Trial and Error

Twenty-three

Bobby called out to Spunky and Misty. In his head. Trying to communicate telepathically. First in English, then in the clicks and whistles of dolphinese.

Well, why not? We send radio signals into deepest space, hoping some extraterrestrials will phone home. Our home.

Bobby had read all of Dr. John Lilly’s books about dolphins. Sure, lots of scientists considered the guy a nut job, a Dr. Doolittle on acid. But weren’t all pioneers vilified in one way or another?

Dr. Lilly believed that dolphins not only spoke their own language but composed music. He claimed that ancient dolphins created a society with a working government and folklore passed down through the generations. Dr. Lilly wanted to create a Cetacean Nation of whales and dolphins, recognized as an independent state by the United Nations. It didn’t help the doc’s standing in the scientific community that he administered LSD both to himself and the dolphins.

Bobby didn’t buy everything in Dr. Lilly’s bag, but some of it made sense. Bobby knew that dolphins had a moral code, that they would rescue injured or ill animals. He knew the dolphin’s brain was larger than the human brain. He knew, deep in his heart, that dolphins exhibit emotion in much the same way humans do. He believed that dolphins can love and be loved. What he didn’t know was whether Spunky and Misty could feel what he felt right now. Utter despair.

Do you miss me as much as I miss you?

Sitting at the desk in the corner of his bedroom, Bobby squeezed his eyes shut and transmitted his telepathic thoughts.

“Spunky. Misty. Where are you?”

No answer. But he sensed something. A buzz, an electrical connection. He wished he could interpret it.

Bobby heard a car in the driveway. Uncle Steve’s Mustang pulling to a stop. It was easy to tell the growling Mustang from Victoria’s little Mini Cooper, with its lawn-mower sound.

The buzz stopped in Bobby’s head. There wasn’t room for telepathic communication and the sound of his uncle’s footsteps coming down the hall.

Steve wondered if he’d been spending enough time with Bobby. The boy’s moods fluctuated wildly. First he was angry with Steve for not finding the dolphins. Maybe some guilt there, too, the kid blaming himself for not stopping the kidnapping. As if he could have done anything about it. Lately, and even more troubling, Bobby seemed to be in a state of mourning. Staying in his room, refusing to go to baseball practice. Damn few wisecracks or anagrams. Steve had been desperately trying to engage Bobby on how he felt, but the boy seemed to be repressing his emotions.

The door to Bobby’s room was shut.

A closed door and a twelve-year-old boy.

Bobby could be doing his homework. Or he could be thumbing through the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, pausing over Veronica Varekova or Angela Lindvall. Pausing a long time.

He felt for the kid. Bobby was a loner. Steve had been popular all through school. An athlete. A wise guy with a ton of friends. Good for the self-confidence. It was only as an adult that he started to piss people off.

Valuing the boy’s privacy, remembering his own mother breezing into his room at the least opportune times, Steve knocked on the door. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay if I come in?”

“Yeah.”

Steve entered cautiously. Bobby sat in front of his computer at the desk near the window.

“You okay, kiddo?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything all right at school?”

“Yeah.”

Monosyllables were clearly the order of the day.

Steve decided to confront the issue head-on. “Want to talk about Spunky and Misty?”

Bobby seemed to be caught off guard. After a moment, he said, “I think they’re close by.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“At first, I was sure they crossed the Gulf Stream and were in the islands somewhere. But now, it’s like I can sense them. They’re not that far away.”

Steve tried not to show his skepticism. “So, do you still want to take a boat out, go looking for them?”

“Not till they tell me exactly where they are.”

“Okay, then. When they give you the word, you give me the word.”

Bobby turned back to his computer.

“What’s up now, kiddo? Homework?”

“I’m researching ways to kill Rich Shactman.”

“Great idea.” Steve believed in encouraging his nephew’s creative urges.

“At first I thought about plastique. A little wad of C-4 in his electric toothbrush.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“But the Shactman house has security cameras at every door.”

“Of course. Good thinking.”

“Then I considered poisons.”

“A lot of deadly ones out there,” Steve agreed.

“But the tox labs are so good these days, it’s pretty risky. Now I’m thinking drowning would be best. Make it look like a swimming accident.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I’m researching how long I gotta keep Shactman underwater.”

“Three or four minutes ought to do it,” Steve advised.

“You have to take bradycardia into account. The body will slow down the heart to try to save itself. Drowning takes longer than you think.”

Steve wanted to sneak a peak at the monitor. He didn’t believe Bobby, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. Steve hoped the boy was on GirlsGoneWild.com, not something like homicide.com.

Bobby exited out of the program before Steve got close enough to see.

“What do you say we go outside and toss the ball? I’ll teach you how to throw a curve.”

“Coach Kreindler won’t let us throw breaking pitches.”

“If your elbow gets sore, we’ll stop.”

“You think I can really throw a curveball?”

Getting interested now, his eyes showing some spark. Steve smiled and tousled Bobby’s hair. Nothing gave him more pleasure than making the kid happy. “You bet you can.”

“Will it drop, too?”

“Like a dead pigeon. C’mon, let’s go before it gets dark.”

“Coach Kreindler will never let me pitch.” The boy’s mood dipped, his voice as heavy as a sack of Louisville Sluggers.

“I’ll talk to Kreindler.”

“What are you gonna say?”

“I’ll appeal to his logic.”

After I jack him up against the batting cage and suggest it’s hard to eat matzo with a broken jaw.

Steve heard a car pull up to the house. Victoria. “Give me a minute, kiddo. I’ve got to make nice with Vic.”

“Why? Did you do something stupid again, Uncle Steve?”

“I tried to get sanctions against her for unethical conduct.”

“Was she? Unethical, I mean.”

“Of course not.”

“And you’re going to try to apologize?”

“Exactly.”

The boy’s shoulders sagged again. “I don’t think we’re gonna get out of the house before dark, Uncle Steve.”

SOLOMON’S LAWS

7. A shark who can’t bite is nothing but a mermaid.