The Owls had signed autographs after the big win against the Bears–Nish still the biggest draw–and then boarded the school bus. Instead of delivering them to the usual pick-up spot where they would meet their billets, Mr. Dillinger took them out on the main road towards the university, then turned down the Duponts’ street and parked opposite their driveway, where Nicole and J-P and several of their friends from the neighbourhood were waiting.
“Now you skate for fun!” Mr. Dillinger announced as he turned off the engine and yanked on the emergency brake.
It was a wonderful surprise, arranged almost entirely by Nicole and J-P. Monsieur Dupont was just putting away the snowblower. The ice glistened, the perfect result of a careful flood. There were patio lanterns strung on poles around the rink. Madame Dupont had hot chocolate for everyone, and homemade cookies and tarts and tiny chocolate bonbons that she had made herself.
The Owls all had their skates. They put them on while sitting on benches in the tent garage, then stepped carefully along a path made by Monsieur Dupont’s snowblower, then onto the ice. J-P had set up the sound system so it would first play a song in English that everyone knew, then a French song, then an English song again. All the Quebec kids knew the French songs by heart, and the others, like Sarah and Travis, wondered why they had never heard them before, for the music was wonderful.
They skated in circles to the music. They played “whip” until Nish was so exhausted he lay on his back like a beached whale on top of the far snowbank, tossing mittfuls of snow onto his own face, where it melted and cooled him. They drank hot chocolate and ate candies and regretted that soon Muck’s curfew would be in force and Mr. Dillinger would have to deliver them all back to their billets.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Nicole said to Travis. “Sometimes from the end of the street you can see the northern lights.”
They slipped away down the path, tiptoeing on their skates until they reached the tent garage, and then quickly changed into their boots.
Travis’s feet always felt odd when he first put on his boots after skating, but particularly so after skating on an open-air rink. They felt slightly unsteady, like he had rubber bands connecting his joints instead of muscles.
He pretended to stumble and reached out and took Nicole’s hand. She giggled softly. He could feel the colour rising in his face. He knew his move must have looked pretty dumb–faking a fall so he had to grab something to hold him up. But Nicole didn’t seem to mind. She tightened her grip on Travis’s hand. He felt his face turn even hotter.
They were away from the lights now. The street was dark but for a few streetlights. Travis looked up; the stars were thick and plentiful. He recognized Orion by the belt, the Big Dipper by its handle. He wondered if he should point them out to Nicole. She might be impressed. But he knew only two constellations. If she asked about any others, he wouldn’t have a clue.
“There,” she said. “You can see them rippling.”
Travis knew Nicole was referring to the northern lights, but he wasn’t looking up any more.
A dark shape was moving by the school bus!
Something was there, but he didn’t know what. A big dog? A person? He had seen a shadow, and the shadow had jumped as if it was hiding.
“Shhhhhhh,” he said.
Nicole turned, surprised, and saw that Travis was pointing toward the bus. They ducked into the nearest driveway, using the high snowbanks as cover. They peeked out from behind, waiting.
“What’s going on?” Nicole whispered.
“I don’t know.”
“Is it one of your team?”
“I don’t think so.”
They watched for a moment. It was definitely a person. Whoever it was, he was wearing a bulky parka, with the hood drawn up. The hood had a thick fringe of fur, so his face was hidden.
The figure rounded the side of the bus. A big glove came off, and a hand went into a side pocket and came out with a can of something.
“Spray-paint,” whispered Nicole.
“What’ll we do?”
“I’d better get my father!” Nicole said.
The two of them cut through the deep snow of a neighbour’s backyard. They scrambled over the Dupont’s back fence and ploughed through the heavy snow until, with difficulty, they climbed the snowbank at the far end of the rink, rising over it just as Nish, still lying on his back and eating snow, caught sight of them.
“Ohhhhhhhh–where–have–you–two–been?” Nish sang in his most irritating voice.
Nicole and Travis were bounding down the side of the snowbank.
“Where’s Muck?” Travis called.
Nish pointed towards the patio doors.
Nicole was already at the back of the house. She yanked the patio doors open and ran in, her mother shouting at her–probably about getting snow all over the carpet, Travis figured.
By the time Travis got inside, Nicole was calling to her father, who was already up and moving.
“There’s someone painting the bus!” Travis shouted at Muck and Mr. Dillinger, who had been sitting over a cup of coffee with Monsieur Dupont. There was a cribbage board and cards on the table and a hockey game on TV. Montreal Canadiens versus the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim, Travis noted. Strange, he’d been so caught up in this tournament, he’d almost forgotten about the NHL. He tried never to miss “Hockey Night in Canada” when Paul Kariya was on.
Muck was pulling on his big snow boots, reaching for his coat. Monsieur Dupont was already at the door. Mr. Dillinger was struggling to tuck in his shirt.
“Vite!” Monsieur Dupont called to his wife. “La police!”
Madame Dupont moved quickly towards the downstairs telephone.
Muck and Monsieur Dupont were out the door, doing up buttons and zippers as they ran.
Through the glass of the patio door, Travis could see the kids all standing on the ice, watching with puzzled faces. Everyone knew something was up.
Travis and Nicole fell in behind the men. As the only two already out of their skates, they were the only ones who could follow.
Travis had barely reached the end of the Duponts’ driveway when he saw Muck in full flight down the street toward the bus.
The spray-painter in the hooded parka saw him and bolted. Whoever it was, he was very fast.
Muck turned and yelled at Monsieur Dupont, who had fallen in behind him.
“La voiture!” Muck shouted.
Monsieur Dupont spun on his heels and ran back to his car, started it up, and backed out with the heavy winter tires spinning a sudden spray of snow. He switched to a forward gear and sped away, the car fishtailing down the street as he joined in the chase.
“C’mon!” shouted Nicole. “We can cut him off this way!”
To Travis, they seemed to be running in the wrong direction. But Nicole knew how the streets ran. She and Travis dashed up one block, across another street, then turned right.
Down the street Travis could see the hooded spray-painter, running straight towards them. Muck was still in pursuit, but had fallen behind.
He was coming closer! Travis had no idea what to do.
What if he had a gun?
What if he had a knife?
“We have to turn him!” Nicole shouted.
There was just one side street between them and the hooded figure. She jumped in the air and shouted.
“Yahhhhhhhh!”
Travis didn’t know what to do. He jumped up and shouted, too.
“Yaaaahhhhhhhhhh!”
He hoped their winter clothes made them look bigger than they were. It didn’t matter, though, as Nicole was already racing towards the spray-painter. Travis joined her, praying that the dark figure would turn away from them into the side street.
He did!
His face still hidden deep inside his hood, he took one look up at Nicole and Travis, then one look back at Muck, who was grimly churning up the street towards him. Mr. Dillinger was now in view farther back, still trying to tuck in his shirt as he ran, jacketless, after the man who’d dared deface his bus.
Just as the hooded figure turned, a pair of extremely bright headlights snapped on, catching him in their harsh light and bringing him to a stop as suddenly as if he’d just run into a wall.
It was Monsieur Dupont. He had been lying in wait in his car, his headlights off.
That moment’s hesitation was all Muck needed. He dropped his shoulder and charged straight at the spray-painter. The man’s knees buckled, spilling him onto the road with Muck hanging on tight.
Monsieur Dupont shot the car forward, then jammed on the brakes, causing the car to slide halfway up a snowbank, where it hung helplessly, the snow frying in the heat of the exhaust system and steam rising from under the rear wheels.
Mr. Dillinger, his shirt flapping loose, went down on one knee, spinning into Muck and the hooded figure as they lay on the icy road. He grabbed the man by both shoulders and slammed him hard down on the ice.
A siren howled!
Travis and Nicole turned quickly to see where the awful sound was coming from. Three police cruisers, their lights flashing, were turning towards them off the Duponts’ street, the cars swaying dangerously on the ice.
Monsieur Dupont roughly grabbed the can of spray-paint and tossed it angrily into the nearest snowbank.
Muck was up on his knees now. He seized the hood of the parka and yanked hard.
Travis gasped. He couldn’t believe what he saw as the hood came down.
Brown, curly hair.
It was Bart Lundrigan–the reporter from the Montreal Inquirer.