by Carl Deuker
I hung my apron on the little hook and turned to him.
"That's it. I'm done."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
As I walked back to the Tiny Dancer that night, the cool evening air somehow didn't cool me. I felt light in the head and wobbly in the knees. I thought about the kids at school, about Melissa. What would they say, what would she say, if they found out that Chance Taylor, the guy in the back of the classroom who never said anything, was a drug smuggler?
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
As soon as school ended on Monday, I hustled down to the boat and changed into my running clothes. A couple of minutes later I was standing in front of my locker in the utility room, my hands sweating. Finally, I worked the combination and opened it. Inside was a small gray backpack. I stared at it for a while as if it were a bomb before finally picking it up. I pulled the backpack over my shoulders and adjusted the shoulder straps. I took a deep breath and then headed off at my normal pace down Seaview Avenue toward the Ballard Locks.
As I ran, I passed a middle-aged lady wearing a pink Adidas sweat suit with matching wristbands and headband. Next an old guy on a girl's bike rolled by, his black poodle panting to keep up. Two bicyclists flew by on the other side of the street; both were wearing black spandex shorts and canary-yellow shirts. Outside the Juice House a college guy was talking on a cell phone, a ferret under his arm. The fat guy had been right: nobody was going to notice my backpack.
I did a quick loop through the gardens at the locks, and then retraced my steps, running down Seaview and past Pier B. At the end of the marina, I entered Golden Gardens Park. I ran across the grassy fields—packed with kite fliers and dog walkers in the summer but empty now—and along the boardwalk by the duck ponds until I reached the beach. A good wind was coming out of the north; the wind and sand made the running hard.
When I reached the maple tree, I stopped. I put my hands flat against the trunk and stretched my hamstrings. It was a natural enough thing to do and a natural enough place to do it; I'd often stretched there. But this time my heart raced as my eyes furiously scanned the nooks and crannies in the big rocks that served as a retaining wall for the railroad tracks.
And then, there it was: a black plastic bag stuck between two rocks. My hand was trembling as I reached in and pulled the bag out. Inside was a small brown package, about the size of a shoe box, weighing between five and ten pounds.
I shoved the trash bag and the package into the backpack, hurriedly zipped it shut, and then turned around. Walking toward me was a man who, for a split second, I thought was Mr. Arnold. I froze, and then watched as he threw a stick into the Sound. His big black dog bounded into the water after it. "Loves to swim, that one," the man said, and I saw that he didn't look like Arnold at all. I nodded, and then broke into a jog and started back.
When I reached Pier B, I stopped and walked. My dad, for the first afternoon in weeks, was onboard. He was sitting in the cabin looking at his charts. I grabbed clean clothes from the storage bin under the bench. "I'm going to shower up," I said.
He looked up. "I'll probably be gone when you get back," he said. If he noticed the backpack, he didn't say anything.
Once I was in the utility room, I shoved the backpack into my locker and carried my clothes to the shower stall. I stuck them and my towel on top of the dressing bench to keep them from getting wet, and then I took a long shower. The whole time I listened for the main door to open, but I didn't hear a thing. When I finished showering, I dried myself and dressed. I couldn't leave without knowing, so I again opened the combination lock and peered inside. The backpack and the package were still there, exactly the way I'd left them.
Back on the sailboat, I was all nerves. I kept thinking about the package, wondering who would pick it up and when. I tried listening to the radio, but I couldn't get my mind off the backpack. Finally I walked the length of the marina just to be doing something. The whole time I was out, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Just another night at the marina. I finally went back to the boat.
It wasn't until eleven that I flicked off the light and tried to sleep, but that was no good either. When my dad came in a little after one, I was wide awake. I fell asleep sometime around two, but even then I slept fitfully, waking up every hour or so, wondering if somehow something had gone wrong.
I was up before six Tuesday morning. I poured myself a bowl of cereal and took it up on deck to get away from my dad. Some of the other live-aboards were stirring, but the marina was basically quiet. Instead of eating, I stepped off the boat and walked the length of the pier and up the ramp toward the utility room.
The whole time I kept thinking about the locker and the package and the fat guy, and the more I thought, the more certain I became that something had gone wrong. I turned the key to the utility room door and then worked the combination to my locker. Once I heard the click, I opened the door. The backpack was there, but the package was gone.
When I came out, the fat guy was leaning against the wall of the utility room, smoking a cigarette. He smiled when he saw me. "Let's walk," he said.
We headed toward Little Coney. "I'm going to make this quick. You get paid every Sunday—the money will be in the front pouch of your backpack. If you see me on the marina, you can nod to me or you can ignore me. I don't care. What you can't do is come into the marina office to talk to me. If we need to talk, I'll come to you. Understood?"
"Understood," I said.
"Good." He smiled. "You're not as dumb as I thought you were, and now you're going to be a whole lot richer."
CHAPTER TWO
I wasn't playing a game. This was for real. This was dangerous. Smugglers got busted; smugglers did time in prison. Sometimes, smugglers got themselves killed. I knew it, but somehow I couldn't make myself believe it.
Maybe that's because for a while, nothing happened. Every day I'd run. Every day I'd stop by the big maple and do some stretches. Every day my eyes scanned the nooks and crannies of the rocks. Every day I reached my hand into the deeper recesses and felt around in there. And every day there'd be nothing. Absolutely nothing. There was no package the next day, or the day after, or that whole week.
I got paid, just the way the fat man said I would be. And no packages meant no danger, or at least less danger, so I should have been happy, but I wasn't. I was counting on that money, and I knew nobody was going to keep paying me two hundred dollars a week to do nothing.
At school the following Thursday, the only things I could think about were the fat guy and the rocks and the package and money. By the time school ended, all I wanted to do was run out to the rocks. But when I stepped onto the boat, my dad was waiting for me.
"Put your stuff away, Chance. We're going to the food bank."
"Now?" I said.
"Yeah, now."
"I can't. I've got to run now."
"What do you mean you've got to run now? You can run anytime. Store your stuff down below and let's get going. The bus comes in five minutes."
We caught the bus on Seaview and got off at Twenty-fourth and Market. It started to drizzle as we began the twelve-block walk to the North End Emergency Center. "I think I'm close to having enough money to pay October's moorage fees," I said as we trudged up the hill.
"How?" he said.
"I've got a new job."
He looked over at me. "You quit Ray's?"
I nodded. "I'm picking up and delivering stuff now."
"What stuff?"
"Packages. I get tips too. If you've got any money, we could put it together and probably make it."
My dad thought for a while as we walked. "It'd be good to pay," he said at last. "Keep them off our backs." He put his hand out. "Give me what you got."
A chill passed through me. "I've only gotten one paycheck," I said. I paused. "How about you give what you've got to me, and I'll take care of it?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he lit a cigarette and started walking again. Whe
n we reached the food bank, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He counted out six old, ragged twenty-dollar bills and handed them to me. The other twenties—I couldn't tell whether there were two or three—he kept. He caught me looking at them. "A man needs some money in his wallet," he said. Then he pulled open the door to the food bank, and I followed him inside.
CHAPTER THREE
By the door stood a silver-haired guy, neatly dressed in a sport coat and slacks, but not wearing a tie. "Good afternoon," he said, smiling as if we were customers at the supermarket. "Boxes are to your left."
Four other people were there—three women and a homeless guy. Two of the women and the man acted just like Dad and me. They moved up and down the aisles picking out spaghetti noodles, cans of soup, jars of peanut butter—stuff like that. They kept their heads down and their mouths shut. But the woman wearing the Washington State Cougar sweatshirt was different. "You got any other crackers besides these?" she called out to the man in front.
"All we have is what's out," the man called back to her.
"How about cookies, then? My girls like Oreos, and I don't see even one package of Oreos."
"Everything we have is on the shelves," the man repeated.
"You must have more stuff somewhere. You hiding it from us?"
My dad and I filled our boxes quickly. "Thanks," my dad said as we headed out the door.
"We'll be open Tuesday and Thursday next week. Regular hours."
The boxes were too heavy to carry the twelve blocks to Market Street. There was nothing to do but wait for the bus, take it to Market, and then transfer to the bus to the marina. It had taken an hour already; it looked like it might take another hour to return.
My dad sat down inside the bus shelter, but I was too nervous to sit. Every few minutes I'd take a step into the street to see if I could spot the bus. I needed to get back. I needed to run. I needed to check the rocks.
When I stepped out for what must have been the tenth time, a blue Jetta came over the crest of the hill. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, but Melissa had spotted me. As she drove past, she tapped lightly on the horn and waved. I managed to wave back.
She turned right at the corner and was gone. Two minutes later I again stepped into the street to look for the bus. But instead of the bus, there was the blue Jetta again. This time Melissa pulled over and rolled down the window. "You need a ride?"
Before I could turn her down, my dad stood up. "We sure do, young lady," he called, smiling broadly and picking up the box of groceries at his feet.
Melissa smiled back. "You can put the groceries in the trunk," she said, and she reached down to pull the lever that popped open the trunk of the car.
My dad quickly put his box in the trunk. I picked up the second box and loaded it as well. My dad climbed into the back seat, as if he were a little kid, while Melissa and I sat in the front. "I didn't know there was a grocery store around here," she said as she pulled into traffic.
"There isn't," I replied.
I knew what I'd said made no sense to her, but she let it go.
"You going to your boat?"
I nodded.
She drove down to Market and made the turn toward the marina. I wanted to say something, but my mind was blank. In the back seat my father sat staring out the window.
Just after she drove past the Ballard Locks, the sailboats moored in the marina came into view. Behind them was Puget Sound, gray like the sky, and deep in the clouds were the Olympic Mountains.
"It's so beautiful here," Melissa said. "I keep meaning to come down here and run along the water." She paused. "You still run, don't you?"
"Sometimes," I said.
"What are you talking about?" my father said from the back. "You run every day."
"You can let us off up there," I said, pointing to an empty parking spot.
"Shouldn't I pull up closer to the pier?"
"There's never any parking by the pier. This is great."
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."
CHAPTER FOUR
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.
CHAPTER FIVE
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.