the park. He stood, hunched over, hands on hips, sucking air. Victoria breathed normally. Was she even sweating? An hour on the treadmill each day and singles tennis under the Florida sun will build your endurance.
“You’re not even winded,” Steve said. Sounded peeved.
“You have to learn to pace yourself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Life’s a marathon. You can’t burn yourself out.”
Steve straightened up and looked around. The channel was quiet. A half-moon gave off a soft glow, and the palm fronds rustled in the warm breeze. He looked past the bend in the channel, toward the quonset building, where light shone through the breezeway.
“Someone’s in there,” he said, pointing.
Before they’d taken two steps, a shrill sound came from the direction of the building. A whistle. One long bleat, followed by numerous short blasts.
SOLOMON’S LAWS
12. Life may be a marathon, but sometimes you have to sprint to save a life.
Forty-one
Bobby heard the whistle and the shouts behind them. Mr. Grisby and the two men. They’d raced out of the building and were on the dock. Then the sound of a motor. A Jet Ski firing up.
The dolphins picked up speed, heading toward the channel gate, Spunky leading the way, Bobby riding on top of Misty.
But why go there?
The gate would be locked. There was no escape.
Behind them, a shotgun blast. Riding the Jet Ski, Grisby fired a shot into the air. Bobby winced. The dolphins kept swimming. Not even a shudder.
At the sound of the shotgun blast, Steve and Victoria stopped short.
“What the hell!”
They heard the roar of the Jet Ski and raced toward the embankment. Fifty yards away, they were stunned to see Bobby fly by on the back of a dolphin.
“Bobby!”
But he didn’t hear his uncle.
Close behind was Grisby on a Jet Ski, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. Steve took off along the channel, just as he had when chasing Nash. This time, he ran even faster, his feet barely touching the scrubby weeds growing out of the sand. He felt strong, focused. He knew the distance to the gate, knew the shortcut, knew just what he would do.
He’d jumped the channel before. He’d knocked Nash ass-over-elbows.
He would do the same thing to Grisby.
“Wait up!” Victoria yelled, running after him.
But Steve couldn’t wait.
Misty leapt from the water, splashed down again, Bobby hanging on with both hands around her neck. Spunky swam just ahead, leading them.
The gate was a hundred yards away. From water level, it looked impossibly high. Maybe ten feet above the waterline, with another two feet of razor wire on top. Nasty.
Could the dolphins jump it? Bobby didn’t know. They’d never tried. If they jumped, would they be chopped to pieces on the razor wire, along with him?
The dolphins slowed. They weren’t going to jump. They were going to stop at the gate. Through her blowhole, Misty bleated one word.
It took him a second to figure it out. Misty would stop at the gate and let Bobby stand on her back. The gate was a series of vertical metal bars attached top and bottom to two horizontal bars. Skinny as he was, he could work himself through the vertical bars to get into the Bay. Swim from there to the causeway, and safety. Spunky and Misty would stay behind. They would sacrifice themselves to save him.
Bobby clicked a
Behind them, the roar of the Jet Ski grew louder.
Bobby smacked Misty’s flank and whistled a command.
Misty picked up speed. Powerboat fast, churning up a foamy wake.
The gate was fifty yards away.
The Jet Ski bounced in the dolphins’ wake. Grisby slung the shotgun into firing position.
Steve ran full bore along the channel.
He watched Bobby clinging to the dolphin, nearing the locked gate.
And there was Grisby, closing the distance on the Jet Ski, swinging the shotgun off his shoulder.
Bobby rubbed Misty near her blowhole as they neared the gate. Shouting now. “Jump! Jump, Misty! Jump!”
The dolphin launched herself out of the water, Bobby hanging on to her dorsal fin, like a cowboy on a bucking bronco.
Grisby lifted the shotgun. He aimed it squarely in the middle of Bobby’s back.
Steve reached the embankment, and launched himself toward Grisby.
Grisby sensed the movement and swung the shotgun from the hip, as if intending to drop a grouse from the sky. Before he could pull the trigger, Spunky blasted from beneath the water, and smacked Grisby flush across the face with his powerful fluke. Grisby’s neck shot back with an audible crack, and he tumbled off the Jet Ski. Steve belly-flopped into the water. Next to him, Grisby floated on his back, his eyes open, but his face expressionless.
Misty cleared the gate, sailing over the razor wire with room to spare. Bobby tumbled over Misty’s dorsal fin, landing face-first in the water. Spunky leapt the gate a moment later and joined them in the open Bay.
“Come back here, kid!”
It was Cowboy Boots, on the embankment, pointing a handgun into the darkness of the Bay. The larger man was alongside. They’d ridden a golf cart along the path to the gate.
“Keep going, Bobby!” Steve shouted, treading water in the channel.
“Shoot the lawyer!” the larger man ordered.
Cowboy Boots fired two rounds into the water in Steve’s direction. “Get those animals to come back, kid. If you don’t, I’ll kill your uncle.”
“Drop that gun,” a woman’s voice ordered, “or I’ll put a hole in the back of your stupid head.”
Cowboy Boots didn’t move. He didn’t drop the gun, either.
“She’ll do it,” Steve said, treading water. “She’s shot lots of stupid men.”
Cowboy Boots seemed to think it over.
Victoria pulled back the hammer on her state-issued.38. An ominous
Cowboy Boots dropped his handgun.
“Turn around slowly, both of you,” Victoria ordered.
The men did as they were told. Suddenly, the bigger man reached behind his back and pulled something out of his waistband.
