Runner (13 page)

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything. I'm just careful."

I followed the railroad tracks south just like he said. I didn't find a decent path until I reached the bridge near Sixty-first Street. As I headed down the trail that led back to the street, I saw an old sleeping bag and a jacket and a piece of plastic that was strung up like a tent. I felt as if I'd seen it all before, and then I remembered. The guy I had pushed to the ground: this had been his home.

Sunday morning sunlight came streaming in the little windows of the boat, waking me. It was the first perfectly clear, perfectly sunny day in months. By ten, Golden Gardens Park was filling up with people picnicking, flying kites, lying on the beach.

I walked to Market Street and killed time at Secret Garden books. The only book I've ever bought was the Christmas gift for my dad, but they never chase me out, which is why I like the place. Just before noon, I headed over to the library.

Phrases had been swirling around in my head, phrases I didn't want to think about.
Terrorist cells
and
Red Alerts
and
soft targets.
Arnold had talked about them, and my dad had talked about them, and there was stuff in the newspaper almost every day. I was getting out—but before I got out, I had to know just exactly what it was I'd been in.

I was there when the library doors opened, so I was able to
get a computer with Internet access. I sat down, logged on to Google, and typed in the word
smuggling.
Instantly, the screen filled with websites on the smuggling of drugs and people.

None were what I was looking for.

I went back to the main Google page and typed in what I should have typed from the start:
plastic explosives.

Immediately the page came alive. I scanned the options, swallowed hard, and opened one. A long article giving the whole history of plastic explosives filled the screen. Some of it I couldn't follow. But not all of it.

Phrases jumped out at me that made me go cold all over.
Easily molded ... puttylike ... odorless ... hard to detect.

I remembered what my dad had said to me months before. By boat, the Ballard Locks were five minutes from Shilshole marina; the Aurora Bridge was thirty. Ferries and cruise ships were always moving through Puget Sound. Terrorists would have trouble smuggling one hundred pounds of explosives into the country all at one time, but if they got the explosives in little by little, and if they got help from someone who didn't know what was going on—they could succeed.

My head started spinning and the ground seemed to move underneath me the way the
Tiny Dancer
moves in a storm. My breath started coming faster and faster; my hands were gripping the sides of the table so tightly my knuckles were white. I don't know how long I sat there, but when the woman across from me leaned over and asked if I was all right, I snapped out of it.

I let go of the table. "I'm fine," I told the woman. I logged out and left the library.

***

I had to find a place where I could sit down by myself and think everything through, but the sunny day had brought people out everywhere. Then I remembered Cloud Park on Fifty-eighth Street. It wasn't much more than a bench surrounded by some flowers, but it was close, and it would be empty.

When I reached the park, I sat down, my head still spinning. I had to decide what to do, and I had to decide fast. The obvious thing was to go to the police. But if I did, and if it turned out it wasn't plastic explosives? The cops would have a laugh over that.
Idiot kid turns himself in ... thinks he's involved in terrorism, when he's just a small-time drug smuggler.

I could throw the stuff—whatever it was—into the Sound. That would get rid of it, and keep the police out of it. Then I remembered the way the fat guy had looked when I'd said I was going to do that, and I felt fear go through me.

That's when I thought of Melissa. Her dad was a lawyer, a hotshot lawyer, considering the money they had. He'd been my dad's best friend; he'd said he'd wanted to help. To get to him, I'd have to talk to Melissa first.

I fished a couple of quarters out of my pocket and walked over to Walter's. On the wall in the back by the bathrooms were a pay phone and a phone book. I looked up her number, dropped in two quarters, and punched the buttons. The phone rang and her voice came on the answering machine: "No one's home right now. Leave your number and we'll call you. Bye."

I didn't have a number to leave.

When I hung up and turned around, I saw Kim Lawton, my
mom's old friend. "Hey, Chance," she said, smiling. "Good to see you. Have a seat. Let me make you a hot chocolate, or an espresso if you want."

I shook my head. "I can't, Kim. I've got to go."

"Come on, Chance. I never see you anymore. What's the big hurry? Sit down, tell me what you've been doing."

For a moment, I thought of telling her everything. It was eating me up inside, and I wanted to get it out. But what would be the point? She couldn't help me.

"I'll come tomorrow," I said. "Really, I will. But I've got to go now."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Once outside, I headed down to the marina. I didn't want to go sit on the boat, but where else could I go? I walked down to the water, and then crossed the marina parking lot. Finally I could see Pier B. Then I stopped. Leaning against the chain-link fence was the fat guy. I took a deep breath and then walked up to him. "What did you find out?" I said.

He motioned toward the parking lot. His silver Acura was parked there. "Come on," he said. "Let's go for a ride."

He pulled out of the parking lot and headed along Seaview Avenue. He made the turn toward Sunset Hill, and then drove slowly up Golden Gardens Way, where Melissa lived.

"Gems," he said as he drove. "Sapphires and emeralds and stuff like that. In those red packages. They're from Burma. First they get them across the border and into Thailand, and from Thailand to Canada. Then they smuggle them here. I don't really understand it all. I do know Burma is one messed-up country."

"They don't feel like gems," I said. "The packages are squishy."

"That's an old trick. They hide them inside Spackle or Silly Putty or something like that. Those packages probably still have their labels on them. A customs agent looks at them, and he might not look twice."

"You're sure about this?"

He nodded. "I'm sure. I talked to the main man. I told him I had to know. I told him I was quitting if he didn't come clean."

I looked at the fat guy as he drove. I wondered if he'd been worried about the same thing that had me worried. He eased to a stop at the stop sign at the top of the hill. "This doesn't change anything," I said as he accelerated. "I'm still quitting."

"You told me. OK? You don't have to tell me again. They're going to take the packages off your boat on May first. That's the opening of boating season. There'll be lots of activity on the marina—no one will notice anything. You sit on the bench by the utility building around noon and they'll contact you. You give them the packages and then you're done. Your old man won't be around, will he?"

I shook my head. "Not on opening day. He'll be at the locks looking at all the boats."

"OK then. It's set."

We were back at the marina. The fat guy pulled to a stop; I stepped out of the car and closed the door. As he drove off, I suddenly felt incredibly light and free. I almost wanted to laugh. To think that just a few minutes earlier I'd believed I was involved with al-Qaida and explosives, and all the time the
packages had contained gems. Nobody ever got killed by a sapphire.

I spent that afternoon hanging out along the waterfront. The piers were full of people getting their boats in shape for the summer. They'd be going up to the San Juan Islands or to Vancouver Island or Alaska. When people smiled at me or waved or said a few words, I smiled or waved or said a few words back. The sun was out and the whole world looked beautiful.

All the other years I'd lived on the boat, I'd hated seeing the activity at the start of boating season. Knowing that other people were headed off to other places had made me feel nailed to the pier. But now, I felt what they felt. Because I was going, too. As soon as school ended, I was going.

That's when I saw my dad. He was leaning against the railing by Pier K, hollering out advice to some guy who wasn't paying any attention to him. His hair was long again, long and straggly and dirty. His clothes were ratty, and he hadn't shaved in a week.

Maybe the bike shop would end up hiring him, and maybe they wouldn't. It didn't really matter. Eventually, he'd lose the
Tiny Dancer.
It might be three months, it might be three years—but he'd lose it. And when he lost it, he'd have lost everything. He wasn't ever going anywhere on that crummy sailboat. His dream was a kid's dream—like wanting to grow up and be a fireman and rescue babies from burning buildings. Everybody knew that. Everybody but him.

Tuesday there was a package. Not a red one—there hadn't been any red ones since the night I'd waited on the beach—but one of the regular ones. Still, my hands shook as I shoved it into the backpack. I didn't want to get caught. Not now, not with the end in sight. I turned and headed back to the marina. I wanted to sprint, but I made myself run at my normal pace. Nothing unusual—the same as always. That was the way to act.

As I neared Pier B, I slowed to a walk. A security guard was coming straight toward me. I tried to smile, but felt the muscles in my cheeks twitch. The security guy nodded. "Howdy," he said, dragging the word out like a Texan in a cowboy movie.

"Howdy," I replied, my pronunciation weirdly mimicking his. His smile turned to a glare, but he kept walking.

After I showered, I went back to the
Tiny Dancer.
I had to let my dad know that I was leaving, that he was going to be totally
on his own. I owed him that. I'd told him a couple of times before, but he hadn't really believed me, probably because I hadn't really believed myself. Now I knew, so he had to know, too.

He didn't show up for an hour, and he'd been drinking. Still, he wasn't so drunk that I couldn't talk to him.

"I've got to tell you something," I said.

He dropped onto the bench by the wheel. "So tell me."

"It's about June, once I graduate."

"What about it?"

"I'm going to leave here. I'm going out on my own."

He raised his head. "Is that right?"

I nodded.

"OK. What is it you're going to do?"

"I've got a plan."

"How about telling me what it is?"

"Not yet. I will though. And I won't just disappear," I added, suddenly remembering my mom. "I'll keep in touch. I promise."

He stared at me, the alcohol haze lifting. "You really mean it, don't you? You are leaving."

"I mean it."

He looked around the sailboat. "I guess there isn't a helluva lot for you to stay for, is there?"

I didn't answer.

"Well, good luck and all that." He paused. "I mean that too."

"I know you do," I said.

I started to go down below, but one more thing had to be said, so I turned back. "You understand what this means, don't you? Moneywise and all?"

He looked at me. "I understand, Chance."

"You're going to have to—"

He put up his hand to stop me. "I understand."

He left the boat about ten minutes later. I was hoping he'd come back early that night, but around eleven I gave up hoping and switched off the light. I slept until I heard his footsteps overhead, and came completely awake as he made his way into the cabin.

He banged into just about everything as he undressed and climbed into his berth, but once in there, he fell sound asleep within a couple of minutes. I lay in my berth, thinking, as the clock ticked away the minutes. When I probably could have fallen back to sleep, the sirens started. It seemed like a dozen emergency vehicles were tearing down Seaview Avenue. For a second, I thought they were coming after me, but then I figured it was probably some car crash or a fire. A couple of times I thought about going topside to see what was up. Finally the sirens stopped, and a little later I fell asleep.

At school the next day, I bought a Coke and a package of peanut butter crackers for lunch and sat on the steps just outside the commons. The sun was out, but there was a south wind that made it cold enough so that I had the stairway to myself.

I'd been sitting for about five minutes when the main door opened. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Melissa. "I've been looking for you," she said.

"I didn't think you'd ever want to talk to me again."

She shrugged. "I don't, and I do."

She sat next to me and looked out toward the street. "I got into Brown," she said at last. "The letter came today. My mom just called me on my cell phone and read it to me."

"Isn't that good?"

"It's really good. Some people would say it's even better than Stanford."

"Congratulations. Way to go."

"Thanks."

Somehow she didn't seem happy. "What's wrong, Melissa?"

She shook her head. "I don't know, Chance. It just doesn't seem fair. I'm going off to college and..." Her voice trailed off. "You know what I mean."

"Don't worry about me. I'm quitting. A few more weeks and I'm done."

Her eyes brightened. "Swear to God?"

"Swear to God."

For a few minutes we sat watching the cars stop and start on Fifteenth Avenue.

"Are you glad to be finishing up high school?" she asked.

"Sure. Aren't you?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I'm really, really glad to be getting away from here, especially now that I know I'm going to a top school. But there are other times when I think I'm going to miss Lincoln, and I wish I didn't have to leave."

I shook my head. "The only thing I'll miss about high school is you."

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could take them back. They sounded so stupid. But Melissa smiled.