Runner (7 page)

She came to a stop, and then reached down to pull the lever to open the trunk.

"Thanks for the ride," I said, stepping out of the car.

"See you tomorrow," she answered.

"Yeah. See you tomorrow."

"Thanks," my dad said.

"I'm Melissa Watts," she said then, leaning back and shaking his hand. "You and my dad went to Ingraham High together. Trevor Watts. Do you remember him?"

His eyes widened. "Sure," he said. "I remember Trevor."

"Come on, Dad," I said, before he could say more. "Let's get these boxes onto the boat."

We lugged the groceries across the parking lot, down the ramp, and onto the sailboat. Below deck, we unpacked and stored all the cans of food. I slid open the front panel of the storage nook where I kept my running clothes. "I'm going to run now."

"Take a day off, Chance," he said. "How about if you and me eat a normal meal for once? I could cook some soup. This bread is actually fresh."

"I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I just can't. Besides, I'm not hungry."

The drizzle had turned to rain and the sky was a gloomy gray. I opened the locker in the utility room, slung the backpack over my shoulders, and stepped outside. If I ran all the way out to the locks, it would be dark by the time I returned to the
beach. So instead of running my normal route, I headed straight out to the beach.

By the time I reached the big tree, twilight was giving way to night. I stretched, looking as carefully as I could into the shadows of the rocks. Nothing—but it was too dark to really see. I turned and checked the beach in both directions. No one. I stopped pretending I was stretching, and instead reached into the openings in the rocks to feel around for a package. Still nothing. If only I'd brought a flashlight.

I ran back along the beach, showered as usual, and then returned to the boat. My dad was gone; an unopened can of soup and a clean bowl sat on the small table.

That night I lay awake thinking. I saw myself back on the beach feeling around the rocks with my hands, only now I'd find something, something I'd missed. The sensation was so strong I almost dressed and returned to the beach to look again.

Friday morning, as I crossed the marina parking lot on my way to school, the fat guy hopped out of a silver Acura I hadn't noticed. He grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me to a fenced area full of garbage dumpsters and recycling bins. "I ran yesterday," I said straight away. "I swear I did. There was nothing there."

"How come I didn't see you, then?"

"I had to help my dad when I got home from school," I said. "Since I was late, I took a shortcut. It was almost dark, but I checked. I swear to God there was nothing there."

"It was there, all right. It's still there. You missed it."

"I'll go right now," I said, and I started toward the beach.

He grabbed me and pulled me back. "You'll go at the regular time." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small card. He wrote something on the back of it and then handed it to me. "You call that number if you are ever going to miss a pickup."

"Who do I ask for?"

"You don't ask for anybody. It's an answering machine. At the beep, you leave a message—'Chance is out of the race today.' You understand?"

"Yeah," I said. "I understand."

"There's money in this for both of us. Don't blow it."

The package was the size of a loaf of bread. It was wedged between two rocks; the day before, my hands must have gone just under it. I dislodged it, and then shoved it into my backpack. When I turned around, a little beagle was running toward me, his nose on the ground. A woman about thirty was twenty feet behind him. The dog started barking at me. "That dog should be on a leash," I shouted.

"I'm sorry," she said. Then she started calling her dog. "Come here, Flip. Come on, boy."

I kept a steady pace on the run back to the pier, the package thumping against my back. It was awkward, but I didn't care. I had my job.

There was another package hidden in the rocks Saturday. On Sunday afternoon in the front pouch of the backpack I found a sealed envelope. Inside were four fifty-dollar bills.

October 31—Halloween. When I got home from school, my dad was sitting on deck wearing his heavy parka and reading the newspaper. It was cold and drizzly; he should have been in the cabin. But when I went down below, I understood why he wanted to stay outside. On the navigation table was the bill for the moorage fee. I grabbed it and climbed back up. "You got enough money?" he said.

"Yeah. I got enough."

"And next month?"

"I'll have enough to pay for everything."

"Even food?"

"I think so."

"So you don't need your old man anymore for anything, do
you?"

"I'm going to go to the office and pay this," I said, holding up the piece of paper. "I'll see you later."

When I reached the marina office, I pushed open the glass door and stepped inside. The fat guy was sitting at a desk in the back. Our eyes caught, but I didn't nod and neither did he. A fiftyish woman stood behind the counter. "Can I help you?" she said.

I pulled the paper out of my back pocket and laid it on the counter. "I'm here to pay the moorage fee. Pier B, slip forty-five. Taylor is the last name. I know we're a month behind, but I'll be paying that soon too." I opened my wallet and counted out two hundred and eighty dollars.

Instead of picking the money up, the woman just stared at it.

"What's wrong?" I said.

She looked up at me. "Oh, sorry. Nothing's wrong. It's just that most people drop a check into the collection box outside the door." She smiled and picked up the bills. "But cash is perfectly OK. I'll write you a receipt and get you your change."

She went into a little glass cubicle. I could see her talking to a man in there. He looked out at me, and then said something to her. A minute later she came out.

"Thanks," I said after she'd counted out twelve dollars and given me a receipt.

Stupid,
I thought as I stepped out. The first chance I got, I'd open a checking account. Next month, I'd write a check and drop the fee in the box, like regular people did. I had to be careful. Very careful. I had to make sure nothing I did looked suspicious.

I was a criminal, involved in a smuggling ring, but the amazing thing was how quickly it became routine. My heart didn't pound anymore when I reached the maple tree. I took my time when I stretched so I could look carefully in the rocks. Most days there was nothing. But every three or four days, there'd be a package.

I was pretty sure I had the basics of the operation figured out. Boats come into Puget Sound all the time. If a boat is from Canada or China or some other foreign country, the captain has to call a customs agent and somebody from immigration. Maybe the boat gets checked thoroughly and maybe it doesn't. But getting drugs off the boat before any possible inspection would be the smart thing to do, just in case. It would be easy to slip someone to shore at night, store the drugs in the rocks, and then have that person return to the boat.

The smugglers probably used the same boat over and
over—most likely some sort of charter boat that was familiar enough to Coast Guard patrols that they left it alone. The captain could do the smuggling without the owner of the boat even knowing about it. Or some crewman could be doing it without the captain knowing—though that would be less likely. In middle school, the D.A.R.E. cop told us that on the street an ounce of marijuana could sell for as much as a hundred bucks. The packages I was carrying weighed between five and ten pounds, which would translate into over ten thousand dollars. At two shipments a week, the total value would be more than a million dollars a year. If cocaine were ever in those packages, the street value would be even more. No wonder they could pay me two hundred bucks a week.

I wasn't sure how the fat guy figured in. Maybe he was a big player in the deal—the guy who got the drugs to the street. Maybe he was a small fry who'd fallen into some easy money. Sometimes I wanted to find out what happened to the packages after I stuck them in the locker, but then I'd remember what the fat man had said about knowing too much, and I let it drop.

The Monday before Thanksgiving vacation, the counselors set up Career Day in the commons area. People from the University of Washington and Seattle University and Shoreline College and a bunch of other schools stood behind tables and passed out brochures.

I didn't even bother to look at the college brochures—what point was there? When I finished eating lunch, I walked across the commons to the back door. That's where I spotted
Melissa toe-to-toe with Ms. Dugan, the vice principal. The two of them were standing in front of a table manned by an armed forces recruiter with a grim smile on his face. I hadn't noticed either the table or the guy, that's how deep in the corner they were.

I stopped about ten feet from Melissa. She had on her Stanford sweatshirt and jeans. Her face was bright red, and so was Dugan's. They were talking in low voices, but anybody could see they were both angry.

While they were arguing, some kid I didn't know pushed past Melissa and approached the recruiter's table. Melissa spun around. "Don't believe a word he says," she yelled so loudly that everyone in the commons turned to stare at her. Melissa paused and then pointed at the recruiter. "He'll get you killed if you let him!"

"That's enough of that!" Dugan broke in angrily. "More than enough. If you don't leave here right now, Melissa Watts, I am going to call security and have you removed."

Melissa glowered at Dugan.

"Did you hear me? Either you leave or security comes and makes you leave."

"I have a constitutional right to say whatever I want."

"You are on school property, Melissa, and you do not have the right to disrupt educational activities."

"Oh, so signing up to get killed is an
educational
activity!"

I pushed my way up to Melissa. "Let's get out of here, Melissa," I said. "Fifth period is about to begin, anyway." Melissa looked at me and then at Dugan. "It's not worth it," I whispered.

She turned back to Dugan. "I'm leaving," she said. "But not because of you. I'm leaving because I want to leave."

"I don't care why you leave," Dugan said. "Just leave."

Melissa shook free of me, turned her back, and strode out of the commons. Ms. Dugan followed a few seconds later. I started to walk away when the recruiter called out, "Hey, you." I turned back. He shoved a brochure into my hand. "Do me a favor. Stick this in your pocket and look at it over sometime."

After Arnold's class ended, Melissa walked to the locker bay with me. "It makes me mad they allow those guys on campus," she said, still fixated on her lunchtime face-off with Dugan. "It's just wrong."

"Come on, Melissa. There are worse things than joining the army."

"Yeah?" she said. "Name one."

"Going to jail," I said.

She laughed mockingly. "As if that's an option."

I'd reached my locker. She watched as I spun the dial on my lock. "I appreciate what you did, Chance. That's the second time you've been there for me."

"I didn't do anything."

"Yes, you did. I don't need anything bad on my record, not if I'm going to get into Stanford. And being hauled off by security is definitely bad."

"They wouldn't have hauled you off."

"Dugan would have loved to call security. She's never liked me."

I slammed my locker shut and turned. "I've got to go, Melissa." I started toward the exit.

"Wait—can I ask you something, Chance?"

I turned back. "Ask whatever you want."

"What are you looking for in those rocks?"

It was the last thing I was expecting her to say. I could feel the blood start to pound in my temples. "What are you talking about?" I said, trying to keep my face from going red.

"The rocks below the railroad tracks. When you run, you stop and look around."

"Are you spying on me?"

"No," she said.

"How do you know what I do or don't do, then?" I said.

"Chance, I do my homework in our solarium, which looks out over the beach. I've seen you a couple of times now, poking around in the rocks. That's all. If I'd known you were going to get all paranoid, I wouldn't have mentioned it. I was just curious."

"I'm not paranoid, Melissa. I just don't like being spied on."

She stared at me for a long moment. "Forget I mentioned it," she said.

I'd been an idiot to snarl at Melissa like that. All I'd done was make her more suspicious. If the fat guy knew someone was watching me, he'd get rid of me. I couldn't have that, not when things had fallen into place. Creager wouldn't take me back at Ray's.

When I reached the maple tree that day, I looked up at the homes along the bluff. Back in middle school, someone had pointed out Melissa's house to me from the road, but I couldn't pick it out from the beach. Was she in her solarium—whatever that was—right now? Was she watching me?

There was nothing hidden in the rocks that day, so I turned and headed back. When I reached Pier B, I spotted a huge water rat cleaning itself on the rocks. The rat looked at me, and then went right back to cleaning itself. That rat gave me an idea.

Tuesday before school I tracked down Melissa. "I'm sorry about yesterday," I said.

"Forget it," she said, her voice icy.

"It's a rat's nest," I said.

"What?"

"In the rocks. There's a bunch of paper and wrappers all in a mound. I think a momma rat and her babies live in there. Sometimes I can see little pink eyes looking back at me."

Her eyes brightened. "That's cool. Why didn't you just say so?"

"I don't know. I guess I thought you'd think it was stupid."

"Well, I don't. I think it's nice."

For a moment we both stood there. "See you around," I said at last, and started off.

"Chance, wait a second," she said. I stopped. "What?"

"That's the kind of thing you could write about."