The pickup would happen on Saturday, May 1, which was just two weeks away. Normally two weeks is nothing, here and gone. But nothing was normal anymore.
I told myself over and over that I was being stupid. The police had said Burdett killed himself. It was idiotic to think that he'd been murdered, idiotic to think that somebody might murder me. But it didn't matter what I told myself—inside I was scared. Every stranger on the sidewalk, every car on the street, became a threat. The slightest noise in the night and I'd instantly be wide awake, wondering, Is it them? Are they coming for me?
I kept to a strict routine. I left for school at the same time every morning, returned to the sailboat at the same time every afternoon. I ran out to the locks, across the Magnolia footbridge, and then back to the drop-off spot by the maple tree. I poked around in the rocks, and then ran back to the Tiny Dancer. If someone was watching me, I wanted them to see that I was doing everything exactly the way I had always done it, the way I'd been told to do it. I wanted them to know I was reliable, that they could trust me to turn over the packages to them.
Day after day after day I stuck to the same schedule, but as May i grew closer, my head started to ache and my blood was pumping so fast I could hear it drumming in my ears. I just wanted Saturday to come; I just wanted those packages off the boat.
On the Friday morning before May i, I couldn't stop looking at the clock during my classes. I didn't know seconds and minutes could take so long to pass. Fourth period ended at eleven-forty-five, but already I felt as if I'd been at school for a week. I ate, or tried to eat, my lunch in the commons. But when the bell sounded for fifth period, I just couldn't face it. Instead of going to class, I went out the gym door and headed back to the boat.
It was strange walking down to the marina at that time of day. Fewer cars were on the streets, and everything seemed quieter. When I crossed Thirty-second Avenue, it was as if I was the last person in the world. The only sound was the occasional bark of a dog. It was actually a relief to hear a car coming up the street behind me.
Or it was a relief for a few seconds. But then that feeling turned to fear. The car was going too slow—it should have passed me by now. Instead it was inching along behind me. I wanted to turn and look, but I was afraid to. I told myself to count to ten, and then, if the car hadn't passed me, then I'd turn and look. I started counting.... One ... two ... three ... four...
I turned at eight. Forty yards behind me was a black Mercedes. As soon as I turned, the driver accelerated and the car flew by me, tires squealing as it rounded the corner and turned onto Seaview Avenue. It was the same car I'd seen that time I'd come out of the utility room; I was sure of it.
My mind started clicking like a railroad car moving down the line. I'd been right. They had been watching me, all the time, and I'd just done the stupidest thing I could possibly have done—I'd changed my routine. For seven months I'd come home from school at the same time. And now, the day before the pickup, now I was early. The one thing I didn't want them to think was the only thing they would think—that I was changing things on them, that they couldn't trust me. I'd blown it. Right at the end, when I'd needed to play it cool, I'd blown it.
That's when I thought of my dad. He wouldn't be at work, not now, not in the middle of the afternoon. He'd be sitting on the boat, not knowing anything about anything.
I was almost running by the time I reached the parking lot in front of Pier B, and I did run when I reached the ramp. I was fumbling for my gate key when a guy who owned a new Catalina a couple of slips down from ours pushed the door open from the inside. I stepped by him onto the pier. It was that simple—the security gate wouldn't stop anybody.
I hurried down the pier, my eyes on the Tiny Dancer. It looked so small, so very small, and so peaceful in the still water. A boat like any other boat, and all of what I feared seemed like a dream. But those red packages were real; the black Mercedes was real; the death of Burdett was real.
The boat wasn't a terrible mess topside, but someone had been there, looking. The garbage can was tipped over. The bench seats were in the upright position; the sweaters and blankets stored beneath them were tossed about. I swallowed hard, then made my way to the steps leading into the cabin.
That's where the real mess was. The icebox, the shelves, the drawers—everything had been tossed around like so much trash. Cans of food rolled around in a puddle of milk mixed with orange juice. The mattress and pillows in the sleeping berths had been slit open.
I climbed into my own berth, pushed the ruined bedding aside, and crawled forward. I hoped that they'd found the secret storage nook, found it and taken the packages, and that it was all over. But even before I slid the panel open, I knew they hadn't. And I was right—they were still there: a dozen red packages lined up side by side. I'd hidden them too well. I closed my eyes and slumped down onto the mattress. That's when I heard footsteps overhead and—a moment later—my father's voice. "You want to tell me what's going on?"