Runner

by Carl Deuker

  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.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  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."

  "Why?"

  "Just do it."

  "What are you afraid of?"

  "I'm not afraid of anything. I'm just careful."

  I followed the railroad tracks south just like he said. I didn't find a decent path until I reached the bridge near Sixty-first Street. As I headed down the trail that led back to the street, I saw an old sleeping bag and a jacket and a piece of plastic that was strung up like a tent. I felt as if I'd seen it all before, and then I remembered. The guy I had pushed to the ground: this had been his home.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sunday morning sunlight came streaming in the little windows of the boat, waking me. It was the first perfectly clear, perfectly sunny day in months. By ten, Golden Gardens Park was filling up with people picnicking, flying kites, lying on the beach.

  I walked to Market Street and killed time at Secret Garden books. The only book I've ever bought was the Christmas gift for my dad, but they never chase me out, which is why I like the place. Just before noon, I headed over to the library.

  Phrases had been swirling around in my head, phrases I didn't want to think about. Terrorist cells and Red Alerts and soft targets. Arnold had talked about them, and my dad had talked about them, and there was stuff in the newspaper almost every day. I was getting out—but before I got out, I had to know just exactly what it was I'd been in.

  I was there when the library doors opened, so I was able to get a computer with Internet access. I sat down, logged on to Google, and typed in the word smuggling. Instantly, the screen filled with websites on the smuggling of drugs and people.

  None were what I was looking for.

  I went back to the main Google page and typed in what I should have typed from the start: plastic explosives.

  Immediately the page came alive. I scanned the options, swallowed hard, and opened one. A long article giving the whole history of plastic explosives filled the screen. Some of it I couldn't follow. But not all of it.

  Phrases jumped out at me that made me go cold all over. Easily molded ... puttylike ... odorless ... hard to detect.

  I
remembered what my dad had said to me months before. By boat, the Ballard Locks were five minutes from Shilshole marina; the Aurora Bridge was thirty. Ferries and cruise ships were always moving through Puget Sound. Terrorists would have trouble smuggling one hundred pounds of explosives into the country all at one time, but if they got the explosives in little by little, and if they got help from someone who didn't know what was going on—they could succeed.

  My head started spinning and the ground seemed to move underneath me the way the Tiny Dancer moves in a storm. My breath started coming faster and faster; my hands were gripping the sides of the table so tightly my knuckles were white. I don't know how long I sat there, but when the woman across from me leaned over and asked if I was all right, I snapped out of it.

  I let go of the table. "I'm fine," I told the woman. I logged out and left the library.

  ***

  I had to find a place where I could sit down by myself and think everything through, but the sunny day had brought people out everywhere. Then I remembered Cloud Park on Fifty-eighth Street. It wasn't much more than a bench surrounded by some flowers, but it was close, and it would be empty.

  When I reached the park, I sat down, my head still spinning. I had to decide what to do, and I had to decide fast. The obvious thing was to go to the police. But if I did, and if it turned out it wasn't plastic explosives? The cops would have a laugh over that. Idiot kid turns himself in ... thinks he's involved in terrorism, when he's just a small-time drug smuggler.

  I could throw the stuff—whatever it was—into the Sound. That would get rid of it, and keep the police out of it. Then I remembered the way the fat guy had looked when I'd said I was going to do that, and I felt fear go through me.

  That's when I thought of Melissa. Her dad was a lawyer, a hotshot lawyer, considering the money they had. He'd been my dad's best friend; he'd said he'd wanted to help. To get to him, I'd have to talk to Melissa first.

  I fished a couple of quarters out of my pocket and walked over to Walter's. On the wall in the back by the bathrooms were a pay phone and a phone book. I looked up her number, dropped in two quarters, and punched the buttons. The phone rang and her voice came on the answering machine: "No one's home right now. Leave your number and we'll call you. Bye."

  I didn't have a number to leave.

  When I hung up and turned around, I saw Kim Lawton, my mom's old friend. "Hey, Chance," she said, smiling. "Good to see you. Have a seat. Let me make you a hot chocolate, or an espresso if you want."

  I shook my head. "I can't, Kim. I've got to go."

  "Come on, Chance. I never see you anymore. What's the big hurry? Sit down, tell me what you've been doing."

  For a moment, I thought of telling her everything. It was eating me up inside, and I wanted to get it out. But what would be the point? She couldn't help me.

  "I'll come tomorrow," I said. "Really, I will. But I've got to go now."

  "You promise?"

  "I promise."

  Once outside, I headed down to the marina. I didn't want to go sit on the boat, but where else could I go? I walked down to the water, and then crossed the marina parking lot. Finally I could see Pier B. Then I stopped. Leaning against the chain-link fence was the fat guy. I took a deep breath and then walked up to him. "What did you find out?" I said.

  He motioned toward the parking lot. His silver Acura was parked there. "Come on," he said. "Let's go for a ride."

  He pulled out of the parking lot and headed along Seaview Avenue. He made the turn toward Sunset Hill, and then drove slowly up Golden Gardens Way, where Melissa lived.

  "Gems," he said as he drove. "Sapphires and emeralds and stuff like that. In those red packages. They're from Burma. First they get them across the border and into Thailand, and from Thailand to Canada. Then they smuggle them here. I don't really understand it all. I do know Burma is one messed-up country."

  "They don't feel like gems," I said. "The packages are squishy."

  "That's an old trick. They hide them inside Spackle or Silly Putty or something like that. Those packages probably still have their labels on them. A customs agent looks at them, and he might not look twice."

  "You're sure about this?"

  He nodded. "I'm sure. I talked to the main man. I told him I had to know. I told him I was quitting if he didn't come clean."

  I looked at the fat guy as he drove. I wondered if he'd been worried about the same thing that had me worried. He eased to a stop at the stop sign at the top of the hill. "This doesn't change anything," I said as he accelerated. "I'm still quitting."

  "You told me. OK? You don't have to tell me again. They're going to take the packages off your boat on May first. That's the opening of boating season. There'll be lots of activity on the marina—no one will notice anything. You sit on the bench by the utility building around noon and they'll contact you. You give them the packages and then you're done. Your old man won't be around, will he?"

  I shook my head. "Not on opening day. He'll be at the locks looking at all the boats."

  "OK then. It's set."

  We were back at the marina. The fat guy pulled to a stop; I stepped out of the car and closed the door. As he drove off, I suddenly felt incredibly light and free. I almost wanted to laugh. To think that just a few minutes earlier I'd believed I was involved with al-Qaida and explosives, and all the time the packages had contained gems. Nobody ever got killed by a sapphire.

  I spent that afternoon hanging out along the waterfront. The piers were full of people getting their boats in shape for the summer. They'd be going up to the San Juan Islands or to Vancouver Island or Alaska. When people smiled at me or waved or said a few words, I smiled or waved or said a few words back. The sun was out and the whole world looked beautiful.

  All the other years I'd lived on the boat, I'd hated seeing the activity at the start of boating season. Knowing that other people were headed off to other places had made me feel nailed to the pier. But now, I felt what they felt. Because I was going, too. As soon as school ended, I was going.

  That's when I saw my dad. He was leaning against the railing by Pier K, hollering out advice to some guy who wasn't paying any attention to him. His hair was long again, long and straggly and dirty. His clothes were ratty, and he hadn't shaved in a week.

  Maybe the bike shop would end up hiring him, and maybe they wouldn't. It didn't really matter. Eventually, he'd lose the Tiny Dancer. It might be three months, it might be three years—but he'd lose it. And when he lost it, he'd have lost everything. He wasn't ever going anywhere on that crummy sailboat. His dream was a kid's dream—like wanting to grow up and be a fireman and rescue babies from burning buildings. Everybody knew that. Everybody but him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tuesday there was a package. Not a red one—there hadn't been any red ones since the night I'd waited on the beach—but one of the regular ones. Still, my hands shook as I shoved it into the backpack. I didn't want to get caught. Not now, not with the end in sight. I turned and headed back to the marina. I wanted to sprint, but I made myself run at my normal pace. Nothing unusual—the same as always. That was the way to act.

  As I neared Pier B, I slowed to a walk. A security guard was coming straight toward me. I tried to smile, but felt the muscles in my cheeks twitch. The security guy nodded. "Howdy," he said, dragging the word out like a Texan in a cowboy movie.

  "Howdy," I replied, my pronunciation weirdly mimicking his. His smile turned to a glare, but he kept walking.

  After I showered, I went back to the Tiny Dancer. I had to let my dad know that I was leaving, that he was going to be totally on his own. I owed him that. I'd told him a couple of times before, but he hadn't really believed me, probably because I hadn't really believed myself. Now I knew, so he had to know, too.

  He didn't show up for an hour, and he'd been drinking. Still, he wasn't so drunk that I couldn't talk to him.

  "I've got to tell you something," I said.

  He dropped onto the bench b
y the wheel. "So tell me."

  "It's about June, once I graduate."

  "What about it?"

  "I'm going to leave here. I'm going out on my own."

  He raised his head. "Is that right?"

  I nodded.

  "OK. What is it you're going to do?"

  "I've got a plan."

  "How about telling me what it is?"

  "Not yet. I will though. And I won't just disappear," I added, suddenly remembering my mom. "I'll keep in touch. I promise."

  He stared at me, the alcohol haze lifting. "You really mean it, don't you? You are leaving."

  "I mean it."

  He looked around the sailboat. "I guess there isn't a helluva lot for you to stay for, is there?"

  I didn't answer.

  "Well, good luck and all that." He paused. "I mean that too."

  "I know you do," I said.

  I started to go down below, but one more thing had to be said, so I turned back. "You understand what this means, don't you? Moneywise and all?"

  He looked at me. "I understand, Chance."

  "You're going to have to—"

  He put up his hand to stop me. "I understand."

  He left the boat about ten minutes later. I was hoping he'd come back early that night, but around eleven I gave up hoping and switched off the light. I slept until I heard his footsteps overhead, and came completely awake as he made his way into the cabin.

  He banged into just about everything as he undressed and climbed into his berth, but once in there, he fell sound asleep within a couple of minutes. I lay in my berth, thinking, as the clock ticked away the minutes. When I probably could have fallen back to sleep, the sirens started. It seemed like a dozen emergency vehicles were tearing down Seaview Avenue. For a second, I thought they were coming after me, but then I figured it was probably some car crash or a fire. A couple of times I thought about going topside to see what was up. Finally the sirens stopped, and a little later I fell asleep.