Trial and Error

Thirty-nine

It wasn’t a body.

It was a dummy. Like the ones used by the Navy in rescue training.

Bobby climbed over the low wall and watched from high in the rafters. Wedged against a beam, he was hidden in the shadows, his head bumping against the corrugated metal ceiling.

Spunky and Misty were somewhere deep in the tank below. The dummy floated faceup. Mr. Grisby held two wooden sticks that looked like pool cues, only shorter. The man in cowboy boots and the larger man watched as Mr. Grisby clacked the sticks together three times. A second later, both dolphins burst from the water. Spunky grabbed the dummy by an ankle and dived, dragging it with him. Misty stayed on the surface, turning circles, as if on surveillance.

The seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes. If the dummy had been a man, he’d be turning blue. After three minutes, Mr. Grisby blew the whistle. Again, Spunky blasted through the surface, this time tossing the dummy onto the platform, splashing the three men. A good way to kill an enemy saboteur, Bobby thought.

Or Rich (The Shit) Shactman.

Mr. Grisby reached into a pail and tossed chunks of raw fish to each of the dolphins. Misty shot water out of her blowhole and made a click-click sound that Bobby knew meant “thanks.” Spunky’s sound was more whiny, the thanks combined with a sound meaning he was still hungry.

“Nice party trick,” Cowboy Boots said.

“But I’m not sure it’s worth a million bucks,” the larger man said. “We can train the bastards, too.”

“Even without Sanders?”

Their voices carried easily across the water and echoed up the metal walls.

“Big deal. We hire another frogman,” Cowboy Boots said.

“The home office is none too happy with you about the whole Sanders deal,” the other man said.

“I’m telling you,” Grisby said, “Sanders was working for the feds. He was trying to arrest me when I shot him.”

“Bullshit,” Cowboy Boots said.

“If Sanders was a snitch, you’d have been busted instead of that dipshit kid,” the other man added. “Anyway, you got no cause to double the price on us. There’s a place in the Dominican we can go. Six dolphins trained to B level.”

Grisby laughed. “Try to get a B level to do this.”

He kicked the dummy back into the water, then rattled the two sticks against each other like a drummer in a marching band. He kept the rat-a-tat-tat going until Spunky and Misty each grabbed the dummy by an ankle. They swam in opposite directions, whipping their bodies in a violent pitch and roll. The dummy tore in half cleanly at the crotch. Each dolphin shook its head and tossed half the dead dummy onto the platform.

“Jesus,” Cowboy Boots muttered.

Grisby grinned at the two men. “Either of you want to take a swim?”

The big man laughed nervously. “We’ll get back to you on the price. We got to talk to the home office.”

Grisby tossed two pieces of mackerel to the dolphins, who were standing on their fluttering flukes, waving their fins, as if applauding themselves.

Wedged into his hiding place, Bobby felt himself tremble. Were these his best buddies?

What have they done to you?

The dolphins began leaping. Competing to see who could jump higher. Spunky was bigger and stronger, but Misty had a sleeker body. On their third leap, they neared the rafters. At the apogee of her jump, Misty stared straight at Bobby. She hung motionless in the air for a fraction of a second and emitted a toot through her blowhole. Not her usual greeting. Bobby translated the sound as an urgent and fearful, “Stranger.”

Both dolphins curved gracefully back into the water below. Five seconds later, they shot toward him again, even closer this time. They whistled in unison. “Stranger!” The tone was frightening, the meaning of the word even more so.

Have they brainwashed you? Have they turned me into a stranger?

Once back in the water, the dolphins swam in a circle, splashing the men on the platform.

Stop it, guys! Are you trying to blow my cover?

“Something’s got ’em riled.” Cowboy Boots looked toward the rafters, shielding his eyes from the glare of the overhead lights.

“Probably just some bats,” Grisby said.

Bobby squeezed his eyes shut. He harbored the irrational thought that if he couldn’t see the men, they couldn’t see him. He tried to press himself even farther into the joint of the two beams. A second later, Spunky leapt from the water, his dorsal fin swiping Bobby’s leg. Startled, Bobby’s foot slipped off the beam. He fell, one foot on each side of the rafter. Landed hard on his private parts, howled with pain.

“What the hell’s that!” Cowboy Boots yelled.

All three men looked straight up, squinting into the lights.

“Who’s up there!” Grisby demanded.

Bobby felt like a horse had kicked him in the balls. The pain was so intense, it blinded him. Feeling nauseous, he slid backward on his butt along the rafter, a narrow two-by-four.

From below, he heard a frightening sound. The clickety-clack of a shotgun racking.

“I said, who’s up there! Last chance, or I’ll fill you with buckshot.”

Dizzy now, Bobby lost his balance and flipped over. He hung upside down from the beam by his ankles, as if on monkey bars.

“What the hell’s that?” The larger man pointed toward the rafters.

Bobby’s thighs ached. He tried swinging upright on the beam but didn’t have the strength.

He teetered left.

Teetered right.

He was losing his grip, and the building seemed to tilt on its axis.

A second later, he plunged into the water, surprised at how cold it felt, how salty it tasted. A second after that, something grabbed him by one ankle.