“The remains have been identified as those of Liam Fontaine, a twelve-year-old Tamarack boy who disappeared under mysterious circumstances more than thirty years ago.”
Travis was not surprised to hear the newscast confirm what everyone in town already knew. The provincial police had called in the forensic investigation unit from Toronto, and more bones had been found in the rubble and rotting branches where Travis had landed when he fell down the bluff.
It was not a shallow grave. It was typical of a black bear cache, a kill hidden under branches and leaves and partially covered with earth. Teeth marks on the skull and several bones clearly indicated that the youngster had been killed by a rogue bear.
Zeke Fontaine had not, as so many had believed, killed his son.
Travis was taken to the hospital, cleaned up, checked over, X-rayed, and released. His left hand still hurt, but the doctors said he could play lacrosse if he wanted, so long as he was careful not to use his hand too much.
There was no more talk about a movie. No one wanted to make the ninth episode of The Blood Children or even the first episode of The Killer Bears of Tamarack. Now that they knew the truth, it seemed wrong to think about Liam Fontaine’s fate as a plot for a made-up story, and none of the Owls ever again mentioned it – not even Nish, the director.
All the Owls wanted to do now was concentrate on lacrosse, and they were happy to have a practice to go to the next day. Even so, they had trouble concentrating on breakouts and defence patterns and the like. Travis, in particular, found it hard to keep his thoughts on the game.
Two newspapers from Toronto had sent reporters to talk to him and the other Owls involved in the find. No one, mercifully, had mentioned Nish’s ridiculous movie or how he came to be wandering through the deep woods dressed in his lacrosse goaltending equipment. That would have been just too hard to explain.
And now there was a television camera at the practice. Travis was wondering what effect the camera might have on Nish when he noticed a couple of familiar figures standing behind the seats, watching.
One was his grandfather, who rarely came to games and had never, ever been to a practice.
The other was old Mr. Donahue from the Autumn Leaves Retirement Home.
Muck ended the practice with a team run around the boards, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise, then in a long figure-eight pattern with the players crossing at centre floor lobbing a ball back and forth to the nearest passing teammate.
Travis was exhausted. After Muck blew the whistle to signal practice was finished, Travis loped over to where Mr. Fontaine was hauling the water bottles out of the players’ box. He picked one up and sprayed the water directly into his face. Travis had come over deliberately. He still hadn’t said anything to Mr. Fontaine.
“How’s the Logan?” Mr. Fontaine asked, smiling.
“Fine,” Travis said. “I love it.” He didn’t know what else to say.
Mr. Fontaine looked younger. He no longer seemed so white, so stooped. No longer seemed as if he were trying to disappear as he walked.
Mr. Dillinger was holding the door open for them to leave the floor and head for the dressing rooms. Mr. Fontaine went first, Travis right behind him.
His grandfather and Mr. Donahue were waiting.
Mr. Fontaine kept his head down, though Travis knew he must have recognized the two former policemen.
“Do you have a moment, Zeke?” Travis’s grandfather said.
The old lacrosse coach stopped, fidgeting with the water bottles he was carrying. He seemed to have trouble looking at the two men.
“Ed and I just want to say how sorry we are,” old Mr. Lindsay was saying. He had his hand out, waiting.
Slowly, old Mr. Fontaine reached for the hand of the former policeman who had always believed something else had happened to little Liam Fontaine.
Muck wanted to speak to them.
He had never done this before. Muck speaking to them before a game was rare. Muck speaking to them after a game was almost unheard-of. Muck speaking to them after a practice was unimaginable.
Nish was lying flat on his back on the floor. He had his mask off and was holding a water bottle directly over his head, spraying hard. Sam and Sarah were also on their backs on the floor, their legs resting on the bench. Mr. Fontaine had said it was a great way to get the blood flowing right again.
“Saturday morning we start the tournament,” Muck said. “We’re the hosts and, naturally, we don’t want to let the town down. That means you’re expected to behave well in addition to playing well. Got that, Mr. Nishikawa?”
“Got it, Coach!” Nish called from the floor, still spraying water in his face.
Muck frowned. He hated being called “Coach,” which only made Nish do it all the more.
“When we began the season we didn’t know much about this game,” Muck said. “I think we owe Mr. Fontaine here a vote of thanks for helping us out.”
The dressing room erupted with cheers.
“Our aim is to provide some real competition,” Muck said, “and when we played against Brantford, we proved we can do it. Mr. Fontaine has another thought, though, and I’d like you to hear it from him, if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Fontaine swallowed hard and stepped to the centre of the floor.
Even Nish was paying attention now, his empty water bottle held to his chest like a newborn baby.
Mr. Fontaine cleared his throat. He rapped his old Logan stick once on the floor.
“We can win it,” he said.
Nothing more. And certainly nothing less.
We can win it.