They packed in silence. Travis stuffed everything back in his knapsack–pants, shorts, shirts, sandals, bug spray, sunblock, flashlight–and gathered together his fishing equipment and his hockey bag. The hockey bag was toughest. Every piece of equipment he picked up and stashed away reminded him of Muck.

Travis felt on the verge of tears. And all he could think about was Muck sitting in a jail cell somewhere, his big meaty hands folded in his lap, waiting.

Data came in with his boom box. Travis had to resist the urge to rip it out of his hands and heave it down the steps. Data was thinking not of Muck, but only of his poor tape recorder and how hard it had been used.

“You wrecked my tape machine, you dummy!” Data said to Nish.

Nish turned, shocked. “Whatdya mean, ‘wrecked’?”

“You pushed the wrong button with that stupid stick. You hit the record button instead of play, and now my batteries are run down.”

Andy pushed the eject button and examined the tape.

“You ruined the mosquito recording,” he said to Nish.

“How?”

“Taped right over it. It’s gone.”

“Damn it!” said Nish. He snatched the tape from Andy and threw it against the wall. It bounced onto Travis’s bunk, landing square in the centre of the pillow.

The record button? Travis’s mind was racing. He leapt for his bunk, grabbing the tape before Nish could pick it up and heave it again.

“What’s with you?” Nish demanded.

“What if the phone call’s on this tape?” Travis yelled, holding it up over his head. “Maybe it could give us some clues!”

“Huh?” the others said at once.

“The call that came in to Buddy’s cellphone,” Travis explained. “It could all be here if Nish accidentally recorded it!”

“Put it in!” Gordie shouted.

“Batteries are all dead!” said Data.

“Empty your flashlights!” Travis commanded.

The boys rooted frantically in their packed bags and came up with enough batteries to supply the boom box. Travis put the tape back, rewound it, and pushed play.

They waited, the room heaving with their tense breathing.

The tape hissed, then they heard Buddy’s cellphone:

“Rrrrriiiiinnnggggg!…Rrrrriiiiinnnggggg!…What the–Click! [the light going on] …Who the hell–?… [a crash, the cellphone dropping, Buddy swearing] …Hang on! Hang on! Just a damned minute, okay? Some kid snuck in here and…”

Buddy’s cursing went on for some time. The boys listened, picturing Buddy trying to beat off the shaving cream while keeping up the conversation.

Buddy didn’t seem to have much respect for the person he was talking to–but then, Buddy had never shown respect for anyone. The swearing and contempt in his voice reminded the boys how much they had disliked him.

“Now you listen here…I thought we were perfectly clear on that matter. You had until midnight tonight to meet those payments, otherwise the island camp is in a default position…. Just a damn minute here, mister, I’m talking!…You already know that my partners are more than willing to bail you out one last time, but in order for them to forward the funds to your bank account, you’ll need to sign those papers I gave you…. [a long pause, while Buddy listens]…Morley, please, I don’t need any of your whining right now. It comes down to a simple choice for you, the way I see it. You sign the papers, my group assumes control of the entire camp, or the island camp fails completely. Think of it this way, Morley, my friend: you sign the papers, you get to stay on. You don’t sign them, you’re out of business tomorrow morning…. [another long pause]…Fine, the boathouse at eleven tonight…. I’m glad you finally see things my way. This is going to work out just fine…Click!…”

The tape continued to hiss quietly, still recording after Buddy had ended the call. They could hear him swearing, still, as he wiped his hand and the cellphone clean. They could hear him moving about the cabin, probably starting to dress, and still cursing the kids who had broken in and filled his hand with shaving cream.

Travis got up and stopped the tape. They had heard enough. He walked over and hugged a startled Data.

“What’s that for?” said Data.

“For thinking only about your stupid tape recorder.”

“What about Nish?” Andy asked. “He’s the guy who pushed the wrong button.”

“I did it on purpose,” Nish claimed. No one, of course, believed him for a moment.

“Who’s Morley?” Lars asked.

“Mr. Clifford, dummy,” Nish said. “The guy who murdered Buddy.”

“The suspect,” Travis corrected.

“C’mon–we have to get Data’s tape to the police.”