A blast of water. Spunky and Misty exploded above the surface, side by side. The dolphins’ bodies were silvery-black against the moonlight. They hit the surface together, smooth as knives, and vanished.
They had heard something, Bobby thought. Or sensed it with their sonar. What we call “sonar,” anyway. Their echolocation ability. Sending out sound waves, getting readings back. Seeing in the dark by picturing the shapes of objects.
Bobby wondered what they sensed in the darkness. Mr. Grisby stared out at the channel, toward the open water of the Bay. Bobby followed his gaze. Nothing there.
“I want you out of here quick.” Grisby didn’t take his eyes from the horizon.
Bobby heard something in the man’s voice. Saw it as a picture, felt it on his skin. Something cold and sharp, an icicle poking him in the back.
“Dammit, boy! You hear me? This is no place for you.”
The sound a freezing liquid now, covering Bobby as if he were encased in a glacier. It was the sound of fear.
Four
A flood of sensations as Steve flew off the embankment toward Darth Vader on the Jet Ski. The metal gate at the Bay inlet, marked with red and green lights, was wide open. If the bastard made it through the inlet, he’d have a clear path all the way to Key West. Then, in the distance, another Jet Ski, already in the Bay. An accomplice. And silhouetted in the headlight of the Jet Ski, two dolphins sped into open water.
Steve was airborne.
Spread-eagled.
The masked man ducked. The crook of Steve’s right arm caught him under the chin, cartwheeled him off the Jet Ski. A clothesline tackle.
A second later, both men were treading water, the Jet Ski purring softly, turning tight circles in the channel. Steve’s right shoulder flared with pain. It felt as if someone had stabbed him with an ice pick, then hammered it into the bone. Next to him, the man’s hand was clapped protectively over his neck.
A thick neck. Strong jaw with high cheekbones. Light-skinned African-American. His helmet had been knocked off, revealing a shaved head. Illuminated only by the moon and the lights on the gate, the guy looked a little like that wrestler turned actor. The Rock. Dwayne Johnson, the guy who gave all that money to the University of Miami.
“Corporate goon,” the man groaned.
Steve treaded water and massaged his right shoulder. “Hey, asshole. You scared the shit out of my nephew.”
“You don’t think dolphins are scared when they’re taken from their mothers?”
“Don’t start that crap with me.”
The two men faced each other in the water, each pedaling to stay afloat. On the causeway, a police siren wailed.
“You think your nephew’s life has more value than a dolphin’s? Or a turtle’s? Or a harbor rat’s?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” No use telling this guy, but Steve valued Bobby’s life more than his own.
“You’re with them, aren’t you?” the man demanded.
“Them who?”
“The circuses and the zoos. The testers and the torturers. The users and abusers.”
“I’m just a guy with a nephew who loves dolphins.”
The man reached under the water and came up with the dive knife that had been sheathed at his ankle. Serrated blade, glimmery in the moonlight. With his free hand, he started paddling toward the Jet Ski. “Try to stop me, I’ll cut your throat.”
“Isn’t my life worth as much as a harbor rat’s?”
A light blazed, blinding Steve. “Hold it right there! Both of you!” boomed overhead.
Steve squinted toward the shore. Police car on the bank. Two cops at the water’s edge. One gripped a Maglite the size of a Barry Bonds bat. The other aimed his 9 mm Glock at them. Two-handed grip, legs spread and knees flexed, just like they teach them at the academy.
Steve continued treading water.
“Hands where I can see ’em!”
Steve threw both hands above his head. He immediately sank. He kicked hard and popped up just as Darth Vader called the cops “establishment thugs.”
“For the record,” Steve interjected, spitting water, “I play softball in the Police Athletic League.”
One cop started to say something but was interrupted by the blast of a shotgun, the sound rolling down the channel. Instinctively, Steve whirled toward the park.
The last Steve had seen the boy, he had stopped along the seawall, waiting for his uncle to be a hero.
An instant later, a second blast echoed in the warm ocean breeze.
SOLOMON’S LAWS
1. Try not to piss off a cop unless you have a damn good reason…or a damn good lawyer.
Five
The cops cuffed Steve and slammed him facedown onto the hood of the cruiser. Water dripped down his legs into his Reeboks.
All that mattered was Bobby, and Steve couldn’t get to him. “C’mon, man. My nephew’s back there.”
“How many of you are there?” the bigger cop demanded.
“I’m not one of them!” Steve lifted his head. A hand slammed it back down. Steve’s eyes teared and his nose dripped blood. A fire burned deep in his shoulder. “Did you hear the gunshots? I gotta find Bobby.”
“Shut up.” The cop clipped the back of Steve’s skull with his Maglite. Just a practice swing. Steve decided he didn’t want to feel the real thing.
“Don’t they teach you in cop school that gunshots are bad?” Steve asked.
“Got other units there.” The cop was going through the soggy contents of Steve’s wallet. Seventeen dollars, a year-old Fantasy 5 lottery ticket, and his Florida Bar card. “You’re a lawyer.”
“Yeah, and you’re gonna need one.”
Steve liked most cops, even the ones who stretched the truth in their testimony, forcing him to cross- examine the crap out of them. They had their job to do, and he had his, which was to make them look like idiots or liars. Or both.
These two were young. One Hispanic, one black. Both with sleeves tight against bulging biceps.
It was something he’d look into the next time some cop roughed up one of his presumably innocent clients.
“My nephew’s got a medical condition. So if you could be a pal and-”
