Mr. Watts turned and headed downstairs. Melissa and I followed, and then waited as he made a series of phone calls. I couldn't tell who he called, but I thought it was the Coast Guard and the police, and maybe the FBI. Every once in a while he'd turn and ask me a question. "What was the slip number? ... The length of the sailboat? ... Any distinctive markings?" Finally he hung up. "Let's go," he said.
"Where?" I asked.
"There's a police helicopter waiting for us down on Lake Union. Chance, your dad might be out there by himself, safe as can be, but we can't make that assumption. If terrorists have hijacked the boat, then it's a floating bomb. There are a hundred, no ... a thousand, different targets out on the Sound. We've got to find the Tiny Dancer before any of those targets get hit."
"I'm coming too," Melissa said. "And don't tell me I'm not."
"You are coming," he answered. "In fact, you're driving. I'm expecting some phone calls."
We hurried out to the garage. I climbed into the back seat of the Jetta and her father took the passenger seat. Melissa backed the car out, whipped the wheel around, and maneuvered down the driveway and out onto the street. "Drive fast," her father said, "but not too fast. No accidents. You got it?"
The police helicopter pad on Lake Union is about five miles from Melissa's house. Instead of taking the neighborhood streets, she drove through the Ballard industrial area that runs right along the water. The roads are potholed and crisscrossed by abandoned railroad tracks, but there are few lights or stop signs.
As we passed under the Ballard Bridge, her father's cell phone rang. The person on the other end spoke for a few moments. "Are you asking me what I would recommend?" he said.
The caller said something I couldn't hear.
"OK," Melissa's dad answered. "Here's what I'd do. I'd close every single bridge over the water. I-5, I-90, Aurora, 520—all of them. And I'd hold every ferry at the dock."
Again the caller spoke.
"I know it would paralyze the city," Melissa's father said, his voice angry. "And I know this is a long shot. But better to paralyze the city than to have a whole bunch of people dead."
He snapped the phone shut and slipped it into his pocket.
"Are they going to close the bridges?" I asked.
He just looked out the window.
We were nearing Gas Works Park. "Up there," he said to Melissa. "That gravel road. Turn right and drive all the way to the end."
Melissa followed his directions. As soon as the Jetta came to a stop, we got out, and three men ran up to us. "Is this the kid?" one of them said, pointing to me.
"That's him," Melissa's dad said.
"You come with me," the man said, and he grabbed me by the arm and led me toward a stairway.
"What about us?" Melissa called after him.
"Just the boy," the man said, waving her off.
Before I had a chance to object, we were headed up the stairs. At the top a helicopter, its blades whirring, sat on the pad. "Keep your head down," the man said. "Now move."
We ran, his hand grasping my upper arm, to the helicopter and I climbed onboard. It was the first time I'd ever been near a helicopter, and the sound of the blades was about twenty times louder than I'd expected. I sat in a cushioned seat and fastened my seat belt just as the copter lifted off. Another man handed me a pair of binoculars. "You know how to use these?" he shouted.
I nodded.
"All right then. Find that sailboat for us."