We crossed the road and followed a path of freshly trod footsteps that wound through the woods. We emerged in a clearing where a dozen people stood in a circle around a patch of frozen brown earth from which the snow had been dug away. At the center of the patch lay a crude red-and-white container that I would later learn had been fashioned from a scrap of steel cut from the bumper of Ethel, Leo’s Zamboni. It was filled with Leo’s cremated remains.
In their search of Leo’s home, the police had found another, typewritten note in which he had requested that his ashes be scattered on the spot where he and Blackburn had built their midnight bonfires. Leo wasn’t an ironic man, and I couldn’t imagine now that his nostalgia for those nights had been anything but bittersweet. But Blackburn had been his best friend, after all. So there we were: Wilf; Zilchy; Tatch; Elvis Bontrager and Floyd Kepsel and their wives; Francis Dufresne; Judge Gallagher; and my mother, leaning against Joanie. Darlene steered me to the side of the circle facing Elvis and Dufresne. Every one of them looked me over.
“Sorry,” Darlene said. “Please continue.”
“No trouble, darling,” Elvis said. He scowled at me while producing a Bible from under his arm. “We were just getting started.”
If Leo had claimed a denomination, it would have resided in the church of the recovering addicted. He had insisted that no clergy officiate at his funeral and that the service be limited to the reading of a single Biblical passage.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven…”
The reading finished, Elvis made a few remarks. He called Leo a “pillar of the community” for the many services he had rendered and said his death marked the “passing of an era,” Starvation’s “last days of glory.” Floyd Kepsel talked of how Leo’s gentle nature had complemented Jack Blackburn’s competitive intensity and praised Blackburn for recognizing that Leo could “bring something more to our boys than just the desire to win.” Neither Elvis nor Kepsel alluded to the circumstances of Leo’s death, how he had put a pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. It was as if Leo had died in his sleep.
Francis Dufresne stepped forward. He clasped his hands atop his gut as he spoke in his hand-me-down brogue.
“This is another terrible day in our great town,” he said. “A good friend-a good man-has fallen. Now I say ‘fallen’ because of course we all know the unfortunate details of Leo’s death, how it shocked us all, how it grieved us to the very core. In a town like this, everyone knows the Zamboni driver, am I right?” A few heads slowly nodded. “But apparently, folks, none of us knew Leo Redpath well enough. And for that we have no one to blame but ourselves. I know I blame myself.”
A sob tried to push up from deep in my belly, but I forced it down and stared hard at Leo’s makeshift urn. I wasn’t thinking about Leo, though. I was thinking about Jeff Champagne, sitting in a jail. I was thinking about that twelve-year-old boy in Escanaba. I was wondering if he played hockey, as Champy did when he was a skinny winger in Starvation Lake trying to land the last spot on the River Rats roster. I was imagining whether that boy looked up to his phys-ed teacher the way Champy once had looked up to Jack Blackburn.
But of course he did.
“It was ten years ago, almost to this very day,” Dufresne was saying, “that we lost our dear friend Jack Blackburn-another good, good man-in a different but equally tragic situation. With due respect to all of you and to the deceased, I would argue, dear friends, that we would not be here today if we had taken better care of our friend Leo in the wake of Jack’s passing.” He paused to look around at the gathering. “In the past week, we have heard much theory and speculation about what happened to Jack and Leo all those many years ago-spurious theory and speculation, if you ask me. Now, I’ve gone back and forth on this, as Augustus here can tell you, and while I appreciate that he has a job to do, and that you, Darlene, and your boss have a job to do, I simply cannot for the life of me see what good any of this prodding and poking of the past has done. Indeed, I’d say it has brought us nothing but grief. I’d venture that we would not be standing here today, with Leo reduced to ashes and Augustus like that and the Campbell boy in jail and Theodore in the hospital if we’d all just left well enough alone.”
“Amen,” Elvis said.
What did Elvis know? Nothing. What did anyone in Starvation Lake really know? I couldn’t blame the people of my hometown anymore than I could blame myself. Most of them were guilty of nothing more than ignorance. They wanted to go on with their lives and hope for the best. Did my father know where his thousand dollars would wind up? Maybe. Maybe not. But I couldn’t save him anymore.
Dufresne unclasped his hands and raised them in front of him. “So now, my friends, I’m imploring you, and everyone in the good town of Starvation Lake, to honor the memory of Jack Blackburn and Leo Redpath by letting them rest in peace. They lived their lives, they were good men-not perfect men, mind you, but good men-and now they are dead and gone.” He looked, in turn, at Judge Gallagher, at Darlene, and at me. “Wherever they are, I am sure they would ask the same simple favor. Let us bury them once and for all today.”
I took a step forward.
Wherever they are, he’d said. I knew where Leo was. At this moment, I had no idea what had become of Blackburn. There was a truth I had been selfishly trying to deny: Blackburn was still out there, he would not be deterred because he was powerless to deter himself, there were many who would help him carry out his missions, and the terrors he wreaked would be repeated again and again and create more and more ruined boys like Champy and Teddy and Soupy.
“No,” I said.
“Excuse me?” Elvis said. “Deputy, can you control your prisoner?”
“Sometimes,” Darlene said.
“No, by all means, let the boy speak,” Dufresne said. “Augustus knew these men well. Please. Son?”
He held his hand out to me, throwing a shadow across Leo’s urn. I did not take it. He knew where Blackburn was. He had known for ten years.
I looked directly at Dufresne. “What happened to Leo was not our fault,” I said. “It was not the town’s fault. You know that.”
“Well, son, I suppose we can agree to disagree.”
“No. It’s not a matter of opinion. You know.”
“What is it that I know?”
“You know Jack Blackburn was not a good man.”
“What the hell is this?” Elvis interrupted.
“Quiet, Uncle El,” Darlene said.
“Gus Carpenter has had it in for Jack ever since-”
“Shut your fat mouth, Elvis Bontrager,” Mom said. “Do you hear me?”
“Augustus,” Dufresne said. “I thought we were friends. I tried to help you as best I could, didn’t I?”
“Sure. Like you told me to look at the minutes of the meeting where the town council decided not to dredge for Coach’s body. Then you had your bartender-Loob, for Christ’s sake-go take the minutes so I couldn’t see them. I guess you think I’m pretty stupid, huh?”
“Not at all, Augustus.”
“How about that old calendar in your office?”
“A calendar? My God, what of it?”
“You got it from your bank, First Fisherman’s of Charlevoix. Then they got bought by First Detroit. And you stayed with them, right?”
“What in the world? We’re at a memorial service. This is no place for business.”
Judge Gallagher spoke up. “Why don’t you answer the question, Francis?”
Dufresne turned to him, unable to hide his surprise. “Ah,” he said. “Well, all right. Sure, I stayed with the bank, why wouldn’t I?”
“You wrote a check on that account in April of 1988, just a few weeks after Coach’s”-I hesitated-“incident. April twelfth, to be exact. For twenty-five thousand dollars. To Angus Campbell.”
“I’ve written a lot of checks to a lot of people.”
“Not for twenty-five thousand dollars in hush money.”
Dufresne folded his arms. “Excuse me?”
In the distance a siren wailed.
“I’ll show you,” I said. “Joanie, somewhere in that backpack I’ll bet you have a copy of that marina receipt we
