Runner (10 page)

I didn't see Melissa until just before sixth period. "It's a good newspaper," I said, holding up my copy. "Really good."

"Thanks," she said, her smile forced. "The next one will be better."

That night my dad and I ate dinner together, something we'd been doing more and more of. Afterwards, I could see him getting edgy. "There's a Sonics game on television later. You want to watch it?"

"Yeah," he said. "Let's do that."

It was a decent game, but around eight the wind started blowing and the boat started rocking. The reception was affected, and the picture flickered. Finally my dad switched off the television.

"I find out tomorrow," he said. "About the job at the cycle shop. The guy I work for is just the manager. He has to ask the owner if he can keep me on. I have a good feeling about this, Chance. I'm due for a little luck." He stood and stretched. "I'm going to go for a walk."

Something in my face must have betrayed my thoughts.

"Don't worry. I'm just going for a walk."

On the blackboard in Arnold's class the next day were two words: Yellow Alert. "How many of you knew the terrorism alert status today is yellow? Anyone?" Kids looked around at one another and smiled nervously. "How many of you knew we had a color-coded terrorism alert system?" A few hands went up.

"I know it exists," Brian Mitchell said. "But I don't pay attention to it. We're out here in Seattle. Why would al-Qaida terrorists attack us? Nothing ever happens in the Northwest."

"You sound disappointed," said a new kid.

"I'm glad nothing ever happens here," Heather said. "I don't want anything bad to happen."

"What about Ressam?" Arnold said.

"Who's Ressam?" Melody Turner asked.

Arnold told the story. This guy Ahmed Ressam had tried to
sneak into Port Angeles on a ferry from Canada right around the New Year in 2000. When he was arrested, the police found explosives in the trunk of his car. At first, they thought he was trying to blow up the Space Needle, but it turned out he was headed to Los Angeles to blow up the airport there.

I'd never heard about him, and I don't think anybody else in class had either—though a couple of kids pretended they had. Port Angeles is a sleepy little town on the Olympic Peninsula. A totally nowhere place. It was weird to think that some international terrorist had been caught there.

For the rest of class, kids talked about terrorists and Iraq and Afghanistan. I looked out the window and thought about my dad. He'd probably know about the job by now. They wouldn't make him wait until the end of the day.

When school ended, I walked back to the boat. As I came down the pier, I saw my dad on deck, sitting at the little table smoking a cigarette and drinking from a coffee cup.

"They're not ready to hire me just yet," he said as soon as I stepped on the boat. "It doesn't mean that they won't hire me later, though. This just isn't a busy time for bike shops. In the spring they're almost sure they'll call me back."

"That makes sense," I said. "You've got to keep yourself ready, Dad. For when they call."

He held up his cup. "There's just coffee in here, Chance. Nothing else. I'm trying."

I changed into my running stuff and ran my normal route. There was no package. After I'd showered, I headed back to the boat. The weather had turned windy—a storm was coming.
My dad was below deck, and I joined him. I stuck some frozen lasagna in the oven for dinner, and we somehow managed to eat it even though the boat was heaving back and forth.

As the evening wore on, the winds increased and so did the rocking. It was impossible to read or watch television. I finally climbed into my berth, pulled the blankets up around my neck, and tried to listen to the radio. Outside, pulleys were clanking against the masts of sailboats, making a racket.

My dad, who'd been at the table flipping through the newspaper and smoking, stood and stretched. "I think I'll go to Little Coney. Get something hot to drink and get off this damn boat."

"Sounds good. You mind if I come with you?"

"Of course not. I'd like the company. But I wasn't going drinking, if that's what you were worried about."

I was afraid Little Coney might be closed, but it wasn't. I ordered a hot chocolate; my dad got a large coffee. "Take your time," the guy behind the counter said as he slid the cups to us. "My daughter has my car and she won't be here for another hour, easy."

We took a booth in the corner. A Beatles song, "Here Comes the Sun," was playing through the speakers. "Not likely," my dad said.

"What?"

"The sun. Not too likely to come." He poured four packets of sugar into his coffee, stirred it up, and took a sip. "Terrible, but hot," he whispered. "How's the chocolate?"

"The same."

I looked out the window toward Puget Sound. The wind had whipped up whitecaps; big clouds were racing across the moonlit sky. It felt great to be warm and snug when outside everything was cold and wild.

"Anything interesting happen at school?" my dad said.

It was an ordinary question, but it had been years since he'd asked it.

"Not really," I said. "We talked about terrorism. Red Alert and Yellow Alert and stuff like that. I didn't even know we had codes."

He shook his head. "That color stuff is a load of crap. Nobody pays any attention to it."

"That's what my teacher said. But he says we should pay attention because Seattle is a target." I paused. "What would be worth blowing up around here?"

My dad rubbed the back of his neck. "The Space Needle is what everybody says, and that's probably what terrorists would hit. But if I were a terrorist, I'd blow up the Ballard Locks."

"The locks?" I said. "Who would care if the locks were gone?"

"This whole region would care, that's who. Blow up the locks, and Lake Washington and Lake Union would drain right out into Puget Sound. A big stinking mud hole is all that would be left. It would be a disaster for the shipping industry and for tourism. Pick the right day—the opening of boating season, for example—and you'd kill a lot of people too. Or you could blow up the I-5 Bridge, or attack one of those big cruise ships, or blow up a ferry. Puget Sound is full of soft targets."

"Do you think anything like that will ever really happen?"

He pushed his cup away from him. "Not really, but you
never know. I mean, who would have ever thought that September eleventh would happen?"

He stayed sober for a week. But when I came home from school the following Thursday, he had a bottle of beer in his hand. Friday afternoon he wasn't on the boat at all.

It was a cold January day. I was running out to the tree, wearing the gloves my dad had bought me for Christmas, when I spotted someone poking around in the rocks, their back to me. Immediately I started racing forward as fast as I could, my heart pounding. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I knew I had to do something. As I came closer, I recognized the brown hair and the strong, straight shoulders.

It was Melissa.

"What are you doing here?" I shouted.

She smiled when she first saw me, but the anger in my voice chased the smile away. "I was looking for the rat's nest," she said.

"You've got no business being here, Melissa."

Now anger came into her eyes. "It's a public beach, Chance. You don't own it."

I looked around. Was the fat guy watching us?

"I know I don't own it," I said, trying to soften my tone.

She looked at me, and then up the beach. "Who are you looking for?"

"No one."

"Well, if you're not looking for anyone, then why do you keep turning around? And just where are these famous rats, anyway?"

"They're in there," I said. "You just don't know where to look."

"Show me."

"No. You'd disturb them and then they might kill their babies or bite you or something."

She eyed me suspiciously. "And you don't disturb them when you look?" She paused. "You're just making this up, aren't you? There are no rats. What is this all about, Chance?"

"I'm not making anything up," I said, trying to sound calm. "There is a rat's nest in there."

"So why won't you show it to me?"

"Melissa, would you please go? As a favor to me."

"And what if I don't go? What then?"

"Please, Melissa. Don't do this. You're going to screw everything up for me."

"Screw what up?"

"Would you please just go?"

She looked at me for what seemed like forever, and then turned away from the rocks. "All right. I'll go. But something is going on, and I'm going to find out what it is."

"Nothing is—"

"Stop lying to me, Chance," she said. Then she turned and headed toward the trail that led through upper Golden Gardens Park to her house. I watched until she was swallowed up by the trees. Only then did I return to the marina.

The next afternoon the fat guy was waiting for me by the ramp as I returned from school. "Let's walk," he said, and I followed him toward Pier A, where the huge yachts were moored. Once we were hidden from the road by the dry-dock area, he stopped. "Who was the girl?"

"What girl?" I said.

"Don't play games, kid."

I took a deep breath. "She's just a girl from school."

"What's her name?"

I started to tell him, then held back. "Alice something. I don't know her very well. She's just a girl from school."

His eyes flashed dangerously. "What was she doing on the beach?"

"Nothing. She lives up on the bluff. There's a path that comes down."

"And she just happened to be there as you arrived? A total coincidence."

"Maybe she likes me a little. What can I do?"

"A romance. How touching. What can you do?" His tone had been mock-sweet, but now it changed. "You can make her not like you, that's what you can do. Because if you do like her, then you want her clear of this. For her sake, and for yours, and for mine. Understand?"

I nodded.

"Good. Now make it happen."

The fat guy was right. One hundred percent right. I was taking risks, but I knew what they were and I knew why I was taking them. Melissa was walking into this thing blind. I had to get her off my track. But how?

That Friday night I sat in the
Tiny Dancer's
cabin, thinking. Maybe Melissa would be at the Blue Note Café for her newspaper staff meeting. If I showed up, maybe I'd be able to talk to her alone. That was a lot of
maybes,
but I had to take the chance.

A cold mist—almost a fog—chilled the air, and me. It was so cold that for once I didn't mind climbing the stairway that led from the marina to the café because the climb warmed me. At the top I caught my breath, then crossed the street and stepped inside the café and looked around.

Melissa, her shoulders slumped forward, was sitting alone at a small table in the back corner. No Thomas Dowell, no Natasha Martin, no nobody. I thought she would still be angry with me, but when our eyes met, she smiled.

I ordered a mocha and a blueberry muffin. After I paid I walked over to her table. "OK if I sit here?"

"I want you to. I'm feeling a little lonely, to be honest."

"Where is everybody?"

She shrugged. "How would I know? I guess the success of our first issue drove them all away."

"It was a good newspaper," I said.

"That's nice of you to say, but it isn't true."

Steam rose from the muffin as I pulled it apart. "Do you want some?" I asked.

She shook her head. I took a bite, then another. Melissa fidgeted with her spoon.

I sipped the mocha and then fingered the muffin liner. "I'm sorry about the way I acted on the beach," I said. "I didn't mean to be mean."

"Chance, what was that all about? And don't lie to me. Please."

I looked away for a moment, and then I looked back. "As soon as I can, I'll explain everything to you. Absolutely everything. But until then you've got to promise me that you'll stay off the beach and away from the marina."

Her eyes clouded. "Are you in trouble, Chance?"

"No," I said. "I'm not in trouble."

"You're lying. I can tell."

I looked back at her. "I'm not in trouble, Melissa. But if you keep poking around on the beach, you'll get me in trouble. And you'll get yourself in trouble, too."

Her eyes locked on mine. "How long until you tell me?"

"I don't know for sure. June, at the latest. Maybe sooner."

"And you'll tell me absolutely everything?"

"I told you I would."

"Promise me."

I made a cross on my chest with the index finger of my right hand. "Hope to die."

She smiled, but after that, neither of us talked for a while. "You want something else?" I said when she finished her espresso.

"No thanks. I know it's cold, but I wouldn't mind walking a bit, like we did before."

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to walk with her and slide my arm around her. But when you're bobbing around in the ocean, when you're barely keeping your own head above the water, you can't reach out to anybody, because if you do grab hold, you might pull them under with you. "I can't, Melissa," I said.

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"And you won't be coming on Friday nights anymore, will you?"

"No, I won't."

"OK then," she said, and she stood up and stuck out her hand.

I shook it. "OK then," I said.

All through February and March, things went the way the fat guy wanted them to go. Melissa stayed away from the rocks on the beach and stayed away from me at school, so I didn't worry that I was leading her into danger. I picked up the regular packages and brought them to the locker room in the regular way. The red packages, which came almost every Saturday morning, still spooked me. I didn't like the squishiness of them, or the way the coarse paper felt, and I definitely didn't like storing them on the
Tiny Dancer.
But I did like the money. The money paid the moorage fee and the electric bill. The icebox was stocked with food, and so were the shelves above it and below it.