Trial & Error (16 page)

Thirty-seven

RISKING IT ALL FOR LOVE

Steve knew.

The lights were on in their house, but pulling into the driveway, he knew.

As he walked toward the front door, Victoria pulled up in her car.

Steve unlocked the door and called out Bobby’s name. No answer.

Steve knew the house was empty.

He knew that Bobby’s bicycle would be gone, too.

He knew that Bobby was headed for Cetacean Park. He just didn’t know how long a head start the boy had.

The wind was in Bobby’s face. Riding over the bridge to Key Biscayne always took longer than riding back to the mainland because the wind came off the ocean. Tonight, it wasn’t bad. Warm and moist, the breeze like a washcloth.

Bobby had left the house just after Victoria drove off to meet Uncle Steve for dinner. Now it was dark, a half-moon was rising over the Bay, and he pulled his bicycle into a strand of scrubby pine trees adjacent to Cetacean Park.

Uncle Steve had let him down again. Two hours ago Bobby told his uncle that Spunky and Misty had to be back at the park. That’s the only thing that made sense. His uncle promised to do something about it. Then he called back later. He said the FBI would get on it Monday.

Monday!

Right now, Grisby could be loading Spunky and Misty into tanks for transport. Just like he’d done before when he’d brought the dolphins from California. Bobby had found photographs of Undersea World. The shots of Spunky were difficult to make out, a lot of water splashing. But one photo of Misty was unmistakable. The little notch in her fluke and her pink belly gave her away.

Bobby imagined what might be going on right now at Cetacean Park. Those two men from Hardcastle could be there. Pissed off at the double-cross. Ready to kill Grisby. Kidnap the dolphins, sneak them off to the warfare center in San Diego, turn them into freaks and assassins.

My best buds.

This was his only chance, or they’d be gone forever. Didn’t Uncle Steve say that men always did whatever had to be done, no matter the risk? Especially for those you love.

Well, I love Spunky and Misty, and I’m their only hope.

Bobby worked his way to the dock, listening to the whisper of water in the channel. No dolphins. He wondered what time Uncle Steve and Victoria would get home. They’d be hacked off. But it wasn’t his fault. Uncle Steve should have gotten the dolphins back, or at least he should have tried harder.
But he was so caught up trying to prove his stupid client innocent, he forgot about the dolphins…and about me.

“Family comes first.”
That’s what he’d always said. But he was still a lawyer, and Bobby sensed a conflict between obligations to the family you love and the scumbags you represent.

A splash in the channel, but it was just a small fish leaping, the moonlight catching its phosphorescence. No Spunky. No Misty.

Bobby followed the channel toward the main building. During the day, a busy place, with a souvenir stand, a food court, and a dolphin video playing on a flat screen. Growing more narrow, the channel wound inland past the building under an umbrella of leafy palms. It ended at a spillway that came from the quonset hut Mr. Grisby called “the infirmary.”

The building was thirty feet high, made of corrugated metal. The roof was elevated by wooden rafters, leaving an open breezeway that ran the circumference of the round building. Bobby could see lights through the breezeway, and he could hear men’s voices.

He climbed a ladder that ran up the side of the building. Halfway up, Bobby recognized Mr. Grisby’s voice, but couldn’t make out the words. Then a shrill metal whistle. Bobby knew the sound. Mr. Grisby trained dolphins with blasts from a whistle.

The ladder stopped at a metal catwalk just at the breezeway. By standing on his tiptoes, Bobby could see down into the building. There was Mr. Grisby, on a platform no wider than a diving board. Two men stood at the perimeter of the tank. A smaller man in cowboy boots and a black T-shirt. Tough-looking dude. And a larger man with blond hair, muscles not as well defined.

Mr. Grisby tooted the whistle and Spunky and Misty jumped in unison, landed, then paddled upright on their flukes, looking like ballerinas.

“Watch this, gentlemen. I think you’ll be impressed.”

Grisby knelt down and grabbed a large nylon sack that lay at his feet. He opened the drawstrings, and something tumbled out of the sack and into the water.

A body in a green-and-brown camouflage uniform.

Thirty-eight

STRIDE FOR STRIDE

“Shit.”

Steve slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.

From the top of the bridge, nothing but twin rows of red taillights in front of them. At the bottom of the span, two police cars and a tow truck blocked the eastbound lane. A Hummer sat diagonally in the roadway, a deep-hulled sailboat splintered across the lanes, where it had fallen off its trailer.

“What now?” Victoria asked.

“We walk. Or run. C’mon.”

Steve pulled the car as far off the roadway as he could, and they started on foot. A jog at first. They’d both changed clothes after dinner. Victoria was in her workout attire: Nike stretch pants, running shoes, and fitted top. Steve wore khaki shorts and an old Hurricanes baseball jersey.

Once off the bridge, they were able to cut through the picnic areas that lined the causeway, just yards from the shoreline. Their path was lit by hundreds of headlights from the traffic jam. White gulls trudged along the beach, digging for toenail crabs.

“This is all my fault,” Steve said as they jogged alongside each other.

“What is?”

“Bobby. I’ve been too self-absorbed. I haven’t paid enough attention to him.”

“You’re a wonderful father to him, Steve. Bobby adores you.”

“I haven’t been consistent. At first, because of everything he’d suffered with my crazy sister, I didn’t want to deny him anything. Then I thought maybe I was overprotecting him, so I backed off. Now I just don’t know. I’ve lost all sense of balance.”

“All parents learn on the fly, and you’re doing fine.”

“If I were doing so great, he’d be home right now.” Steve shot a look across the Bay in the direction of Cetacean Park. “If anything happens to him…”

His words hung in the humid air, and they ran in silence for another few moments.

Just after they’d left the house, Steve had called FBI Agent Parsons again on her cell. This time, she sounded even more exasperated. “Your twelve-year-old nephew has ridden off on his bicycle, and you think it’s a federal case? Is that it, Solomon?”

She hung up on him.

Next, Steve called the Miami Police Department and got through to a desk sergeant. When it became clear that Bobby hadn’t been snatched, and that he’d been gone less than two hours, Steve could feel the officer’s interest level wane. Following procedures, the sergeant said to call back in the morning if the boy hadn’t returned.

“Do you know what first attracted me to you?” Victoria said as they neared the collapsed trailer and sailboat.

“My musk cologne?”

“Your love for Bobby. The risks you took to rescue him. The way you put him first. With all your faults, you’re still the kind of man a woman wants to father her children.”

“What faults?”

“C’mon, Steve. Let’s pick up the pace.”

They broke into a full run, Steve shortening his stride just a bit to match hers. Victoria ran athletically, smoothly. They were in perfect rhythm, perfect sync, and moving fast.

They passed cars parked at water’s edge on the causeway’s lover’s lane. Couples inside. Drinking. Kissing. Writhing. Close by, a homeless man with a scrawny dog rummaged through a trash barrel.

The tow truck was still there in the middle of the roadway, where they’d first seen it from the top of the bridge. Workers were trying figure out how to hoist the sailboat off the pavement.

The causeway eased toward the right, and the warm southeast sea breeze hit them head-on. Behind them, horns honked, and traffic still hadn’t moved. They could see the lights of Cetacean Park, less than a mile ahead.

Steve gestured toward Victoria’s purse, a black leather Dolce & Gabbana. “Isn’t that slowing you down?”

“A woman never leaves her purse in the car.”

“You want me to carry it?”

“No way. You’re not licensed.”

Steve gave her a look that she took as a question. It was the second time that night he’d asked.

“Yes,” Victoria said. “I still have the gun Pincher gave me.”

Thirty-nine

DEAD DUMMY

It wasn’t a body.

It was a dummy. Like the ones used by the Navy in rescue training.

Bobby climbed over the low wall and watched from high in the rafters. Wedged against a beam, he was hidden in the shadows, his head bumping against the corrugated metal ceiling.

Spunky and Misty were somewhere deep in the tank below. The dummy floated faceup. Mr. Grisby held two wooden sticks that looked like pool cues, only shorter. The man in cowboy boots and the larger man watched as Mr. Grisby clacked the sticks together three times. A second later, both dolphins burst from the water. Spunky grabbed the dummy by an ankle and dived, dragging it with him. Misty stayed on the surface, turning circles, as if on surveillance.

The seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes. If the dummy had been a man, he’d be turning blue. After three minutes, Mr. Grisby blew the whistle. Again, Spunky blasted through the surface, this time tossing the dummy onto the platform, splashing the three men. A good way to kill an enemy saboteur, Bobby thought.

Or Rich (The Shit) Shactman.

Mr. Grisby reached into a pail and tossed chunks of raw fish to each of the dolphins. Misty shot water out of her blowhole and made a
click-click
sound that Bobby knew meant “thanks.” Spunky’s sound was more whiny, the thanks combined with a sound meaning he was still hungry.

“Nice party trick,” Cowboy Boots said.

“But I’m not sure it’s worth a million bucks,” the larger man said. “We can train the bastards, too.”

“Even without Sanders?”

Their voices carried easily across the water and echoed up the metal walls.

“Big deal. We hire another frogman,” Cowboy Boots said.

“The home office is none too happy with you about the whole Sanders deal,” the other man said.

“I’m telling you,” Grisby said, “Sanders was working for the feds. He was trying to arrest me when I shot him.”

“Bullshit,” Cowboy Boots said.

“If Sanders was a snitch, you’d have been busted instead of that dipshit kid,” the other man added. “Anyway, you got no cause to double the price on us. There’s a place in the Dominican we can go. Six dolphins trained to B level.”

Grisby laughed. “Try to get a B level to do this.”

He kicked the dummy back into the water, then rattled the two sticks against each other like a drummer in a marching band. He kept the
rat-a-tat-tat
going until Spunky and Misty each grabbed the dummy by an ankle. They swam in opposite directions, whipping their bodies in a violent pitch and roll. The dummy tore in half cleanly at the crotch. Each dolphin shook its head and tossed half the dead dummy onto the platform.

“Jesus,” Cowboy Boots muttered.

Grisby grinned at the two men. “Either of you want to take a swim?”

The big man laughed nervously. “We’ll get back to you on the price. We got to talk to the home office.”

Grisby tossed two pieces of mackerel to the dolphins, who were standing on their fluttering flukes, waving their fins, as if applauding themselves.

Wedged into his hiding place, Bobby felt himself tremble. Were these his best buddies?

What have they done to you?

The dolphins began leaping. Competing to see who could jump higher. Spunky was bigger and stronger, but Misty had a sleeker body. On their third leap, they neared the rafters. At the apogee of her jump, Misty stared straight at Bobby. She hung motionless in the air for a fraction of a second and emitted a
toot
through her blowhole. Not her usual greeting. Bobby translated the sound as an urgent and fearful,
“Stranger.”

Both dolphins curved gracefully back into the water below. Five seconds later, they shot toward him again, even closer this time. They whistled in unison.
“Stranger!”
The tone was frightening, the meaning of the word even more so.

Have they brainwashed you? Have they turned me into a stranger?

Once back in the water, the dolphins swam in a circle, splashing the men on the platform.

Stop it, guys! Are you trying to blow my cover?

“Something’s got ’em riled.” Cowboy Boots looked toward the rafters, shielding his eyes from the glare of the overhead lights.

“Probably just some bats,” Grisby said.

Bobby squeezed his eyes shut. He harbored the irrational thought that if he couldn’t see the men, they couldn’t see him. He tried to press himself even farther into the joint of the two beams. A second later, Spunky leapt from the water, his dorsal fin swiping Bobby’s leg. Startled, Bobby’s foot slipped off the beam. He fell, one foot on each side of the rafter. Landed hard on his private parts, howled with pain.

“What the hell’s that!” Cowboy Boots yelled.

All three men looked straight up, squinting into the lights.

“Who’s up there!” Grisby demanded.

Bobby felt like a horse had kicked him in the balls. The pain was so intense, it blinded him. Feeling nauseous, he slid backward on his butt along the rafter, a narrow two-by-four.

From below, he heard a frightening sound. The
clickety-clack
of a shotgun racking.

“I said, who’s up there! Last chance, or I’ll fill you with buckshot.”

Dizzy now, Bobby lost his balance and flipped over. He hung upside down from the beam by his ankles, as if on monkey bars.

“What the hell’s that?” The larger man pointed toward the rafters.

Bobby’s thighs ached. He tried swinging upright on the beam but didn’t have the strength.

He teetered left.

Teetered right.

He was losing his grip, and the building seemed to tilt on its axis.

A second later, he plunged into the water, surprised at how cold it felt, how salty it tasted. A second after that, something grabbed him by one ankle.