Trial and Error

Thirty-eight

“Shit.”

Steve slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.

From the top of the bridge, nothing but twin rows of red taillights in front of them. At the bottom of the span, two police cars and a tow truck blocked the eastbound lane. A Hummer sat diagonally in the roadway, a deep-hulled sailboat splintered across the lanes, where it had fallen off its trailer.

“What now?” Victoria asked.

“We walk. Or run. C’mon.”

Steve pulled the car as far off the roadway as he could, and they started on foot. A jog at first. They’d both changed clothes after dinner. Victoria was in her workout attire: Nike stretch pants, running shoes, and fitted top. Steve wore khaki shorts and an old Hurricanes baseball jersey.

Once off the bridge, they were able to cut through the picnic areas that lined the causeway, just yards from the shoreline. Their path was lit by hundreds of headlights from the traffic jam. White gulls trudged along the beach, digging for toenail crabs.

“This is all my fault,” Steve said as they jogged alongside each other.

“What is?”

“Bobby. I’ve been too self-absorbed. I haven’t paid enough attention to him.”

“You’re a wonderful father to him, Steve. Bobby adores you.”

“I haven’t been consistent. At first, because of everything he’d suffered with my crazy sister, I didn’t want to deny him anything. Then I thought maybe I was overprotecting him, so I backed off. Now I just don’t know. I’ve lost all sense of balance.”

“All parents learn on the fly, and you’re doing fine.”

“If I were doing so great, he’d be home right now.” Steve shot a look across the Bay in the direction of Cetacean Park. “If anything happens to him…”

His words hung in the humid air, and they ran in silence for another few moments.

Just after they’d left the house, Steve had called FBI Agent Parsons again on her cell. This time, she sounded even more exasperated. “Your twelve-year-old nephew has ridden off on his bicycle, and you think it’s a federal case? Is that it, Solomon?”

She hung up on him.

Next, Steve called the Miami Police Department and got through to a desk sergeant. When it became clear that Bobby hadn’t been snatched, and that he’d been gone less than two hours, Steve could feel the officer’s interest level wane. Following procedures, the sergeant said to call back in the morning if the boy hadn’t returned.

“Do you know what first attracted me to you?” Victoria said as they neared the collapsed trailer and sailboat.

“My musk cologne?”

“Your love for Bobby. The risks you took to rescue him. The way you put him first. With all your faults, you’re still the kind of man a woman wants to father her children.”

“What faults?”

“C’mon, Steve. Let’s pick up the pace.”

They broke into a full run, Steve shortening his stride just a bit to match hers. Victoria ran athletically, smoothly. They were in perfect rhythm, perfect sync, and moving fast.

They passed cars parked at water’s edge on the causeway’s lover’s lane. Couples inside. Drinking. Kissing. Writhing. Close by, a homeless man with a scrawny dog rummaged through a trash barrel.

The tow truck was still there in the middle of the roadway, where they’d first seen it from the top of the bridge. Workers were trying figure out how to hoist the sailboat off the pavement.

The causeway eased toward the right, and the warm southeast sea breeze hit them head-on. Behind them, horns honked, and traffic still hadn’t moved. They could see the lights of Cetacean Park, less than a mile ahead.

Steve gestured toward Victoria’s purse, a black leather Dolce amp; Gabbana. “Isn’t that slowing you down?”

“A woman never leaves her purse in the car.”

“You want me to carry it?”

“No way. You’re not licensed.”

Steve gave her a look that she took as a question. It was the second time that night he’d asked.

“Yes,” Victoria said. “I still have the gun Pincher gave me.”