Casey didn't know where he was when he woke and saw the worried faces of his parents and Hank hovering over him. In his freezing sleep he hadn't heard the ambulance siren, hadn't been aware of the frantic calling of his name by his father and Hank, didn't know he had been discovered and carried by his dad to the ambulance parked at the Willson Place where a doctor and two paramedics worked on Mr. Deverell.
"So, Casey," Hank said now, patting his shoulder, "you're some kind of hero saving Mr. Deverell's life. But what the heck were you doing at the Old Willson Place? And why didn't you stay put after you sent the emails?"
"Maybe he shouldn't be talking yet," Casey's mother said, giving her youngest son a look of loving concern.
"Hey, I'm fine," Casey told them. He tried to sit up, felt dizzy, and collapsed against the pillows. "The fire went out and I wasn't sure any of my messages got through, so I thought I'd better get to town for help before Mr. D. froze to death."
Casey's father had been listening in silence. Now he spoke. "That doesn't explain what you were doing out there, Casey. No question you saved Mr. Deverell's life, but going out there alone at night wasn't smart. Feel up to explaining it?"
"May I have a glass of water?" Casey croaked.
His mother poured ice water from a fat green plastic jug on the bedside table into a squat glass with a straw, gently lifted Casey's head, and put another pillow under it, then handed him the glass.
"How's Mr. D.?" Casey asked after he took a long swig.
"Not good," his dad said. "Still unconscious, poor soul. Casey, we're waiting for an explanation."
"Okay, Dad, here it comes." He handed the glass back to his mother. "But don't expect it in point form."
Chief Superintendent Templeton was a stickler for having all reports made to him as: point one, such and such, point two, such and such else, et cetera. Casey just wasn't up to thinking like that. His father nodded, and he began.
"It all started yesterday after gym when I heard Kevin Schreiver and Terry Bracco say they were heading out to the Old Willson Place right after school to —"
"Smoke," interrupted his father.
Casey nodded. He caught a fleeting smile around his dad's eyes. Did his father know that because he had done the same thing once upon a time? "I decided to get there before them and …"
"And …?" his mother prompted.
"And be there smoking a pipe when they got there."
"This pipe?" Casey's father took the antique pipe from his pocket, his face now unsmiling.
Casey nodded. "I figured they'd think that was a pretty cool thing to do. And they did. I hardly smoked. The tobacco I got out of Hank's cigarettes tasted awful, but I did get the pipe lit. Anyway, the pipe wasn't in my pocket when I went to put it back in its case at home, so I figured I must have lost it at the Willson Place. That's why I went back — to find it."
"Two Mounties from Fraserville are out in the hall," his father said. "You can tell the rest of your story to all of us together. Hank, will you get Staff Sergeant Deblo and Constable Hexall?"
Casey asked for the glass and took another long sip of water, thinking he would try to give his report to the Mounties in point form. Maybe that would put his dad in a better mood.
"Point one," Casey began, glancing at his dad. "As I looked over at the Old Willson Place when I was crossing the field, I saw a light for a few seconds in the front window. It moved, went out, and didn't come on again."
"Deverell?" Staff Sergeant Deblo questioned.
"I don't think so, sir," Casey said. "I found him about twenty minutes later. Can't see how he could've been that stiff and cold and snow-covered in such a short time. And I didn't see any light nearby when I found him."
Deblo frowned. "And our searchers didn't find a light near the gate. But Deverell would have needed a light, so where did it go? And how did he get to the Willson Place? Surely, he drove the back road we took and wouldn't have walked across the field the way you did, Casey. We've checked. His car was in his garage, but it had been driven sometime after the snow started. There were still wet areas under the tires."
"I didn't see a car or any tire tracks out there," Casey said." "But it was snowing pretty hard by the time I found him. The tracks would have been covered up."
The police had Casey tell how he had moved Mr. Deverell into the house. When he was finished, his dad said, "Casey, I'm very proud of your problem-solving ability."
Compliments from his father were few and far between, and this was one Casey knew he would treasure forever.
When Casey got to point eleven — his discovery of the "hate" headquarters — and explained about sending the emails, it was Staff Sergeant Deblo's turn to praise him. "You should consider the Mounties as a career, Casey. Your kind of thinking would be a real asset to the force."
After the Mounties finished questioning Casey, they politely said no to his suggestion that he help in the investigation. The focus of their inquiries, they told him, would, of course, be: Who was responsible for the violence against Mr. Deverell, the Finegoods, and the Olbergs? Who had set up the Hate Cell? And who owned the computer equipment?
Casey had those questions and so many other things to ponder that he told himself he didn't really mind all the snow-shovelling he would have to do as punishment for his reckless behaviour. Maybe the Mounties could get along without him, but he bet there was still something he knew that they didn't.
When he did return from the hospital, Casey not only had to shovel his own driveway and long sidewalk but the sidewalk of the Masons' house next door and the Olbergs' place next to it. That meant he was shovelling a whole city block every time it snowed, and it did so every day during his first week home. Worse, he was going to have to shovel like that all winter — and for no pay. Chief Superintendent Templeton believed in meting out punishment that "made the perpetrator think a lot about what he had done and kept him fit, as well."
Now, in the midst of his latest shovelling chore, the two little McKay kids came out with an invitation from Mrs. Olberg to join them for a cup of hot cocoa when he finished. Laszlo and Anna went back to tell their aunt that Casey would love some cocoa, and Laszlo returned with a shovel to help Casey so he could finish sooner.
Mrs. Olberg — Daisy — was an old friend of Casey's parents. It was she the Templetons had asked to search for a house for them when they knew they would soon be moving back to Richford. That it was almost next door to her was a plus for everybody.
Casey took off his shovelling clothes in the Olbergs' back hall and came up the few steps into the kitchen.
"Boy, your dad's a tough customer, Casey," Mrs. Olberg said, pouring Casey a big mug of hot cocoa and putting two homemade doughnuts on a plate in front of him. "I hear you're elected to shovel our whole block all this winter. Pretty nice for the rest of us, but poor you. Laszlo wants to help, so let him."
"I will," Casey said. "But, Mrs. O., we're getting so much snow so darn early this year. Shovelling's all I seem to do. I hardly have time for anything else."
Casey heard someone walking down the stairs. When he looked up, he saw Laszlo's mother enter the kitchen. He had met her before, of course, but was just as impressed each time. Maria McKay was very beautiful, with flashing black eyes and long black hair done in a thick braid that hung over her right shoulder. She wore a silver-blue tailored blouse and an ankle-length skirt of flowing cornflower-blue silk. Her neck was encased in a wide brace, and she limped a little.
Casey stood. "Good afternoon, Mrs. McKay."
"Hello, Casey," she said. "Sit down for goodness' sake." Her English was very good. Just the odd word sounded foreign.
"Would you like some cocoa, Maria?" Mrs. Olberg asked. "Or tea? I can make some in a minute and I'd like a cup, too."
"Tea would be good. Thank you, Daisy." Laszlo's mother turned to Casey. "Tell me what's happening with the investigation of the idiots who nearly killed me. Is it known yet who's responsible?"
Casey took a gulp of cocoa. "Well, I'm not officially in on the investigation, of course, but I can tell you the team has some promising leads."
"What you're really saying is nobody knows much."
"Maybe not, but I'll tell you this. My dad knows an awful lot about what makes these ‘hate' types tick, and you better believe he'll have some answers soon."
Mrs. McKay sighed. "That's what Daisy keeps telling me, but I don't know. I really thought coming to Canada would be the most wonderful thing for my children. I thought they would grow up in a land free of hate. I can't believe how wrong I was. Gypsies have a hard time of it everywhere in Europe. Look what's happened in the Czech Republic — people building a fence between themselves and Gypsy neighbours. You come to expect things like that in the Old Country. But here? Why here?"
Casey didn't know what to say, but he felt he had to answer, anyway. "Well, Mrs. McKay, there are probably only a few of these haters around at most."
Mrs. McKay took the cup of tea from her sister-in-law and shook her head. "I wish I could believe that, Casey, but every time I go downtown in Richford I get a lot of mean comments said to me. I swear there's a lot of hate in those voices."
"What's in those voices," Casey said with wisdom beyond his fourteen years, "is envy. Pure green-eyed envy!"
Mrs. McKay pushed another doughnut onto Casey's plate. "What a nice thing for you to say."
"Thanks, but I've had too much already," Casey said. "And, Mrs. McKay, I'm sure you'll soon feel better about living here." He stood to go, then turned to Laszlo. "I've got a lot of my old books around, Laszlo. You can borrow any of them for as long as you like."
"Can I get some now?" Laszlo asked.
"Sure, come on." Casey opened the back door and glanced out. "On second thought, Laszlo, come tomorrow instead, right after school." It was snowing once more. He was going to have to push the shovel around yet again.
Back outside in the falling snow, Casey let his mind dwell on the situation at his new school as he shovelled. Now that the guys have asked me to join the Coyote Club at school, and Marcie Finegood has smiled at me three times, I'm really in. If it'll just stop snowing so I can take advantage of the situation, I'll be set.
When Casey finally finished shovelling and returned home, there was nobody else there. He set the table, scooped six ginger cookies out of the cookie jar, put three back as he remembered the two doughnuts he had eaten at the Olbergs', poured himself a glass of milk, and headed for his room. At his desk he took out a notebook and turned to a page where numbered questions and answers were set up in point form:
Question 1: Was Mr. Deverell part of what was going on in the attic of the Willson Place, or was he on the trail of whoever had set up the Hate Cell?
Answer 1: Mr. D. never said anything political in class. But a science teacher didn't have the same opportunities to brainwash kids as a social studies teacher did. Mom's friend, Hilda Deverell (Mr. D.'s recent ex — his first wife died years ago), said he was a very tolerant person but a very nosy one. She could see him spying, but not being part of a hate group.
Question 2: Who drove Mr. D.'s car back to his garage?
Answer 2: It had to be someone who: (a) knew where he lived and that he lived alone; (b) didn't expect Mr. D. to be found so soon; and (c) counted on a search beginning only after Mr. D. failed to show up to teach the next day.
Casey figured Answer 2(a) could be anyone in Richford over the age of ten. Sitting back, he ate a cookie, then resumed his work. He wrote all he had learned from listening to conversations his dad had had with the RCMP in the Templetons' living room during the past few nights. The Mounties, knowing of Casey's father's experience in Bosnia, much of it dealing with ethnic cleansing and racial hatred, had asked him to co-direct the investigative team. Standing on a basement chair, Casey had positioned himself under a wooden grille built into the living-room floor and listened to his father and the Mounties talk. Later he had written down what he had discovered. Now he reread his notes:
Casey ate the last cookie, pushed his chair back, and put his feet on the desk. He thought about how the investigation was developing so far. His father and Hank, who knew more about computers than anyone in town and who had been hired by the police to assist in this particular case, had spent a lot of time in the Willson attic.
"You look like you're doing some pretty deep thinking, bro'," Hank said, breaking into Casey's reverie.
Casey looked up. "I thought you weren't coming home for supper."
"I'm not. I'm just here to check something on my computer."
Casey rubbed his chin. "Hank, I've been thinking …"
His brother grinned. "Tell me something new."
"I know all about the posters and stuff in the Willson attic, but what else was up there? Can you tell me?"
"I guess it'd be okay. Come to my room."
Casey got up and followed Hank to his bedroom. His brother took a seat at the computer, and Casey pulled up a chair next to him.
"Whoever was using that computer in the attic," Hank said, "bookmarked a number of sites. I downloaded files from a bunch of white supremacist and Holocaust-denial groups, including the National Alliance, the National Socialist Movement of Illinois, the Heritage Front, Skin-Net, the European Christian Defence League, and on and on. I also found out that the area Internet provider of all these is a technology centre in Idaho."
"What's the worst thing you found up there besides what's in the computer?"
"That's easy to answer — The Turner Diaries. A well-worn, heavily underlined copy."
"Hey," Casey said, "that's what those Oklahoma City bombing guys had."
"Yeah, it details a successful world revolution by an all-white army and the systematic extermination of blacks, Jews, and other minorities."
"Could that ever happen?"
"The diaries say it could — and should," Hank said. "And look at these." He handed Casey a sheaf of papers. "These are transcripts of radio broadcasts by the book's author, Andrew Macdonald, who was really William Luther Pierce, head of the National Alliance. He died in 2002, but his teachings are still widely followed. Between the book and these transcripts you can find out how to commit every kind of destruction. These guys use very sophisticated hate sites to showcase their racist and neo-Nazi ideas. They disrupt chat rooms and send thousands of unsolicited emails full of their views. And here's where they really do a lot of damage. They use Internet forums as a low-cost, convenient recruitment tool."
Hank had found lots of emails addressed to "White Canada." The server's post office box was under the name R.U. Withus.
"The Mounties have a watch on the post office box," Hank said, "but there's been no activity since the night of the attack on Mr. Deverell.
Poor Mr. D., Casey thought, he was still totally out of it.
"I gotta go, bro," Hank said, slipping a memory stick into his pocket. "See you later."
Alone again and frustrated at not being able to help in the investigation, Casey reviewed everything he knew so far carefully. Then he thought about the scraps of paper he had used to light the fire in the Willson place. Had anything been written on them? He couldn't recall.
He did remember thinking when he first saw the long, thin brass screws going through the crossed boards that they weren't the type a person could find just anywhere. For their science project he and Bryan had talked to the people at Sanford's Hardware on Main Street in Richford. Mr. Sanford himself had brought out a catalogue and ordered the screws from it. Casey and Bryan had needed only six of the minimum order of a dozen. Maybe the other six had been sold locally. Perhaps the ones in the door were those very screws. If they were, it would mean two things: the screws had been put in the door recently, and someone at the hardware store might recall who had bought them. He wondered what excuse he could use to ask the staff at Sanford's.
Casey closed his eyes and focused on the night at the Willson house. Step by step he pictured everything that had happened: Mr. Deverell lying in the snow, his hunt for something to pull him on — the drapes! No one on the investigation team had seen them because Casey had burned them. But he had known when he pulled them open the afternoon of the attack that they had been new. And he could remember the pattern clearly. If he couldn't trace the long brass screws, he might be able to find out who had bought the drapes and where. They would have been especially made for the Willson front window, he figured, because it was an odd shape — wide but not very high. He was pretty sure Richford didn't have a store that made drapes.
"Come to supper, Casey. Now!"
Casey figured his dad's loud, deep voice could be heard all over town.
"Coming!" he shouted, wishing Hank was eating at home for a change so his parents wouldn't have just him to concentrate on. He put away his notebook, feeling pretty upbeat. At least he had a couple of ideas he could explore on his own.