Trial and Error

Four

A flood of sensations as Steve flew off the embankment toward Darth Vader on the Jet Ski. The metal gate at the Bay inlet, marked with red and green lights, was wide open. If the bastard made it through the inlet, he’d have a clear path all the way to Key West. Then, in the distance, another Jet Ski, already in the Bay. An accomplice. And silhouetted in the headlight of the Jet Ski, two dolphins sped into open water.

Shit. Too late to rescue them.

Steve was airborne.

Spread-eagled.

The masked man ducked. The crook of Steve’s right arm caught him under the chin, cartwheeled him off the Jet Ski. A clothesline tackle.

A second later, both men were treading water, the Jet Ski purring softly, turning tight circles in the channel. Steve’s right shoulder flared with pain. It felt as if someone had stabbed him with an ice pick, then hammered it into the bone. Next to him, the man’s hand was clapped protectively over his neck.

A thick neck. Strong jaw with high cheekbones. Light-skinned African-American. His helmet had been knocked off, revealing a shaved head. Illuminated only by the moon and the lights on the gate, the guy looked a little like that wrestler turned actor. The Rock. Dwayne Johnson, the guy who gave all that money to the University of Miami.

“Corporate goon,” the man groaned.

Steve treaded water and massaged his right shoulder. “Hey, asshole. You scared the shit out of my nephew.”

“You don’t think dolphins are scared when they’re taken from their mothers?”

“Don’t start that crap with me.”

The two men faced each other in the water, each pedaling to stay afloat. On the causeway, a police siren wailed.

“You think your nephew’s life has more value than a dolphin’s? Or a turtle’s? Or a harbor rat’s?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” No use telling this guy, but Steve valued Bobby’s life more than his own.

“You’re with them, aren’t you?” the man demanded.

“Them who?”

“The circuses and the zoos. The testers and the torturers. The users and abusers.”

“I’m just a guy with a nephew who loves dolphins.”

The man reached under the water and came up with the dive knife that had been sheathed at his ankle. Serrated blade, glimmery in the moonlight. With his free hand, he started paddling toward the Jet Ski. “Try to stop me, I’ll cut your throat.”

“Isn’t my life worth as much as a harbor rat’s?”

A light blazed, blinding Steve. “Hold it right there! Both of you!” boomed overhead.

Steve squinted toward the shore. Police car on the bank. Two cops at the water’s edge. One gripped a Maglite the size of a Barry Bonds bat. The other aimed his 9 mm Glock at them. Two-handed grip, legs spread and knees flexed, just like they teach them at the academy.

Steve continued treading water.

“Hands where I can see ’em!”

What’s the cop think I’m gonna do, the backstroke?

Steve threw both hands above his head. He immediately sank. He kicked hard and popped up just as Darth Vader called the cops “establishment thugs.”

“For the record,” Steve interjected, spitting water, “I play softball in the Police Athletic League.”

One cop started to say something but was interrupted by the blast of a shotgun, the sound rolling down the channel. Instinctively, Steve whirled toward the park.

Bobby! Where’s Bobby?

The last Steve had seen the boy, he had stopped along the seawall, waiting for his uncle to be a hero.

An instant later, a second blast echoed in the warm ocean breeze.

SOLOMON’S LAWS

1. Try not to piss off a cop unless you have a damn good reason…or a damn good lawyer.