. He had one eye knocked clear of its socket. It was hanging down his face, suspended by stringy flesh and bouncing off his cheek. He had a huge, black wound on his forehead. His mouth was bleeding, the teeth hanging out one side through a hole where his cheek should have been.

  “You look awful!” Travis shouted down.

  “I do?” Nish answered, pretending to be surprised. “Funny, I feel great.”

  “Hurry up!” snapped Fahd. “We can’t have him see us.”

  “The light!” Andy shouted. Lars was flashing the signal.

  “Hurry!” Fahd hissed. He grabbed Nish’s “broken” leg and pulled him along by it, forcing Nish to hop to stay upright. They ducked into the nearest driveway, their heads down.

  Travis and Andy got behind the giant snowball. They were well out of sight, and could look around to see what was coming.

  A snow-covered car was weaving down Cedar. Only half the windshield had been cleaned, and the car was drifting from side to side. From behind, the flashlight signalled again–confirmation from Lars that it was Mr. Dickens, for sure.

  “I hope this works,” said Andy as he leaned against the huge snowball.

  “It has to!” said Travis.

  Travis watched, his heart pounding. The car passed by the last of the houses, the church manse, the church itself, the church drive…

  “Now!”

  The two boys heaved with all their might. The huge snowball groaned, and began to move.

  “Push!” Travis called. Andy grunted loudly, and the ball rolled. It was off, gaining speed.

  Travis’s heart skipped a beat. The car fishtailed slightly, then straightened. The snowball rolled down and up slightly at the bank, then flew out into the air.

  He has to see it! Travis said to himself.

  It’s going to miss! was his next thought.

  But Travis’s imagination was also airborne, moving faster than the giant snowball. It seemed as if the ball was hanging in midair. It seemed as if the car was stopped. The ball hanging, the car frozen–and nothing but his own hammering heart to mark the passage of time.

  “Perfect!” Andy whispered.

  And it was, too. With an enormous whomp! the snowball hit squarely against the passenger door.

  The car lurched violently to the side. Whether it was the force of the snowball or Mr. Dickens’s frightened reaction, Travis couldn’t tell, but the big Chevrolet swung against the far bank and came to a stop in deep snow.

  “C’mon, Nish! Move it!”

  The voice was Fahd’s. Travis could hear the fear it contained; Fahd was nearly hysterical.

  From the near driveway, two small figures hurried out, the one in front straining ahead, the one behind hopping madly.

  “Hold your horses!” Nish hissed. “I don’t want my makeup to run!”

  Travis couldn’t help himself. He started to giggle. He felt Andy grab his elbow, pulling him down out of sight.

  Travis could see Fahd, the perfectionist, laying Nish out in exactly the position he wanted. It seemed almost comic–if it weren’t so dangerous! He wondered if they’d make it in time.

  A door opened on the Chevrolet. Greenish light spilled out onto the street. It was the passenger door, as the driver’s door was now hard against the far bank. A large figure was struggling to get out of the car. He was wearing a dark coat. And a tuque.

  Travis shivered. He had seen that same figure before, and in this very spot.

  “Damn it all t’ hell!” a voice was cursing.

  Fahd was already away, scrambling back up the near driveway. Travis looked up the street. He thought he saw two small figures crouching down as they hurried along. It would be Sarah and Lars.

  Now it was all
up to Nish.

  Travis shut his eyes: For Data, Nish, for Data…

  The moaning began soft and low.

  “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

  “OHHHHHHH…Owww&&&&

  “H-h-h-help me! Help…mmeee!

  “OWWWWWWWW!”

  The figure was out of the car now and standing on the hard-packed snow of the street.

  “Wha’ the hell!” he muttered.

  He took a couple of steps forward, slipped and went down on one knee. He cursed angrily.

  Nish moaned again, softly: “Ohhhhhh…Ohhhhhhhh…”

  The man regained his footing and stepped forward, uneasily.

  “H-h-h-help me! Help…mmeee!” wailed Nish.

  “Oh, goodness, no…no…no!” the man said. He came closer, close enough to see the twisted leg, close enough, perhaps, to see the smashed head of poor Nish, dying in the street.

  “Oh, Lord, no–this can’t be happening! Why me?”

  Why me? Travis thought. This man is standing there feeling sorry for himself while he’s already put one kid in hospital and another is bleeding to death in front of his very eyes.

  The man came even closer, close enough to lean down and touch Nish, if he wanted.

  Nish was silent. Dead silent!

  The driver seemed to stand, staring, for the longest time. He didn’t reach out for Nish. He didn’t lean down.

  Good! thought Travis. If he gets too close, he might see it’s a trick. And if he finds out it’s a trick, Nish might just as well be dead.

  The man seemed to lean forward a little, perhaps about to bend down and help, but then he stepped back, stumbled, and appeared to stare in new horror at poor Nish, lying broken and bloody in the snow.

  Nish picked his moment well: “H-h-h-help me! Help…mmeee!”

  But the man couldn’t do it. The urge to save himself was stronger than the urge to help. He turned, slipping again to one knee, and with another curse got up and bolted for his car.

  “What do we do now?” hissed Andy.

  “I don’t know.”

  The man slipped and slid and cursed his way to the passenger door of the Chevrolet, ripped the door open, and jumped back in. The engine was still running.

  He put the car in gear and slammed down on the gas. The car bucked, then sank into the snowbank some more.

  He put it in reverse and hit the gas again. The car jumped but only settled in deeper.

  He rammed the transmission from reverse to forward, to reverse again, back and forth, the car bucking like a horse but unable to spring free of the deep snow.

  The door flew open again, and the man spilled out, swearing. “Damn it all to hell!…Damn it…damn it…damn it! Why me?”

  “Drunk as a skunk!” Andy said, almost under his breath.

  The man had no intention of going back to help Nish. He slammed the door and began to stumble down the street, slipping and sliding, lurching his way home, trying to run away from what he had done–for the second time.

  “He’s getting away!” Fahd cried as he came out from behind his snowbank.

  Nish was sitting up, watching him go.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Travis said as he and Andy scrambled down towards them.

  “Whatdya mean it doesn’t matter?” Nish asked, trying to yank off his “broken” leg. “The guy who did this to me should go to jail!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Travis, “because we have his car.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Lindsay into the telephone. “Thank you very much, then…Yes, I will…Goodbye.”

  Travis’s father hung up the phone. He took a sip from his coffee and stared out the window towards the bird feeder, which was alive with chickadees fighting over sun-flower seeds.

  “Well?” Mrs. Lindsay said, waiting.

  Mr. Lindsay turned quickly, almost as if he were snapping back into reality.

  “That was the police,” he said slowly. “There’s been a development in the hit-and-run incident.”

  “What?”

  It seemed Mr. Lindsay didn’t even want to say at first. He shook his head. “It was Tony Dickens.”

  “Tony Dickens was the one who hit Data?”

  “Apparently. Funny, I always thought he was a first-class person.”

  “Would you like a list of the ‘respectable’ people who have been caught drinking and driving?” said Mrs. Lindsay. “Let alone a list of those who haven’t been caught?”

  “I know, I know. It’s just that he was always so good with kids. I backed him for the presidency of the hockey association one year, you know.”

  “You can never tell what people are really like,” Mrs. Lindsay said. “How did they catch him, anyway?”

  “The police found his car ditched along Cedar. Called in at his house and he was sitting in his kitchen, crying. Confessed it all right there and then, without their even saying a word to him.”

  “A guilty conscience, I guess.”

  “Guilty’s hardly the word for it,” said Mr. Lindsay. “Kept claiming he’d hit two kids, not one.”

  Mrs. Lindsay went back to her magazine. “Well, hard drink will do that to you, won’t it?”

  Mr. Lindsay was again looking out the window. The chickadees fluttered wildly as a squirrel dropped down onto the feeder.

  “I guess.”

  Travis Lindsay, sitting quietly over a bowl of Cheerios, could barely conceal his smile as he bit into another spoonful.

  Travis had never felt such electricity in the Tamarack Arena. There must have been two thousand fans jammed into the stands this Sunday afternoon, and the cheering had started the moment the first of the Maple Leafs Legends had stepped out onto the ice.

  “Lanny McDonald!” Fahd had called.

  It was indeed–hair a bit thinner than in his picture on the hockey card, but his moustache still red and thick as a broom.

  “Frank Mahovlich!” Jesse shouted.

  And after Mahovlich, Darryl Sittler…Eddie Shack…Paul Henderson…

  “Where’s Muck?” Travis asked, straining to see.

  “There,” said Sarah, pointing.

  But Muck didn’t look like Muck. He was wearing full equipment, and a beautiful Maple Leafs Legends sweater. Travis noticed the number first–6, same as Data–and then the name sewn over the number: Munro.

  Out on the ice surface, Muck looked smaller than some of the other players, but his passes were the same as the rest of the Legends’: crisp, hard, and perfectly tape to tape.

  The Flying Fathers were hilarious. Perhaps this was called a hockey game, but it didn’t always seem like one. When Lanny McDonald scored the first goal of the game, the Flying Fathers held a ceremony at centre ice where they made Lanny kneel, and then “blessed” him with a cream pie straight in the face.

  The crowd loved it. The best of the Flying Fathers, perhaps the best skater on the ice, pulled a trick that had Travis laughing so hard his stomach hurt. At the face-off the referee only faked dropping the puck, and instead the Father dropped his own puck, which he’d hidden in his glove. It looked exactly like a normal face-off, except that this puck was attached by fishing line to the player’s stick.

  He took off up the ice, stickhandling so wildly it seemed the puck would shoot off into the stands. But each time it came back, perfectly, to the blade of his stick. He went around every laughing, staggering NHLer, Muck included, and then tossed his stick–puck included–into the NHL net. The red light came on. Tie game.

  The Legends protested, but it was useless. The Fathers played with illegal sticks and even brought out illegal players–including, at one point, their horse! With one of the Fathers holding onto its tail, it galloped down the ice, clearing the track, and the Father simply threw the puck into the net.

  In the final period, however, they all settled down to a real game of hockey.

  Perhaps it was a little slower than an NHL game, but the skill shone through: the passes, the quick, hard, accurate shots, the fine little plays that woul
d instantly leave a man open, with only the goaltender between him and the net.

  Halfway through the third, the Owls started up a chant.

  “Muck…Muck…Muck…MUCK!”

  Soon much of the crowd had joined in.

  “Muck…Muck…Muck…MUCK!”

  There was no doubt the Screech Owls’ coach heard, but no way was he going to show he had heard. He was on Paul Henderson’s line, just as they had been as teenagers so many years before, and while Henderson could still fly down the ice, it was apparent to all who were watching that Muck’s bad leg was holding him back.

  When Henderson’s line was off for a shift, Mr. Dillinger made his way over to Muck and unlaced the coach’s skate and removed his pads. Mr. Dillinger had an aerosol can in his hand.

  All the Owls could see what was happening. They’d seen it before in NHL games. Mr. Dillinger aimed the can and sprayed up and down Muck’s bad leg, “freezing” it to reduce the pain. Muck was gritting his teeth and holding his bare leg out so Mr. Dillinger could cover it entirely.

  Two shifts later, Henderson’s line came back out, with Muck testing his leg cautiously on the ice. Travis could see that Muck was in real pain.

  Partway through the shift, Paul Henderson darted back after a loose puck. No sooner had he picked it up than Muck was rapping his stick hard on the ice on the far side. Henderson passed hard and right on target, the puck cracking solidly onto Muck’s blade and sticking.

  Muck dug in, his gait slightly off as he gathered speed. He neatly stepped around the first checker and then shifted into centre ice and bore down. He was over the Fathers’ line, with two defencemen back, both back-pedalling and tightening the knot on Muck.

  Muck slipped the puck ahead and jumped–jumped–clean through the gap between the two defenders, both of whom were laughing as they crashed together, nothing between them but air.

  Muck wobbled slightly as he landed, but kept his footing. He still had the puck.

  He wound up and snapped a shot, high and hard.

  The goalie’s glove hand whipped out, but like the defenders found nothing but air.

  The puck rang off the crossbar–and in!