Runner (14 page)

"Really?"

"Really."

Just then the warning bell for fifth period sounded. We stood and climbed the stairs, but when I went to open the door, she put her hand on it and turned to me. "Let's write letters to each other next year, Chance," she said. "Real letters.
The way people used to do back in Jane Austen's time. We'll say what's happening inside us, and not just the unimportant things. OK?"

"OK," I said.

"You're not just saying that, are you? You promise?"

"I promise."

I stopped at Walter's after school that day to see Kim Lawton. I'd promised her; besides, now that the days were getting longer, there was no hurry to run out to the rocks.

The place was empty. She made me a mocha, cut me a slice of chocolate cake, and had me sit down at a back table. "So tell me, what's going on in your life?"

"Nothing much," I said.

She frowned. "Come on, Chance. You can do better than that. You're graduating from high school. You must have plans for your future."

"You really want to know?"

"Yes, of course."

"OK then."

Once I started, the words came pouring out. I told her about my plan to enlist in the army, about how it would give me a place to live and a chance to earn some money for later, when I'd really know what I wanted to do with my life. I told her how I had to get away from my dad, from the boat, from Seattle. Everything that I hadn't told my dad, hadn't told Melissa, I told her. It made no sense that I'd open up to her, and I knew it made no sense, but that's what I did.

She sat straight up in her chair, her eyes open wide. "Are
you sure you know what you're doing?" she asked when I finished. "They're killing Americans in the Middle East. You know that, don't you?"

"I know."

"And you'll have to take orders, Chance. Somebody will be bossing you around.
'Do this, do that.'
You've never had that. You don't know what that's like."

Suddenly I wished I hadn't said anything. Because how could I explain to her that I
wanted
somebody to give me orders, that I
wanted
somebody to tell me what to do? Kids like Melissa—they couldn't wait to get out on their own, to make their own decisions. I'd been doing that for a long time, and I was worn out by it.

"I've made up my mind," I said, looking down.

"I'm sorry, Chance. It's just that I knew your mother so well and she's not here now so I'm trying—"

My mother had walked out on me. I didn't want to hear what she would have said. I put up my hand. "Don't, Kim."

"You're right, Chance," she said. "I'll stop; I promise. Not another word."

A customer came in and Kim went to the main counter to help him. I took a bite of the chocolate cake and thought about slipping out while she was busy, but she returned before I had a chance.

"How is it?" she said, gesturing to the cake, her voice cheery, letting me know she wouldn't bring up my mother again or try to talk me out of enlisting.

"It's great," I said, the tone of my voice matching hers. "And so is the mocha."

"Glad to hear it. I made that cake myself, I'll have you know." She pulled up a chair and sat down. "Say, did you hear all those sirens last night?"

"Sure I heard them. They woke me up. Was there a fire?"

"You haven't heard what happened?"

"No."

"Some guy drove his car right off the bluff up at Sunset Hill Park. Right through the chainlink fence."

"Did he die?"

"He sure did. His car flipped about a dozen times before bursting into flames down on the railroad tracks. The cops say it was a suicide." She paused. "Actually, you might know him, Chance. The paper says he worked down on the marina. I've been wondering all day if he ever came in here. If he did, I don't remember him."

She reached over to the neighboring table, grabbed a section of the newspaper that was sitting on a chair, and laid it open in front of me. I took the final bite of cake and looked to where she pointed. Staring at me from the front page was a picture of the fat guy. Only now he had a name: Charles Burdett.

"Did you know him?" Kim asked.

I fought to keep my voice level. "I think I've seen him around."

A group of four women came in. "Got to get back to work," Kim said.

"I should get going, too," I said.

"Come back, Chance. Before you enlist. Come back and say goodbye."

Sunset Hill Park is a mile or so from Walter's, and the walk is uphill. As I walked, some of the sick feeling left me, but it came back when I reached the park.

The police had blocked off most of it, but even from a distance I could figure out what had happened. Burdett had driven his car across the grass, smashed through the fence at the top of the bluff, and then had taken out trees and bushes as his car flipped down, down, down.

"A strange way to commit suicide, but I suppose it's better than driving head-on into some other car."

Leaning against the fence about ten feet to my right was a tall man wearing a Mariners cap.

"People do that?" I said.

"All the time. Those head-on accidents on the highways—lots of them are suicides. At least this guy had the decency to kill himself and leave the rest of us alone."

"The cops are sure it was suicide?"

The stranger shrugged. "What else? You drive your car forty miles an hour over a cliff, you're not planning on living, are you? It's not like he missed a turn."

I wanted to believe the man, but suicide didn't make sense. Burdett had been nervous, just like I'd been nervous. But he wasn't depressed. He wasn't ready to die. But if it wasn't suicide?

Murder.

The instant the word flashed into my mind, I pushed it out. Murderers shoot people or stab them. They don't drive them off cliffs. How could they? Besides, what did I know about how the fat guy was feeling? Maybe his girlfriend dumped him. Maybe his doctor told him he had cancer. In ninth grade Mrs. LaPonte read us a poem about Richard Cory, a rich factory owner who had everything money could buy but put a bullet in his head anyway.

The man was still looking over the fence.

"What time is it?" I asked.

He glanced at his watch. "Four-forty."

"Thanks," I said, and then I headed down to the marina.

I wasn't sure what to do. The smugglers would read the newspapers; they'd find out what happened. With Burdett dead, there was a ninety-nine percent chance the smuggling would stop—at least for a while. That meant I could stop, too. But then I remembered the warnings Burdett had given me. If a package was hidden in the rocks, and I didn't bring it to the locker, they—whoever they were—might think I'd stolen it, and come after me. Besides, if nothing was hidden, what did
it matter if I ran along the beach and poked around in the rocks below the railroad tracks? I was just a high school kid out jogging—nothing illegal about that.

So I ran, just like I always did, out to the locks and then back along the beach. When I reached the tree, I stopped, stretched, and then searched the rocks.

Nothing. Just like I expected. I breathed a big sigh of relief, turned, and started to run back along the beach. That's when I saw them.

There were two of them, and they were standing on the boardwalk that cuts between the two duck ponds and leads from the parking lot to the beach. They were wearing sport coats, slacks, and hard shoes—not clothes that anybody wears on the beach. They seemed to be staring at me, though the sunglasses made it hard to be sure. I jogged past them, and then turned and ran backwards a while so that I could look at them again. They were still there, and they were still watching me.

Clouds had rolled in, covering the sun, and a strong wind was blowing from the south, so I picked up my pace a little. A few kite fliers were on the grassy field; a few beachcombers walked along the water. No one was at the Teen Center; Little Coney's was empty. Even the fancy restaurants seemed deserted.

I ran along the marina until I reached Pier B. I grabbed a change of clothes from the boat and then went to the utility room. I unlocked the door, pushed it open, walked back around the corner to the shower stalls, and undressed. I held my hand under the water and fiddled with the shower nozzles until I had the temperature just right.

I stepped in, closed my eyes, and let the hot water stream
through my hair and down my body. After that, I soaped up and washed myself head to foot. I washed as if I hadn't bathed in months.

I was rinsing the soap off when I heard the main door open and then slowly click shut. My heart started pounding. What had I been thinking, coming in here? I'd been a fool. A total fool. I'd cornered myself. They were going to murder me just like they'd murdered Burdett. I'd made it simple for them.

I looked around for something to fight with, but there was nothing. Desperate, I grabbed the shampoo bottle. I left the water running, and silently stepped out of the shower. I tied a towel around my waist, and then flattened myself against the wall and slowly edged my way to the corner. My only chance was to surprise them.

I held the shampoo bottle as if it were a rock. I was going to throw it at the nearest guy, throw it with all my might, and then make a dash for the main door. If I got through the door and out onto the parking lot, I'd start screaming, "Help! Police!" When the cops came I'd tell them everything, even if it did mean I'd go to jail.

I took a few shallow breaths to steady my nerves, gripped the shampoo bottle tightly, and then stepped out into the main locker room, ready to fling the bottle with all my might at the men and then run, run for the door. But instead of two murderers, a little boy was standing at the sink rinsing off a green plastic bucket and a bright red plastic shovel.

"Hi," he said, looking over at me.

I lowered the shampoo bottle.

"Hi," I answered.

I grabbed my clothes from my locker, returned to the shower area, and dressed. While I was dressing, the little kid slipped out. Before I left, I flicked off the overhead light, slowly cracked open the utility room door, and peered out. Nothing—no black Mercedes, no guys in sport coats. I stepped onto the sidewalk, pulled the door shut behind me, and quickly hurried to the ramp leading to Pier B. I opened the gate and pulled it shut behind me. For the first time in my life, I looked closely at it. It was solid metal and was at least fifteen feet high. If someone were coming after me, they'd need a ladder to climb over it or a sledgehammer to break it down, and they couldn't use either without a lot of people hearing them or seeing them.

Back on the sailboat, I climbed down into the cabin and sat at the navigation table. I had to think it through. I had to take my time and think it through.

Burdett had told me that the smugglers were going to contact me. I
wanted
them to contact me. So why was I getting panicky about the men on the beach? The police were undoubtedly going through Burdett's files and papers and stuff. Maybe the smugglers were afraid the cops would find something that would blow the whole scheme. Maybe they wanted to speed up the transfer. That would be OK with me. What I had to do was stay cool and wait. If they contacted me early, I'd give them the packages and I'd be done with it. If they didn't, I'd turn the stuff over on May 1. Either way, everything would work out, just so long as I didn't panic.

But there was another possibility. If Burdett hadn't killed himself, if he'd been murdered, then once these guys got what they wanted, they might murder me too. It was a paranoid, crazy thought—but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake free of it.

I had to talk to somebody. I was in over my head—way over my head. But who? The only friend I had was Melissa, and I couldn't go to her. For a second I actually thought about calling Mr. Arnold, but that was impossible. Who else was there? I sat, my hands shaking. Who? Finally I grabbed a jacket, zipped it up to my chin, stuck on a baseball cap, and set out.

The Sloop Tavern is about half a mile from Pier B. When I reached it, I tried to peer in, but the windows are tinted and the front door was closed tight. I put my shoulder to the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. Not much to see: a pool table, a couple of pinball machines, a dartboard, a television tuned to a Mariners game, the volume down. At the bar, three
guys were talking quietly, glasses of beer in front of them, blue cigarette smoke curling above their heads.

I looked to the booths. Two of them were empty, but someone was sitting at the farthest one, his back to me. I started toward him. "Hey, kid, you've got to be twenty-one to come in here," the bartender said, stepping out from behind the bar.

"I'm looking for my dad," I said, walking quickly toward the back booth as I talked. "Jack Taylor. You know him?"

The bartender blocked me. "Sure I know him. Everybody knows Jack. But he's not here. Hasn't been here all day. And you're going to leave right now. I'm not losing my license for anybody."

I was certain the bartender was lying, that it was my dad sitting in that booth, but just then the man turned toward me. He was no more than twenty-five years old, but he had the bloated red face and bleary eyes of a drunk. Our eyes caught, and then the guy looked away.

The bartender stepped toward me, forcing me back. "I'm going," I said, turning. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," he said, but he stayed right with me until I was out the door.

There are probably a dozen taverns along Ballard Avenue. If my dad wasn't at the Sloop, I figured he had to be in one of them. So I kept walking, looking through windows and sticking my head through the doors of place after place. But even if he was drinking in one of those taverns, my chances of finding him were slim. When it started to rain—a cold, steady rain—I headed back to the boat.

Along Market Street, just past the locks and before the marina, there's a deserted stretch of road. No businesses, no houses. As I walked those blocks, I had a feeling I was being watched. More than a feeling. A certainty. I kept looking over my shoulder, but no one was there. Even when I came out of that dead stretch and into the bustle of the marina, the feeling didn't go away.