They had the wrong bottle!

“Maybe Booker drinks rum, too,” suggested Nish.

“Maybe,” Travis said. But something didn’t feel right.

Booker could be someone who drank a bit of everything, of course. And besides, finding a Seagram’s bottle at Booker’s house wouldn’t really have proven anything anyway, apart from the fact that Booker and the hit-and-run driver bought the same drink. But at least it would have been a clue, one that was linked to the scene of the accident and their only other clue: the piece of metal from an unknown Chevrolet.

Nish took the bottle and twisted off the cap. He sniffed the opening quickly, and jerked his head back. “Yuck! Makes you want to throw up without even drinking!”

Nish pushed the opened bottle towards Travis, who instinctively turned away. But then Travis turned back, sniffing hard.

“Let me see that.”

Nish handed over the bottle with a puzzled look, and Travis took it, sniffed again, wrinkled his nose, sniffed yet again.

“You’re supposed to drink it,” Nish said, “not inhale it.”

“This isn’t anything like what I smelled when Data got hit,” Travis said.

“We know that. This is a rum bottle, not whisky, remember?”

“But it isn’t even close to what whisky smells like.”

“The accident was weeks ago–how can you even remember?”

“Because I just smelled it again a few minutes ago.”

Nish blinked, waiting.

“At Mr. Dickens’s.”

It took a moment for it all to register. The eerily familiar, sweet smell of whisky coming out the front door, the red face of Mr. Dickens, his strange, unwelcoming behaviour.

Of course, thought Travis, that’s what was wrong with him. He wasn’t sick. He didn’t have a cold. Mr. Dickens was drunk! And maybe that’s why he wouldn’t drive them home; he was afraid to drive after what had happened before…

“We have to go back,” Travis said.

“Not again!” said Nish. “He’ll be watching for us this time!”

“Not to Booker’s–to Mr. Dickens’s. I want to check his garbage.”

 

This time they crept up warily on Mr. Dickens’s house, crouching low. The lights were still on, but there was no movement. Travis crouched even lower and scooted across the driveway to where Mr. Dickens had put out the garbage. On the other side of the bags was the blue recycling box.

It was full of cans. Only cans. Bean cans, corn cans, chopped-fruit cans, tomato-sauce cans, spaghetti cans…No bottles at all!

Travis desperately searched for a telltale glint of glass. But there was nothing. It was hard to believe someone could get through so many cans in a week; they almost seemed to have been arranged there on purpose.

Too perfect, he thought. He dug deeper, removing one can after another.

Glass glinted below!

Travis reached down and pulled a bottle free. He spun the cap off and sniffed, once.

The same sickeningly sweet smell.

He spun the bottle towards the best light.

Seagram’s V.O. rye whisky.

 

 

Travis now had the clue he and Nish had been looking for–even if it had shown up in an unexpected place–but he also knew that it didn’t really prove anything.

Finding the right kind of whisky bottle was no better than finding the right make of car. It seemed half the people in town drove Chevrolets, and the whisky was probably the most popular brand on the market.

Mr. Dickens was also one of the best-liked people in town. He was well-known and well-respected. His garage had an excellent reputation for good work and honesty. But still, Travis couldn’t shake a gut feeling. Mr. Dickens had behaved so strangely when they’d come to his door seeking safety.

The garage! Of course, Travis thought. Mr. Dickens’s garage! Where no one would ever need to know what work had been done. Not if you owned the garage. Not if you did the work yourself!

Travis felt sick. Sick because suddenly he felt certain it had been Mr. Dickens that night. Sick because someone like Mr. Dickens had lied and then tried to hide what had happened. And sick because, while he had two real clues–the Chevrolet and the empty whisky bottle–everything else added up to pure speculation.

All Travis really had was a gut feeling. And gut feelings didn’t count for anything with the police.

Travis shook his head in despair, and when he thought of what Mr. Dickens had done to Data, he wanted to cry.