Runner (12 page)

"No."

"I figured as much," she said, flipping to the next photo. "The two kayakers pull the kayaks onto the shore. They wave to the tourists on the boat, have a drink of water or something, and then slip a package out of the kayak and into the rocks. It's very clever, don't you think? They do their smuggling in front of everybody. They call attention to themselves, so no one suspects they're doing anything wrong." She had one more picture, which was face-down on the table.

"What's that one?" I asked.

"This one?" she said. "This is the one that could put you in prison." She turned it over. It was a photo of me pulling a package out of the rocks.

I swallowed. "I thought we had an agreement. I told you I'd tell you everything as soon as I could, but instead of waiting, you've been spying on me."

She shook her head. "That's not fair, Chance. I promised you I wouldn't go back down to the beach. And I haven't. But that's all I promised. Do you think the newspaper stuff is a joke to me? Because it isn't. I want to be a top-notch reporter someday. Reporters investigate. You acted guilty that day on the beach. You acted guilty the last time we met here. So I decided to find out the truth, and I did."

As she spoke, she gathered up all the photos and put them back in the file folder. She shoved the folder into her backpack, zipped it shut, and then looked at me. "There's one thing I don't get."

"What?" I said, glowering at her.

"It's my guess that drugs or alcohol or both have ruined your father's life. Am I right?"

"My father has ruined his own life. Every bum on the street ruins his own life."

"But why be part of it, Chance? You see what it does to people. More than anybody, you should want to stay clear. Is the money that important to you? What do you need it for, anyway?"

There it was, right there in her question. The difference between her and me. She knew things I didn't. Lots of things.
But it went both ways, because I knew all about a world she couldn't even imagine.

"What do I need it for?" I said. "I need it for the moorage fee, for food, for clothes, for heat and electricity, for sewage. I need it for my toothpaste and soap and my dad's booze and his cigarettes. I need it so that I can sit here with you and have a mocha and eat a piece of coffee cake. That's what I need it for."

She looked at me in disbelief. "You pay all the bills?"

"Yeah. I do."

She sat back in her chair and stared at me. "I didn't know."

"Now you do," I said.

Melissa didn't say anything for a long time. The door to the café opened a few times, a gust of cold wind entering as people came and went. Finally she glanced at the clock on the wall. "I can't stay. My aunt Catherine is visiting from New Jersey and I promised I'd be home by nine." She gathered her stuff together and then looked at me. "You didn't have to do it," she said, her voice low. "My father would have helped. All you had to do was ask and he would have helped. He still would."

"I'm not a beggar, Melissa, and neither is my dad."

"Sooner or later you're going to get caught. You know that, don't you?"

After she left, I sat looking at my half-eaten cake. Then an idea came to me. I went to the counter and asked the waitress for paper and a pencil. She gave them to me, and I returned to the table. It didn't take long to get the answer. Three weeks. Twenty-one days. That's how long I had to keep running to make enough money to get us through May and June. As soon as I graduated, I'd go to the recruiting office by Northgate and enlist. By July 1, I'd be on my own.

As I stared at the numbers on the paper, I thought about my dad. What was going to happen to him when I was gone? Would he be able to get his act together without me around? I wanted to think he would, but I just didn't know.

I bused my dishes, and then headed down the steep stairway that led to the marina. Once I was under the tree cover, it was so dark I couldn't see my feet in front of me. Overhead the limbs in the treetops were tossing back and forth.

When I came out from under the trees at the bottom of the stairway, I turned and started toward the pier. Then I stopped. It was Friday night. I knew where the regular stuff came from; Melissa had solved that for me. But all I knew about the red packages was that they turned up on Saturday. Melissa had watched the drop spot during the day, but never at night.

I don't know why I cared where they came from. Maybe it was because I was quitting. Maybe I didn't want to quit and not know how it had all worked. Whatever the reason, instead of going to the sailboat, I walked out to the drop spot. I checked around in the rocks and found nothing, so nothing had happened yet. About fifty feet past the maple tree is a small recess in the rocks. I slipped into it. From there I could see back to the tree without being seen. I looked at my watch. One hour. That's how long I'd wait. If I was lucky, something might turn up.

The hour came and went. I was hunkered down out of the wind, but I could hear it in the trees and in the fury with which the waves were attacking the beach. If I were back on the boat, I'd be rolling this way and that, miserable. Might as well stay put, I thought.

It was almost midnight when I heard the train whistle. I looked toward the Edmonds oil refineries and saw the headlight of the train engine work its way south, down the shoreline toward me. A freight train, like any other freight train.

The train whistle blew again as it reached the bend above the maple, and as it did, it slowed and finally came to a stop. Nothing unusual about that, either. Another freight train heading north was probably crossing the bridge by the Ballard
Locks. The railroad never runs two trains across that bridge at once.

But as the southbound train sat, puffing in the darkness, a man scrambled down off the caboose. I watched as he eased himself down the boulders leading to the beach. He descended slowly, and in the dim light I saw why—he was holding something in his right hand. He wasn't on the beach long, no more than thirty seconds, before he was climbing back up the rocks and onto the train. Only now he wasn't carrying anything.

So that was it.

A few minutes later, the train lurched into motion again. I moved out from my hiding place and watched as it gathered speed. The back door to the caboose opened and the man stepped onto the platform. He had a large flashlight in his hand, really more of a spotlight than a flashlight, and it bobbed this way and that way as the train chugged forward. Then, suddenly, the light was right in my eyes. I stood blinded for a split second before I dropped down onto the sand and lay still. I stayed face-down, unmoving, as the light passed over me, until the train rumbled out of sight.

I walked back to the
Tiny Dancer.
As usual, my dad wasn't around. The wind, growing stronger by the minute, was tossing the boats in the marina around. I went below, crawled into my berth to get warm, and leaned my head against the pillow.

The stuff from
Bob's Toy,
the stuff Melissa knew about—it was marijuana. I could tell from the smell and feel of it. I'd known it for a long time, even though I'd pretended I didn't. But the stuff in the red packages, the stuff from the train—what was that? And why would somebody run the risk of smuggling those packages into the country and then let them all sit on the
Tiny Dancer
week after week. It didn't make sense.

I twisted around and slid open the panel to the storage nook. I reached inside, removed my dad's medals, and then took out the closest red package. For what had to be the fiftieth time, I put it up to my nose: no odor. I squeezed it; and once again it reminded me of Play-Doh. I turned it this way
and that, held it up to the light, even thought about "accidentally" ripping a corner so I could peek inside. But what chance was there that I'd know what it was even if I could see it?

At that moment I heard a heavy
clomp
above me. My dad was back. It was so windy I hadn't heard him walking on the pier. My light was on; the storage nook was wide open; his medals were all out on my mattress. As fast as I could, I stuffed the package back into the storage space. He was climbing down into the cabin just as I slid the false panel shut. His medals were still out, so I shoved them under my blankets.

He looked in at me. "What are you doing up, Chance?" His eyes were bloodshot; his words slurred.

"I couldn't sleep," I said. "The wind."

"It is blowing hard, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is." I paused. "But I think I'll try again, now. I'm pretty tired."

He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a package of cigarettes. "You do that," he said. "I'll be calling it a night myself right after I have a last cigarette."

He went back up on deck and had his smoke. I slid the panel open and put his medals back. Then I flicked off my light. Five minutes later he came back down, pulled off his boots, and then sighed loudly as he crawled into his berth.

All night the boat rocked back and forth. Any other night, the storm would have kept me up. But now I knew what I had to do. In the morning I'd go to the marina office, see the fat guy, and tell him that it was over for me, that I was quitting. Three more weeks and I'd be out.

I slept.

It was after eight when I woke up Saturday morning. I dressed quickly, and then walked over to the marina office. When I reached it, the closed sign was still hanging in the window. I looked at my watch: I had to wait forty minutes. I walked up and down the marina, looking at my watch every five minutes. Finally, ten minutes after his office was supposed to open, the fat guy's silver Acura pulled into the parking lot.

He struggled to get out of his car, and as he set his car alarm, I came up behind him. When he turned and saw me, he started, fear on his face. Once he registered that it was me, the fear turned to anger. "Don't ever do that again. You hear me?"

"We need to talk," I said.

"Later. I've got to go to work."

"When?"

"Is this really necessary?"

"Yes."

"OK. Six o'clock." He brushed past me.

"Where?"

"You know the overflow parking lot above Golden Gardens?"

"I know it," I said.

He nodded. "There's a path that leads to an open area above the railroad tracks. I'll meet you there."

The day dragged. At three, when the clouds cleared and the sun came out, I did my daily run. The red package was tucked away in the rocks, just where I'd seen the man from the train put it the night before. I stuffed it into my backpack, jogged back, and shoved it into the storage nook beside all the other packages. I counted them: there were twelve.

I walked back up the ramp and took a long shower, but after I'd dressed, it was still only five o'clock. I decided to kill the last hour by heading back to the beach. Little kids were flying high on the swings in the playground; parents were laying out tablecloths and lighting up barbecues. On the grassy fields just past the picnic area, old guys flew fancy kites. At the Teen Center, a group of kids around my age were sitting with their backs to me, facing Puget Sound. Winter was over.

I kept walking, all the way out to the wetland ponds, where I stopped and looked up at the decks on the bluff above the beach. Melissa was probably sitting out on one of them. I could picture her sipping a Coke while she listened to music and talked with her friends about colleges and careers.

I backtracked to the short tunnel that leads to the overflow parking lot. I paced the lot a couple of times, looking for the
trail the fat guy had described. Finally I spotted it. I pushed aside a couple of blackberry bushes and hiked about fifty yards to a clearing near the railroad tracks.

Within a couple of minutes the fat guy came puffing around the bend, his face red. "All right," he said as he came up to me. "You wanted to talk; so talk."

I swallowed. "I'm quitting."

His red face got redder. "What are you talking about? You can't quit."

"Well, I am. This is your notice. Three more weeks and I'm done."

His eyes flared. "Is this because the cops were on the piers? That was routine. They're not on to you."

"I'm not quitting because of the cops. I'm quitting because I want to quit."

"And who am I supposed to get to take your place?"

"I don't know. You'll find somebody. You found me, didn't you?"

Some of the anger left his face. He looked up the railroad tracks toward Edmonds. "You're stupid to throw away the money, you know. For as long as you live you'll never make so much for doing so little."

"OK, I'm stupid."

He turned and started toward the parking lot.

"What about the packages on the boat," I said. "What do I do with them?"

"What packages?"

"The red ones. The ones I've been storing."

His eyes widened. "You still have those?"

"Yeah," I said.

"How many of them?"

"I've got all of them."

"How many is all?"

"Twelve. I counted them today."

"Christ, that's sixty pounds minimum. Maybe one hundred pounds."

"What's in them?"

"And they're all on your boat?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Now will you tell me what's in them?"

He shook his head. "I told you. I don't know what's in them, and I don't want to know. And you don't either."

"So what do I do with them? If the police come back—"

"I already told you," he said, interrupting. "That was completely routine. New regulations went into effect. That's all. If I thought there was any chance the cops were on to you, do you think I'd be standing here talking to you? How dumb would that be?"

"I don't care if it was routine. If somebody doesn't pick up those packages, I'm going to throw them away."

"Don't do that," he said. "Whatever you do, don't do that. These people—you don't want to mess with them." He paused. "Give me a little time. I'll find out what's going on."

He started toward the parking lot and had gone about twenty feet when he turned back. "Don't use this path to get back. Follow the tracks south and find another one."