Grisby banged the sticks again, harder.
Misty held Bobby still, rustling the water with her fluke.
“Goddammit!” Grisby fumed. “Follow orders.” He blew into his whistle. A shrill, piercing sound.
Spunky dived, leaving Misty on the surface, still holding Bobby by the shoulder.
“What the hell’s wrong with you two?” Grisby shouted.
Bobby looked at Misty, heard her click-click. The word “breathe.”
She’s waiting for me. She’s waiting for me to take a deep breath.
Bobby exhaled. He took the deepest breath he could. Then Misty dived, carrying the boy straight to the bottom of the fifteen-foot tank.
Bobby could hear Grisby screaming cuss words as they went under.
Spunky was already there, working his beak on the metal handle of a grated door that led to the spillway. The handle, a sliding bolt, wouldn’t budge. Maybe it was rusted. Maybe the water pressure was just too strong. Despite his great strength, Spunky seemed stymied.
Bobby was running out of breath.
He exhaled a burst, felt his lungs tighten.
Spunky swam backwards, got a running start, swung sideways, and banged his bulk into the steal door, snapping the bolt. He pushed against the door with his beak, swinging it open.
Bobby knew he was drowning.
Misty tightened her grip on Bobby’s shoulder. She carried him through the door and into the spillway. Spunky came behind, nudging at Bobby’s feet. The three of them picked up speed with the flow of the water, and emerged at the bottom of the spillway and into the channel. Misty pulled Bobby to the surface, and the boy felt the night air. He gobbled half a dozen fast breaths and hung on to Misty’s dorsal fin. Behind them, Bobby heard the endless blasts of Mr. Grisby’s whistle.
Steve chugged to a stop under a palm tree a few hundred yards from the channel. They were at the edge of 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. Sure, Vic, life is a marathon. But sometimes, to save a life, you gotta sprint.
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. “Go!”
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 “No, no, no” to Misty. Then, “Faster!”
Behind them, the roar of the Jet Ski grew louder.
Bobby smacked Misty’s flank and whistled a command. “We jump!”
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.”