“Maybe no one’s getting in at all,” said Sarah, still doubting that anything so diabolical could be happening at a simple hockey tournament.
Hers was an opinion of one. The others were absolutely certain there was something bad going on, and that, somehow, the Panthers were involved.
The players knew they had to get back before Muck’s curfew. They wanted to be back and in their rooms, perhaps even in bed, so there would be no questions about where they had gone and what they had been up to. Nish wanted to get back to try out his newest set of pliers. He had promised that tonight would be the night when he would finally solve the wiring mystery of the blocked television channels.
The players raced out of the Olympic Center and up the hill toward the hotel, where they could slip in the side door leading out onto the tennis courts and the parking lot, undetected. Or so they thought.
As the players hurried up the grassy slope onto the paved area, they rose out of the dark into an unexpected scene. The parking lot was alive with people. And not just people, but their people. Several of the fathers. A few mothers. Muck. The assistant coaches. All standing in a circle, the tension coming off the circle in waves.
The players quickly ducked down in the dark and lay flat, their heads barely above the paved ledge where the sloping lawn ended and the parking lot began.
It was difficult to make out the faces, but there was no mistaking that one of the men, one slightly off from the circle, was Mr. Brown. He had something out–a handkerchief–and was dabbing at his nose, which appeared to be bleeding. Travis could make out Muck in the centre of the gathering.
They could hear Mr. Brown perfectly, his loud voice clearer in a parking lot on a still night than in an arena with all the echoes and other sounds. “I can damn well speak to whoever I want, whenever I want–” His voice sounded thick.
“He’s drunk,” Nish hissed in Travis’s ear. Nish was right, Travis thought. He was glad Matt hadn’t gone to the rink with them. How embarrassing it would be for him to see this. He hoped Matt was up in his room, already asleep.
Muck was speaking. It was more difficult to hear him, but they caught the tone: quiet, sure, disapproving. It was a voice they had all heard when they’d acted up on the road. But they were kids.
“It’s not any of your damn business–” Mr. Brown began again.
Muck cut him off. Still soft. But completely in command. Muck’s steady voice that held for no arguing back, the voice of confidence, never rising, never falling, never changing. The voice of their coach.
“You son of a–!” Mr. Brown suddenly lunged. Muck braced himself, but Mr. Brown never got through. Several of the other fathers were stepping in, blocking.
“Muck’s right, you know,” one of them said. Travis was certain it was Mr. Cuthbertson.
“We’ve all felt the same way,” another said.
“You’ve had your say, now go to bed,” said a third.
Mr. Brown seemed to shrug, then turned away toward the door. He was not walking steadily, but whether it was because of the beer or whatever had caused his nose to bleed, Travis couldn’t tell. He was still muttering when he reached the door, but they could not make out much of what he said apart from the swear words.
Those in the circle waited until he was gone. One of them lighted a cigarette, the match’s flare lighting his face briefly. It was Mr. Boucher. Travis considered him one of the fairest parents and knew he would help Muck if there was any trouble.
“Let’s go back in,” Muck said. “We’ve a party to wrap up.”
“Good idea,” Mr. Boucher agreed.
The cigarette flicked through the night toward the boys, sparking as it struck the pavement, and then skidding like a burning race car almost to the ledge.
“It’s mine!” Nish hissed.
But no one else was interested. The moment the door into the Skyroom closed again Nish bolted for the smouldering cigarette and the others all asked the same question at once: “What was that all about?”
Travis said nothing. He thought he knew. But he wasn’t sure. The players raced for the door in order to beat the parents to the rooms. Travis could hear Nish behind him, coughing violently.
Nish was first up in the morning. When Travis woke, Nish already had the television turned around backwards and was busily prying off the protective coupler that joined the cable line to the pay-TV box. He was whistling while he worked, the way Mr. Dillinger sometimes whistled when he was happily sharpening skates.
“I think I’ve got it,” Nish said.
“Got what?” Travis wanted to know. Or maybe he didn’t want to know.
“If I can get this cable off here and attach it down there, it should work directly through the TV. Won’t even have to run it through the box.”
Travis didn’t follow. Groggily, he pulled the cover off his bed and up onto his head like a hood and wiggled to the edge of the bed to watch.
Nish had his tools laid out like a master workman. He had the protective coupling pulled back and had slid it up over the cable so it was well back and out of the way. He was twisting the connector off the pay-TV box. The television picture suddenly went, the screen filling with grey snow and the sound hissing with static.
“There,” he said. “Got it.”
Working quickly, he attached the connector to the back of the television. The hissing sound stopped and was replaced with silence. The screen cleared, but changed to blue, no picture.
“Didn’t work,” Travis concluded.
“Did too,” a testy Nish countered.
“Where’s your movie, then?”
“It’s eight o’clock in the morning, Einstein. You think they put adult movies on at this time so little kids can watch them over their cereal?”
“There’s nothing on at all,” Travis said.
Nish smiled, confident: “There will be–tonight.”
After breakfast, the boys went outside, thinking they would head down to the lake and check out the old wooden toboggan run.
It was a fine morning, bright and crisp with the dew ice-cold and sparkling on the green-brown grass. A thick cloud seemed to have settled over the lake, and the boys, standing in sunlight with blue sky above them, felt as if they had entered another world. Travis shivered. He could almost see the head of a Brontosaurus rising through the cloud to stare at them.
“Hey!” Nish whispered, holding up a hand to halt everyone. “Look down there.”
Down past the putting green and the tilted lawn chairs and the still-leafless hedge, three men were walking and talking quietly. It was the three coaches–Muck, Barry, and Ty–and all had track suits on, though Muck’s seemed more for comfort than work-out. With his limp, he could never run. Barry and Ty were cooling down from a dawn run, both young men perspiring, both wearing head sweatbands, and Barry, the fitness nut, carrying hand weights he kept pumping as he walked and talked and listened to Muck. By the movement of the others’ hands, the conversation was both animated and anxious.
The three coaches were coming up over the grass to the same side entrance the players had used the night before. The men had not yet seen the boys.
“In here!” Nish hissed.
Travis looked over. Nish was signalling to the other three boys from behind the garbage dumpster, which was just off to the side of the back entrance. It was a natural hiding space. But why hide? If Muck caught them, he’d kick their butts, for Muck always said he considered sneakiness a crime equal to stealing and lying, for in its own way it was both.
But the other boys were already squeezing in behind Nish. Travis hurried to join Data and Wilson in the gap, well out of sight but well within earshot. Travis caught his breath, nearly gagging.
“Smells like you slept here, Nish,” Data hissed. “He’ So’!” (“Stinks!”)
The others giggled, including Nish, who then placed his index finger over his lips to shut everyone up. If they made a sound, they would be caught. If they were caught, they would be in trouble.
They could hear the three men coming, their low conversation rising with their steps until, finally, the boys could make out what Muck was saying.
“…not the first time, and won’t be the last. But I can hardly agree with such a wild idea as you’re putting out, Ty.”
Ty was talking low, his voice anxious to convince. “It’s not the idea that’s wild. It’s Brown. He’s a certifiable loonie. You catch him trying to bribe the kids, he gets a few drinks inside him and suddenly he wants revenge. And what’s the best way to get at you? The team, obviously. The team collapses at a tournament like this, you end up taking the rap. Maybe you even lose the team next season.”
“Makes no sense at all,” protested Muck. He seemed upset with what he was being told.
“Muck, just hear Ty out,” said Barry. “That’s what I thought at first, too.”
Ty continued: “I was doing the stats Tuesday when Brown came in with a new pair of braces he wanted to fit onto Matt’s pants. He showed me the package. I just nodded and let him go on in and set it up. Who’s to say what he did when he was in there?”
“But the point is,” said a determined Muck, “why would he do it?”
“To screw you around. You lose your top forward, our best playmaker, you lose the tournament, you lose your position.”
“That’s me,” argued Muck. “But why Sarah?”
“The best way to get at you,” said Barry.
Ty laughed, exasperated. “You’re missing a big point here, Muck.”
“Which is?”
“Who told on him?”
Muck sniffed, considering. Thinking about Sarah coming to talk to him at Whiteface Mountain. He shook his head violently.
Among the eavesdroppers, only Travis knew what Muck would be thinking. Even if Mr. Brown hadn’t actually seen Sarah telling Muck, he might have guessed. She was the one who’d walked away from him up on the mountain, after all. Mr. Brown would want to get back at her. And would want to get Muck, too.
Muck still wasn’t convinced: “He wouldn’t do something like that.”
“He wouldn’t, eh? What about last night?”
“He was drunk.”
“And this morning he’s sober. But he’s still a loonie, drunk or sober.”
Muck said nothing in response. The three coaches were at the door. Barry had it open for the other two, and in a moment the door clicked shut.
The four boys let their breath go and hurried out from behind the dumpster to fill their lungs with fresh morning air.
“He’ So’!” shouted Data in disgust.
“You hear all that?” asked Nish, his face alive with excitement.
“They think Matt’s dad did it,” said Wilson.
So, too, did Travis. But he also thought the Panthers had done it. And then he remembered why they had wanted to get up so early this morning.
“The camera!” he said.
The video camera would prove who had been sabotaging them. The Panthers. Mr. Brown. Or no one.
“Let’s get Norbert up!” Nish called.
The Screech Owls were not scheduled to play the Toronto Towers until 2:00 p.m. in the big rink, the Olympic rink, the rink where the U.S.A. had won the Olympic gold medal in 1980, the “Rink of Dreams” according to the post cards in the souvenir shops. That gave them the morning to get the camera out and examine the videotape. They had to wait until Mr. Dillinger went up to the rink to unlock the room, and then they would have to figure out how to get the camera without him seeing.
It was simpler than they figured. The whole team knew of the camera, but only three would go up to the rink to get it. Norbert, of course, because he would be responsible in the end if they got caught or if the camera somehow got damaged. And Derek, because he had taken the keys and would also be in trouble, and because he had the most believable reason for being there, even if it was only to hit his father up for a few dollars for the arcade. And Travis should go, they decided, because he was the least suspicious of all the kids. If they sent Nish, alarms would go off in the mind of everyone who saw him. Nish, giggling, loved the idea that he was too dangerous to send.
The three boys, with Norbert carrying a shopping bag for the camera, got to the rink shortly after Mr. Dillinger had taken his keys and set off to begin preparing for the game. He was working a lot of hours for the team, sharpening skates, repairing equipment. Travis had never seen him so serious or caught up in his work. No jokes, no kidding, no pranks. He seemed to be taking the sabotage personally: as the one in charge of the equipment, he was probably blaming himself for letting it happen. But what could he have done, Travis wondered, stand guard twenty-four hours a day over the room?
Travis felt sorry for Mr. Dillinger. Here his son, Derek, was having the tournament of his life–almost entirely due to Sarah’s problems–and he couldn’t enjoy it. He had stopped whistling. He wasn’t singing. Travis wished all this would just go away so they could have their old general manager and trainer back.
Mr. Dillinger was sharpening skates when the boys came along. The Screech Owls were, perhaps, the only peewee team in the world with their own skate-sharpening equipment, but Mr. Dillinger had suggested buying it and Muck had agreed and, after working more midnight bingos than the parents wished to remember, they had earned enough money to purchase a unit that could fold up into its own suitcase and be pulled out and set up in less than ten minutes.
Muck, who often said, “You’re only as good as your equipment,” was delighted. Mr. Dillinger had worked with the entire team to find out who liked what and who played best with what kind of sharp. Dmitri, the quickest, liked his blades sharpened immediately before every game and ground so deep he could stop on a pin–a dime considered too much space for him. Nish, who liked to block shots, wanted a thin edge so he could slide more easily. Travis liked sharp skates, but not sharpened too deep, because he liked to work the corners and needed the flexibility. Muck figured the sharpening machine was worth a dozen goals a year to the Screech Owls. And a dozen goals a year, he said, could be the difference between first place and last playoff spot in the league.
“Hi, Mr. Dillinger,” Travis said, as the boys came along.
“Hi, there, Trav–” Mr. Dillinger looked up. He nodded at the others. “Norbie. Son.”
“You need any help, Dad?” Derek asked.
“Naw, not unless one of you wants to stand here for half an hour grinding Dmitri’s skates down to his knees.”
The boys all laughed. They were glad to hear Mr. Dillinger joking again.
“Anything happen?” Travis asked.
Mr. Dillinger smiled. “Just as I left it.”
“Good.”
“Let’s hope that’s the end of it.”
“See any of the Panthers around?” Derek asked.
Mr. Dillinger considered for a moment. “I don’t think so. I don’t know whether I’d recognize them if I saw them. You still think they’re the ones messing with Sarah’s equipment?”
“Maybe.”
Mr. Dillinger went back to his sharpening. “You might be right. You might be wrong. Maybe we’ll never know…Travis, will you run in and grab your blades for me?”
“Sure.” This was the opening they needed.
“And get Sareen’s, too. Muck’s thinking about starting her against the Towers.”
“Got ya.”
Travis and Norbert went into the dressing room while Derek stayed with his father, pretending to make conversation but really making sure Mr. Dillinger didn’t follow the other two. It took Norbert less time to gather up the camera and equipment than it did for Travis to root his skates out of his bag and find Sareen’s. They came out just as Mr. Dillinger was finishing up Dmitri’s second skate, running a thumbnail along the edge to check it. He shook his thumb, wincing at the sharpness.
“Good. Thanks, Trav.” Mr. Dillinger took Travis’s skates and looked down at the bag Norbert was carrying at his side. “You been shopping, Norbie?”
The boys f
roze. If he asked to see what Norbert had bought, he would find out about the camera. If he found out what the boys had done–taken his keys, more or less broken in, set up a camera to spy–then heaven only knew what he would do about it. And what would Muck, with all his lectures about “sneakiness,” have to say?
But Norbert was quick with an answer. “My mom made me buy some sweat pants.”
“Good, good–okay, see you boys later. You be here forty-five minutes before we’re on, okay?”
“Okay!”
“See you later, Dad.”
“See you, Son.”
They gathered in the health club off the pool area. No one ever seemed to be there working out, and no one was there this time, as they had been hoping. The entire team waited as Norbert flicked on the camera and checked through the viewfinder to see if there was anything on the tape. Norbert stared, checked switches, checked the tracking count, then lowered the camera and looked up.
“We caught something.”
“What?” Nish practically shouted.
“Don’t know. Just know that something set off the activator. There’s about thirty seconds of tape run off.”
The players’ excitement rose and they pushed in closer.
“There’s only one viewfinder!” exclaimed Norbert. “I can’t show everybody. Back off, okay?”
“Back off!” Travis repeated.
“We need a big-screen TV,” said Nish. “Like they have in the sports bars.”
“How would you know what they have in sports bars?” Wilson asked.
“I know.”
“Biggest screen in the world was at the 1937 Paris Exposition,” said Willie Granger out of nowhere. “Bigger than an Olympic ice surface.”
“Just everybody back away,” Sarah said impatiently. “Let Norbert check it and he’ll tell us what we’ve got.”
They backed off, waiting. Norbert raised the camera, the machine shaking from his nerves, and slowly he pressed the buttons first to rewind and then play the videotape.
“Hurry up!” shouted Nish. No one paid him any regard.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 1 Page 8