The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 2

by Roy MacGregor

  “Yes there is!” said Andy. “There goes one!”

  There was indeed another car out, crawling slowly along the next street. It, too, had just a small spyhole cleared through the snow on the windshield, and another small hole on the window of the driver’s side. Apart from that, the driver might as well have been in an army tank.

  Before Travis could stop them, half of the Owls had broken away in a slipping, sliding run for the nearest intersection, where they waited for the car to ease down into a half stop and then “walk” through the turn onto River Street.

  Andy was first to chase after the car and dip down to hitch onto the back bumper. Nish was second. The driver, his wing mirror caked in snow, his rear window buried, had no idea that they were there. They held tight, and the car swooshed them away over the frozen road.

  The car turned again at Cedar Street, and both Andy and Nish let go, yelling and screaming as they used the turn to launch themselves off in a long, spinning freestyle ride farther down River Street. The others chased along, thrilled with their new game.

  Travis felt a sudden burst of guilt. What if his father saw them? What if something happened?

  But what could happen? The roads were smooth with ice, the banks were soft, enough snow had fallen to pad any falls, and the cars were barely creeping along.

  They played past dark. They set up a system where a couple of Owls would struggle up the sliding hill by the school and spot cars daring to chance the slippery streets. A call that one was coming along Cedar would send a pack of Owls to the intersection, where they could hide until the driver–keeping his eyes fixed warily on the road ahead–had almost passed. Then they would scurry out, grab the bumper, and away. A call that a car was coming up River would send them in another direction.

  “Cedar!” Andy called out from the hill.

  Andy was doing hill duty with Travis, and in the sweep of headlights as the car turned onto Cedar and headed for the intersection, Travis could see Owls scurrying. Data with his head down, Nish jumping and rolling behind cover.

  Nish wasn’t complaining now, Travis thought. Of course by now, Nish would believe he had invented the game. Soon he’d be claiming a “New World Record” for hanging on to bumpers.

  The car slowed, and Nish and Data slipped out, grabbed the bumper, and were away down the street.

  Travis was looking ahead of them up River. Headlights were approaching, bouncing from one bank to the other.

  Another car was coming. And this one was out of control!

  “River!” he shouted.

  Andy immediately saw the danger.

  “They better ditch!” Andy shouted.

  “DITCH!” Travis yelled.

  “BAIL OUT! BAIL OUT!” Andy called, cupping his hands around his mouth.

  But it was no use; they couldn’t hear.

  The car was coming too fast! It slipped from side to side, the headlights running up the nearest snowbank and splashing out for a moment over the schoolyard and up the hill to Travis and Andy.

  Travis began running down the hill, slipping and calling at the same time.

  “NISHHHHHH!” he called. “DITCH!”

  The driver pulling the two “hitchers” swung to avoid the fishtailing vehicle, and his quick yank of the steering wheel sent the rear of his car sliding out over the centre of the road.

  With the sudden movement Data lost his grip. He flew out across the road, rolling, with Nish hurtling right behind him.

  “DAAAA-TA!” Travis called.

  Travis and Andy watched helplessly as a terrible scene unfolded below them. Both cars jammed on their brakes, the wheels locking and sliding, hopelessly, on the ice. Data and Nish seemed to float at first, still unaware of the danger they were flying into. And then Data raised his arms to cover his face.

  There was no crash, no screaming, no crunching of metal or glass or, for that matter, bones.

  Just a whumphhhh! The sound of a pillow swung against a wall.

  Not even a cry.

  And a second later, another soft thud, the sound of Nish hitting next, farther down the side.

  Then the sound of one car going up on the bank, the snow and ice crunching it to a halt. The sound of the other car finally catching, the wheels coming to a halt.

  And the sound of Travis’s own voice, screaming, “nnnnoooooooooooo!!”

  Travis was first over the snowbank and down onto the road. The driver who had, without knowing it, been towing the two boys was already out of his car, the door wide open and the interior light casting an eerie glow onto the scene.

  Nish was lying flat on his back, moaning, holding his arm.

  Data was lying to the side, halfway up the bank, his head pushed down against his shoulder. He was silent, as if sleeping.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” the first driver shouted. There was anger in his voice, mixed with concern.

  The door of the other car popped open, and the pale light inside revealed a large figure, huddled over the steering wheel, in a thick woollen tuque pulled down low.

  The second driver made an uncertain move to get out, his galoshes catching on something and kicking it free so that it jumped out the door and fell, ringing, on the icy road.

  Travis and Andy had to skirt the second car to reach their friends. Travis was so close he could feel the heat rising from the open door. And he could smell something. Something strong.

  Alcohol!

  “Nish!” Travis called. “Data!”

  Nish was moaning, twisting his body so he could cradle his arm. He was starting to cry. If Nish was crying, he had to be hurt.

  But still Data was silent, not even moving.

  Travis headed for Nish; Andy for Data. Andy dropped down onto his knees, almost spinning into their injured friend.

  “DON’T TOUCH HIM!”

  It was Sarah, screaming at the top of her lungs.

  “ANDY, DON’T TOUCH HIM!”

  Andy backed off as if Data were suddenly too hot to touch. Sarah’s scream had such urgency to it, such sureness, that he scrambled out of the way as Sarah and Jenny and several of the other Owls arrived at the scene.

  “He mustn’t be moved!” Sarah shouted. “Somebody call an ambulance!”

  The driver of the second car, the one that had hit the boys, was half out of his car. Travis looked up from where he was crouched beside Nish, who was starting to cry louder from the pain. Travis couldn’t make out a face; all he saw was someone large and unsteady. Then suddenly the bulky figure dropped back into the car and slammed the door.

  “I’ve got a cellphone,” the first driver said. He hurried to his open door and reached in towards the passenger seat.

  The engine of the second car roared. There was a loud clunk as the transmission was forced into gear. The car jumped slightly, and then the tires caught.

  “Look out!” Andy called. “He’s moving!”

  Travis had to push Nish farther to the side, raising a terrible, blood-curdling shriek from Nish, who was in no condition to move.

  “STOP! STOP!” Sarah screamed at the driver, half crying. “CAN’T YOU SEE THERE ARE PEOPLE HURT HERE?!”

  But he would not stop. The car lurched, shuddered, slid again. The wheels sang hideously on the ice, and the car jerked away, the Screech Owls scattering in its path.

  “We need the police here, too!” the first driver shouted into his cellphone. “And hurry, please!”

  There was such desperation in the man’s voice that Travis shuddered.

  “STOP!…STOP!…PLEASE STOP, BEFORE YOU HURT SOMEONE ELSE!” Sarah screamed after the departing car. But it was useless. Sobbing now, Sarah sank to her knees in the snow-covered street.

  Travis pulled her up, and as Sarah regained her feet, still sobbing, he helped brush off the snow.

  “How’s Nish?” she asked.

  “His arm might be broken,” Travis told her. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine!” she said, starting to run back. “Come on, we’ve got to
make sure no one moves Data! He’s hurt bad.” She sobbed again. “Really bad.”

  They turned together, holding on to each other. Travis could feel Sarah shaking through her heavy winter clothes. Car headlights danced over her face, showing not only tears, but also a fury Travis had never imagined possible in one so kind and mild as Sarah.

  There were more headlights approaching.

  And sirens.

  The ambulance was here.

  And right behind the ambulance, the police.

  Travis’s mother and father sat up late with him that night. He’d tried to sleep, but couldn’t. He lay in his bed and tried to turn his thoughts away from everything that had happened, but each time he was about to drop off to sleep, the day’s events would swarm back into his head.

  His father was on the telephone. Mr. Lindsay had called the police, the hospital, Muck, Mr. Cuthbertson, Nish’s parents, Data’s parents, the police again.

  “It seems no one got the licence-plate number,” he said at the end of this final call. His voice sounded tired, discouraged.

  Travis was drinking hot chocolate. It seemed to lessen the sting in his throat, but he still didn’t think he could talk without starting to cry.

  “What about the car?” Mrs. Lindsay asked.

  Mr. Lindsay shook his head. “No identification. There was so much snow over it, none of the kids could even tell what kind it was, let alone what colour.”

  “The man who stopped, didn’t he see anything?”

  Mr. Lindsay shook his head sadly. “It was Art Desmond. The real-estate guy. He was using his cellphone when the other guy drove off. He didn’t even get a look.”

  The police wanted to come around and talk to Travis in the morning. He wouldn’t, after all, be going to school, but this was hardly the day off he and Nish and Data and the rest had imagined. Travis had no idea what he could tell them. He hadn’t seen the driver’s face. It was too dark, and his tuque had been pulled down too low.

  Nish’s parents telephoned from the hospital. Nish had a broken wrist, but apparently it had set easily. He’d have to wear a cast for four to six weeks.

  “Then he’ll be as good as ever,” Mr. Lindsay explained.

  Good as ever? Travis wondered. Nish? He was tempted to make a little joke, but the impulse quickly died.

  The news about Data wasn’t as promising.

  “He’s still in surgery,” Mr. Lindsay said.

  Two police officers came to the house to interview Travis. One was a young woman, who was very concerned about how he felt. The other was an older man, who acted almost as if the Owls were the real criminals here. Twice he told Travis they could be arrested for “hitching.” Twice Travis told him they’d never do it again. He wished the policeman would believe him; he had never been more serious about anything.

  They went over the facts again, but they didn’t add up to much. Travis couldn’t think of anything to help in their search for the missing driver.

  “There was a bottle found at the scene,” said the woman officer.

  “What sort of bottle?” Mr. Lindsay asked.

  “Seagram’s V.O. rye whisky, thirteen-ounce–commonly known as a mickey,” the policewoman answered. “Empty.”

  “I think I heard something fall out of the car,” said Travis.

  “You’re certain of that, son,” the older officer said sternly.

  “Yes,” Travis said.

  “There must be fingerprints on the bottle,” Mrs. Lindsay suggested.

  The older officer looked at her quickly. “Fingerprints only mean something if you have someone you can match them to, ma’am,” he said. “Besides, he was probably wearing gloves. It was cold that day.”

  “We can’t even be absolutely certain it was his bottle,” said the younger officer with a sad look.

  “I think I smelled it,” said Travis.

  Both police officers turned back to Travis, keenly interested.

  “Smelled what?” the older officer demanded.

  “When he opened the door,” Travis said, “this strong smell came out. I thought it was alcohol.”

  “You know what alcohol smells like?” the older officer asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Think so isn’t good enough,” the officer said. “Would you be confident enough to tell a judge and a full courtroom that you smelled alcohol?”

  “Before we get to court,” Mr. Lindsay cut in, “you’re going to have to come up with a suspect, aren’t you?”

  The older officer looked up, as if challenged. “That’s fairly obvious, sir.”

  “And have you?”

  “Have we what, sir?”

  “Have you come up with a suspect.”

  “Not so far. No.”

  Around noon they got word about Data. One of the bones at the base of Data’s neck had been broken in the accident, but the surgery had gone well. He had been fitted with a thick wire “halo” around his head to keep his neck absolutely still. It was attached by screws that had been planted into his skull, and rested on his shoulders.

  Travis shuddered when he heard this. A “halo” suggested good behaviour, but they had been doing something terribly foolish–and it had all been started by Travis.

  Travis was feeling desperately sorry for himself when the telephone rang again.

  “It’s for you, son,” his father said, handing the receiver across the table.

  “Hello?” Travis said uncertainly.

  “It’s Muck,” a deep voice announced.

  “You’re our team captain, Travis,” Muck said. “I want you to make the calls. I want the whole team at the hospital at five o’clock. Understand?”

  “Y-yes,” Travis said, uneasily.

  “We’re going to see Data,” Muck said.

  “Is it all right?” Travis asked.

  “Yes, it’s all right. He’s asked for the whole team,” said Muck. “Are you okay?”

  Travis knew he wasn’t. “I guess,” he said.

  “Be there,” Muck said. “And be captain, okay?”

  Travis knew what Muck meant. He wanted Travis to make sure the visit went right. Muck would expect the same if they were down two goals in an important game: no matter how they might feel inside, the Owls had to believe things would work out, that in the end they would succeed together as a team.

  “Okay,” Travis said.

  The Owls gathered on the third floor of the hospital. Most of them had brought gifts. Sarah was going to give Data the old teddy bear she usually kept hidden away in a pocket of her hockey bag. Andy had a copy of The Hockey News. Jesse had a beautiful dream catcher that he wanted to hang from Data’s window to keep away the bad dreams and let in the good ones. Dmitri had a hockey cap from Moscow Dynamo that his cousin, Slava, had given him.

  Even Nish was there, holding out his cast as if it were some kind of medal for bravery.

  “It’s not plaster,” he said. “It’s some new kind of plastic they developed for space missions. I might even be able to play with it on.”

  Nish’s eyes were both black from hitting head first into the side of the car the drunk had been driving.

  “You look like you were in a fight with Tie Domi,” Sarah teased.

  “I was,” Nish shot back. “And if you think I look bad, you should see him. They got him in a room down the hall. He can’t walk or talk yet.”

  It would take more than a couple of black eyes and a broken wrist to shut up Nish.

  “Here come Data’s parents!” Jenny whispered urgently.

  The Owls fell silent. Mr. and Mrs. Ulmar and their daughter, Julie, came down the hall and turned into the reception area. They looked drained and beaten. But Mrs. Ulmar managed a smile. As soon as she saw them, she walked up and gave Nish a hug. Nish hugged back, using one hand, and turned beet red.

  “Larry’s glad you came,” she said. “He’s waiting for you.”

  “You–look–like–a–raccoon,” Data said when he saw Nish.

  “You look li
ke an angel,” Nish shot back.

  “Not–yet,” Data said, a weak smile forming. “Not–for–a–long–time…I–hope.”

  They gathered in a group around the bed. Data lay on his back, completely still, the halo preventing any motion of his head and neck. It was as if they were staring down at a stranger, not their friend. Travis felt nervous; he didn’t know how to act. Everyone had noticed the way Data spoke, each word like a sentence on its own.

  Sarah took charge. She walked to the head of the bed, then kissed her fingertips and gently placed the kiss on her friend’s cheek.

  “I brought you someone to keep you company,” she said, holding up the bear.

  Data couldn’t turn his head to look, but his eyes moved down so he could see.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  One by one, the others went up with their gifts and their hellos, and Data seemed pleased each one of them had come.

  “Do the screws hurt?” Fahd asked when it was his turn.

  “Only–when–I–do–somersaults,” said Data.

  Everyone laughed, and it felt, to Travis, like a magic remedy had just taken away the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was still Data, good old Data.

  “What can you feel?” Nish asked.

  Travis winced. Like Fahd’s question about the screws, this was something everyone wanted to know but no one else had dared to ask.

  “Not–much,” said Data. “The–doctor–can’t–tell–how–much–feeling–will–come–back.”

  “Will you be able to play again this year?” Fahd asked. The answer to that one was obvious, and as Fahd’s question hung in the air, they all wished he hadn’t asked it.

  Data shut his eyes. He couldn’t shake his head to say no. He had to say it out loud.

  “I–I guess–not,” he finally said.

  On Friday night, the Screech Owls played at home against Orillia. Mr. Lindsay drove Travis down to the rink, as usual, but for once neither father nor son said a word. Travis had never felt less like playing a hockey game in his life.

  When he reached the dressing-room door, he thought, at first, he must be early. Normally, as soon as the door was open just a crack, he would be greeted by the squeals and shouts of the Owls getting dressed for a game. But this time, as he shifted his bag and sticks off his shoulder and backed in through the dressing-room door, there was no sound from inside.