The Deep Blue Alibi

distance, another recognizable sound, tires whizzing on asphalt. He turned his head cautiously to one side. Headlights shot across the bridge, silhouetted in the distance.

'Where are we, Bobby?'

'A little island.'

'How'd we get here?' Steve's head throbbed. He touched his forehead. Tender, a bump already forming.

'Bucky.'

'Who?'

'Bucky the dolphin.'

'Don't shit me.'

'Well, not him, exactly. But one of his friends, maybe.'

Maybe he was dreaming. Or worse-dead. 'A dolphin brought us here?'

'I got through a hole in the top, but you got stuck. I tried to pull you through but I couldn't. Then this dolphin grabbed you by the shoulder and got you out.'

Steve ran a hand experimentally over one shoulder, then the other. 'I don't have bite marks. Tell me what happened. The truth.'

'I am telling you. When you got to the surface, the dolphin pushed you. And I held on to his fluke till we got to shore.'

'Aw, c'mon, Bobby. Did you get me out?'

Somewhere, a police siren wailed. On the bridge, two cars had stopped. Three or four people stood at the railing, looking their way and gesturing.

'I wanted to save you, and you saved me,' Steve said.

'Tursiops truncatus did it, Uncle Steve.'

Steve knew that Bobby's athletic abilities were limited. In a footrace, the boy was all flying elbows and churning knees, a whirlwind of inefficient motion. Unkind kids called him a 'spaz.' But Bobby was a natural swimmer, his long legs and skinny arms cutting smoothly through the water in a precise cadence. Steve was just the opposite. He ran with his head still and a powerful sprinter's stride. In the water, he flailed and splashed.

Steve rolled onto an elbow. Everything started spinning again, and he eased back down.

'You've got a big bump on your forehead.' Bobby gently touched a raw area just above Steve's eyebrow. 'I hope it's not a subdural hematoma.'

'What the hell's that, Doogie Howser?'

'An intracranial lesion. It's pretty common with blunt trauma to the head.'

'So, 'common' is good, right?'

'Unless the cerebral hemisphere is lacerated. Then you shouldn't be buying any green bananas.'

'Jesus.'

Bobby leaned closer, looked into Steve's eyes. 'Your pupils look good, Uncle Steve. I think you're gonna be okay.'

Steve did not believe in a grand scheme. There was no general contractor or master architect of the universe. But what about this? When Bobby needed someone to break him out of the commune where he'd been locked up, there was Steve, outrunning half-a-dozen guys with shotguns, zigzagging through the woods, carrying the boy to safety. And now, seconds from drowning, Steve was sure he'd been rescued by Bobby, not Trunky turnip, or whoever.

From the bridge, someone was shouting, 'Ambulance coming. Hang in there!'

Fine, Steve thought. He wasn't going anywhere.

There was a soft splash in the water, and Bobby said, 'There! The dolphin jumped.'

Steve painfully turned his head, but it was gone.

Sure, it could have been a dolphin leaping in that parenthetical shape. Or a plain old fish. Or a little asteroid hitting the water, for all he knew. 'I didn't see anything, kiddo.'

'You never do, Uncle Steve.'

Twenty-five

HEAD CASE

The headache floated away on a sea of Demerol and Steve dreamily wondered why his sense of smell had suddenly become so acute. When the paramedics had loaded him into the ambulance, the salty evening breeze seemed to blossom like a fine tequila. When the orderlies wheeled him into the ER at Fishermen's Hospital, his nose was on sensory overload, inhaling a mixture of iodine and limestone dust, crushed shells and wet mud. Then, in the hospital, the harsh metallic tang of cleansers and solvents.

Later, sedated in his room, he sensed the sweetness of English Leather cologne. He'd known that aroma since childhood. Opening his eyes, he found the room dark, but heard a familiar Southern drawl. Saying Bobby was fine. 'Not even a scratch. Don't worry about a thing. Sleep well, son.'

Now, with the morning sun peeking through the blinds, he dreamed he was on a Hawaiian beach, a Polynesian girl draping a lei of fresh gardenias around his neck, the fragrance as intoxicating as a wahine's smile. For some reason, he thought the girl's name was Mauna Loa, but that could have been the jar of macadamia nuts in his cupboard at home.

A few minutes later, Steve's eyes half opened and he saw a bouquet of flowers on the sideboard.

Aha. White gardenias.

He wondered if he could get a job as a police dog, sniffing luggage at the airport. Maybe his other senses had sharpened, too. Maybe the knock on the noggin had made him smarter. Then he drifted back to sleep. A minute later, or maybe an hour, another aroma. Something spicy but with a hint of vanilla. A woman's perfume. He thought he heard a soft voice calling his name, but that could be a dream, too.

'Steve, are you awake?'

'Mauna Loa?'

He opened his eyes. Victoria was standing over him. Little vertical lines creased her forehead. She looked at him with such tenderness and care that he nearly choked up with emotion.

'When's the last time I told you how beautiful you are?' he asked.

'You okay, Steve?'

'And that I love you. I really, really love you. And cherish you. I really cherish you.' He began singing, 'Cherish is the word. .' and the lines in Victoria's forehead deepened.

The goofy smile was so un-Steve-like, Victoria thought. His sharp-featured face was almost cherubic and all the rough edges of his personality seemed rounded off.

'You're beautiful,' Steve said. 'Have I told you that lately?'

'Thirty seconds ago.'

'And I love your outfit,' he continued.

'This rag?' She looked down at her wrinkled, spaghetti-strapped tank dress. She'd pulled it on hurriedly when Herbert called. And she wasn't feeling beautiful. She'd splashed on a drop of Must de Cartier but hadn't taken the time to put on makeup, and she felt pasty and dry-mouthed from the river of gimlets the night before. 'I've had this dress since college. You've seen it a hundred times.'

'It picks up the color of your eyes.'

'The dress is red and white, Steve. Just which color does it pick up?'

'I don't know. Today, everything looks gorgeous.'

She sat on the edge of the bed and gingerly touched his forehead. A bump, purple and blue, rose from beneath the hairline.

'Bobby,' he said. 'Where's Bobby?'

'At your father's. Sleeping. He's fine.'

'I love that kid. I couldn't love him any more if I were his father.'