“Zeke Fontaine …,” Mr. Lindsay said. “I thought he had died years ago.”
Travis had gone to the source of the coach’s strange first name, and Mr. Lindsay had at last seemed willing to talk about the mysterious old man, even if, as he said, neither he nor anyone else knew the whole story.
“Zeke Fontaine was once a great lacrosse star,” Mr. Lindsay said. “Played out west on a couple of Mann Cup teams, I think. He came here in the 1960s and set up the town’s minor lacrosse system. At one point lacrosse was as big as hockey around here, you know, but it eventually faded and then vanished altogether – at least until this year, when Muck came along and revived it.”
Mr. Lindsay sipped at his coffee and stared out the window. “I should have seen the connection right away,” he said, almost to himself.
“What connection?” asked Travis.
“Muck Munro. He was a heck of a hockey player,” his father said. “You know that. Probably would have played in the NHL if he hadn’t got hurt. But he was an even more talented lacrosse player.
“Zeke Fontaine had two young stars,” he continued, “Muck and his own son, Liam. Liam was probably better than Muck. In less than three years Zeke built his team into a national contender. Hadn’t lost a single game all year when the bad stuff happened …”
“What bad stuff?”
“Liam got killed. At least people think Liam got killed – they never found the body. The lacrosse team was headed for the provincial championships, but they never played another game. And Zeke Fontaine never coached another game.”
Travis’s father was speaking almost dreamily now, as if Travis wasn’t even there. He would take his time – Travis knew his father well – but he would tell whatever he knew. Travis would just have to sit. Patiently.
“Zeke Fontaine claimed his son was attacked by a rogue bear. They lived out River Road – I guess he still lives out there – and the old man said his son was walking home from the rink when he got attacked.
“It made some sense. Farmers had been complaining about this huge black bear with a streak of white along one flank that had been attacking their stock – Silvertip, they called it. Some sheep had been killed and eaten, and even some cattle were slaughtered and, I think, a horse. It was pretty ugly.
“There was a huge hunt for the bear. They brought in rangers and even a couple of army snipers and killed every black bear they could track down. Soon as they killed them, they cut open their stomachs and analyzed the contents, but they couldn’t find any evidence whatsoever that any of them had attacked the boy.”
Mr. Lindsay fell silent.
“What about the bear, Silvertip?” Travis asked. “Did they shoot it?”
Mr. Lindsay took a long sip, remembering. “They did. Two local policeman, Darby Fenwick and Constable Rodgers – I forget his first name – cornered it back of Lookout Hill and one of them emptied his service revolver into it. But that wasn’t enough to stop Silvertip. He charged them both. Tore them to ribbons. Rodgers was killed straight away, but Fenwick took three days to die. Only time I ever saw your grandfather fall down on his knees and bawl. It was the worst thing that ever happened in this town.”
“Did they find the bear?”
“No. Never.”
“What about the boy?”
“Never found him, either. And that’s when the story turned really ugly.
“One of the other kids on the team claimed that Zeke and Liam had had a big fight at the rink, which was why the boy happened to be walking home that day. It’s a long haul out to where they lived, you know.
“Anyway, that got the police looking more closely at Zeke. They found a rifle at the house that had been fired recently. They found old clothes burned in a backyard barrel. They found a shovel with fresh dirt on it. Zeke had an answer for everything: he’d been shooting groundhogs; he’d been burning old oil rags; he’d been working in the garden.
“I know your grandfather, for one, never believed him. The police were convinced he’d done his own son in and sent the police on a wild goose chase – I guess you could say wild bear chase – that had cost the force two good men. They blamed Fontaine for their deaths.”
“Did they charge him?”
Mr. Lindsay shook his head. “Couldn’t. Never found the boy’s body. Never had any evidence apart from their own suspicions.”
“Wasn’t that enough?”
“Never stand up for a minute in court.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing. The town turned against Fontaine. He left town. I thought he moved back to the West Coast, where he’d played. I guess he moved back here after he retired. No one ever bought the Fontaine property even though it was listed for sale – people thought it was cursed after the three deaths, I guess. Only person who stood by Zeke was Muck Munro.”
“Muck?”
“Yep. And Muck, you’d think, would have reasons of his own to blame the old man. He’d lost his lacrosse team. He’d lost his chance at the provincial championship. He’d lost his best friend on the team. But unlike practically everyone else in Tamarack, he never once blamed Zeke for what had happened.”
“How did Muck get him to coach again?”
“Who knows? Maybe he thinks getting him back in lacrosse will do him good. Maybe he sees in you Owls what the two of them lost after Liam went missing – a chance to win the provincial championship.”
“You never know,” said Mr. Lindsay, finally smiling again. “Who’s to say Nish isn’t the greatest goaltending prospect in lacrosse history?”
“Get real,” said Travis.
An hour later the Screech Owls knew all about Liam Fontaine, Silvertip, the two dead policemen, and the great mystery of Zeke Fontaine, their new coach.
“It makes my skin crawl,” said Sarah.
“Fantastic,” said Nish.
Sarah turned on Nish, appalled. “Why would you say something like that?”
“It’s exactly what we want for our movie!”