Chapter Eight

Maggie rarely went back to the hospital at night, but the girls were attending a birthday party at a friend's house, and she just couldn't stop worrying about Joe. The anguished look on his face when she'd last seen him stabbed at her heart.

"Joe?" She stepped tentatively into his room, which was dark except for the light from the TV screen. "Are you awake?"

He didn't answer, though she could make out his semirecumbent form on the bed, arms folded behind his head.

"I came back to apologize," she said, closing the door behind her, then stepping closer to the bed, where she could see that his eyes were open and staring right at her. "I shouldn't have pushed you with all those family inquiries. It was too much, too soon. And you have a right to some privacy. When you're ready—"

Before she had a chance to finish her sentence, Joe reached out and grabbed her by the waist. "Oh, I am ready, wench. I am more than ready." In a blink, she was flat on her back on the bed, and he lay on top of her, his upper body braced on his extended arms.

"M'lady, you are driving me mad," he said in a husky growl.

"Mad?" she chocked out. With his maleness pressed against her femaleness, sanity seemed to be lacking in her as well.

"Yea, all your probing interrogations are driving me mad. Then, too, there are your kiss-some lips, and sex-voice, and eyes so blue they draw a man in and catch him unawares, and legs just the right size to wrap around a man's waist, and breasts…holy Thor, your breasts would fit just perfectly in my hands. All these things are driving me mind-draining mad." He took a deep breath, one she felt against her diaphragm, then continued. "I was sane when I arrived in this godforsaken land. Why are you doing this to me?"

"Why do you think I'm doing this to you?" she squeaked out.

"Aaarrgh! Always you turn my questions back on me. Can you not give a straight answer just once?"

"Well, yes," she whispered.

"And you will answer straight and true?"

She nodded.

Maggie knew it was a mistake even before Joe uttered the delicious words, "Do you want me as much as I want you?"

Oh, this was dangerous territory for a psychologist to enter with her patient. Maggie could lose her license. But even if no one found out, she would know there was an ethical line that had been crossed, if she answered honestly with herself.

He put his fingertips to her lips. "Shhh. Don't speak. There are some things that need not be said aloud."

He lowered his upper body so that he rested on his elbows. Furrowing his fingers through her hair on either side, he cupped her head. "Why did you cut your hair so short?" he asked, even as he inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her shampoo.

"I lost a bet with my girls."

His face jerked to the side at the mention of her daughters, as if he'd been slapped. It was she, then, who cupped his jaw and turned his face back. "Joe? What is it? Tell me why the mere mention of my daughters upsets you so,"

"You overreach yourself my lady."

"I want to help."

"What you want does not signify in this situation. You can't help…not with this. Leave be, I tell you. Leave be."

She realized that he wasn't ready to share his grief yet…whatever that grief was. "You've got to let me up, Joe. If anyone saw us, I could be in big trouble. You, too, for that matter. Remember the contract you signed with your X mark?"

"Words! Nothing but words! You gainsay me at every turn, my lady. How long do you think I will allow you to hold me off?"

"Let me up," was her only response.

At first it appeared as if he would balk, but then he said, "I will release you if you but grant me one token."

"And that would be?" she asked with a small laugh.

"A kiss."

"A kiss?"

"Yea…a good kiss."

"You said you don't like kisses."

"I thought we already cleared up that misunderstanding. I have changed my mind…leastways, with you. Besides, I doubt you would agree if I'd suggested a good swiving."

"Not if it's what I think it is." This conversation is totally out-of-bounds. I am totally out-of-bounds .

He smiled…another of those smiles that parted his lips and exposed his white teeth, but did not reach his eyes. "It is. But you should know that I give good swives."

"You also give good kisses."

"I do?" he said, inordinately pleased. "And with so little practice. Imagine how good I will be when we have kissed a hundred times or so."

"A hun-hundred?" she stammered. "You said one kiss."

"For now," he murmured against her lips. "One good kiss for now to hold me over till next time."

"Joe, there can't be a next—"

Her words were cut off with the soft caress of his firm lips against hers. Back and forth, back and forth, he rubbed till she was pliant and willing. Only then did his kiss turn into a hungry, punishing, sweet torture, an exercise in eroticism. He shaped her lips with his, then pressed hard. When his tongue thrust into her mouth, she moaned, then moaned again when it began an in-and-out rhythm that caused her nipples to peak and hot liquid to pool between her legs.

Maggie went delirious with need, something she had never done in all her thirty-two years. She would die if this kiss went on any longer. She would die if it stopped.

His hands were everywhere—fondling her breasts, skimming her hips, cupping her buttocks and rocking her against his erection.

Erection! Maggie's eyes flew open, and it was as if she stood above the writhing bodies on the bed. When had her legs spread wide and wrapped themselves about his hips? When had he begun pounding against the apex of her thighs, mimicking the sex act? Good Lord! Maggie shoved hard against his chest, and because he was caught unawares, she was able to slip out from under him and stagger to the door, where she pressed her forehead against the cool glass and panted for breath.

Behind her, she heard a string of unbroken words in a foreign tongue, which she assumed were swear words. They dwindled down eventually to silence.

Finally, when she had calmed down, Maggie flicked on the light switch, and turned.

Jorund sat on the edge of the bed, his arms braced on his widespread knees, breathing heavily. He stared at her with barely suppressed anger. "You will bend to my will one day," he said, and he was serious. "Your days are numbered."

"This will never happen between us again," she disagreed in a shaky voice, rubbing her fingers across her kiss-swollen lips.

He started to laugh then, and couldn't seem to stop.

"What's so damn funny?" Maggie asked huffily.

Joe wiped at his eyes with the backs of his hands. "I'll tell you what's so funny, my lady. You speak of endings, but methinks there is another direction for our relationship."

"Relationship? Relationship? We have no relationship," she shrieked.

He hit the side of his head with the heel of one hand. "Must you be so shrill? Your screeching hurts my ears. Reminds me of a seagull when it spots a tasty meal."

She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists to calm down. "Get this though your thick skull: we have no relationship."

"Ha! Think again, my lady," he declared with a droll expression on his face. "I have just realized an important fact about us."

She was about to scream that there was no "us," but restrained herself. Instead she lifted one eyebrow in question.

"I think you are my fate. I think you are the reason I was sent here."

Maggie did scream then, silently.

"Oh, my God!"

The tour of the Rainbow facilities by the Medic-All contingent had just been successfully completed, and Maggie was about to breathe a deep sigh of relief when she heard Harry's exclamation. Turning, she followed the direction of his gaze, down the corridor to the open doorway of the exercise room. It was her turn to exclaim then, "Oh, my God!"

Joe was leaning against the doorjamb, wearing black sweatpants, white high tops, and a gray T-shirt that spelled out, No Pain, No Gain . He was talking animatedly to a short, gray-haired gentleman in wing tips and a pin-striped business suit…a stranger, as far as Maggie could tell.

With trepidation, she inquired of the Medic-All PR man, George Smith, "Who is that?"

"Oh! So he decided to come, after all," George answered enthusiastically. He was already walking away.

"Who?" she and Harry said at the same time, rushing to catch up. The other six members of the Medic-All group, along with two members of the Lawrence family, which owned the privately held Rainbow facility, followed quickly behind them.

"Jerome Johnson. President and CEO of Medic-All," George informed them over his shoulder. "He was supposed to be tied up all day in meetings with the Dallas lawyers. Guess he decided to cut them short."

So this was the elusive, high-powered Donald Trump of the HMO world. He resembled a mild-mannered Mr. Milquetoast, but looks were deceiving. Money magazine described him as mysterious and obsessively protective of his private life. As far as Maggie knew, he'd never been photographed for the media.

Hattie Lawrence, a spoiled Houston socialite, whispered in Maggie's ear, "Who is that character?" She was staring fixedly at Joe. "He'd better not be spoiling this deal for us. We've worked too hard to—Mercy! The man is a giant…and drop-dead gorgeous. Please don't tell me he's a patient."

Hattie was three times divorced, with as many face-lifts, tummy tucks, and boob jobs as a thirty-five-year-old woman could sustain. Luckily, the greedy woman had only a small say in Rainbow's future. Her daddy, Jack Lawrence, also in attendance, held the purse strings. Today was not the first time she and Harry had met Jack Lawrence or Hattie, but most of the negotiations had been taking place between the Lawrence family and the Medic-All people, off premises.

"That's Joe Rand, and yes, he's a patient."

Hattie's face dropped with disappointment.

They had almost reached the exercise wing, and Maggie could hear Joe expounding to the Medic-All honcho: "'Tis my opinion that all of your patients can benefit from a daily exercise program. You know what the Norse proverbs say: sound bodies go hand in hand with sound minds." Jorund took a deep breath and continued. "Spear throwing and hand-to-hand combat on the practice field work best, of course, but in their absence, your exercise machines provide a fair substitute. I tried to instruct the pay-shuns yesterday on swordplay, but Norse Hatch-her nigh had a fit over that. You'd think broom and mop handles were priceless objects. Dost think a practice field would be a possibility for the future?"

Oh, good heavens! A patient lecturing on mental health and fitness! A patient who thinks he's a tenth-century Viking!

And Jerome Johnson was all ears.

"Even those who live in those wheeled chairs should be working muscles that are still alive," Joe was blathering on. "Otherwise they will all atrophy…that's a word I learned on Wheel of Fortune . Oh, you watch that show on the world box, too? Anyhow, just since I've been here—about two sennights—you can see a change in some of the pay-shuns. Hair-vee Lutz, for example, has the strangest compulsion to count things. Well, now he is counting the strokes of his oars on the rowing machine."

Sure enough, through the open doorway to the exercise room, they could see Harvey counting away as sweat poured down his face and he continued to row. Appropriately, the logo on his T-shirt today read, I Get Enough Exercise Just Pushing My Luck .

"See Chuck over there? Today he thinks he is a puff fish, but look how energetically he is rowing. This is the first time in two years that Chuck has worked his muscles."

Yep, Chuck was puffing away like a steam engine—or a puff fish, whatever that was—as he worked the rowing machine. The bright young man wore a T-shirt that pretty much said it all: Okay, Who Put a Stop Payment on My Reality Check? Someday soon Maggie hoped to find out what Chuck's real problem was, because it sure as heck wasn't being a split animal personality.

"And my comrade, Steve Askey, is pressing five hundred benches," Joe was still blathering on, "or is it pressing the bench at five hundred…? Oh, I didn't see you there, Dock-whore Muck-bride…and Dock-whore Sea-bold. Have you met my new friend, Jaw-rome Johnson? He's a Norseman, too…from New-arc. That's in the world of New Jar-see."

Her jaw dropped another notch.

"You will hardly credit the coincidence, but Jaw-rome is a former fighting man, too, like me and Steve, except he was a green bar-ray."

For a prolonged moment, silence hovered in the air. But leave it to Joe to break the ice even further.

"Tsk-tsk!" Joe chided Maggie and Harry. "Aren't you going to shake hands with Jaw-rome?"

Maggie's mouth clicked shut, along with Harry's, Hattie's, and Jack's.

"How do you do?" she and Harry said, shaking the hand extended by Jerome Johnson. Joe beamed as if he'd invented the ritual of handshaking. Then Hattie and her father stepped up as well, although they had apparently met Johnson on some other occasions.

Joe appeared very pleased with himself. You'd never know he was a patient, and not a hospital administrator.

"Did you know that Jaw-rome has his own longship, Mag-he…I mean, Dock-whore Muck-bride?" She had warned Joe on numerous occasions that he should address her in a more professional manner. "He is going to take me on a voyage someday."

Maggie groaned mentally. How long had Joe been talking with Jerome Johnson? Much too long, apparently.

Jerome smiled softly and patted Joe on the shoulder. "Actually, I have a yacht, and it was a short cruise on the Gulf I mentioned. As a possibility, mind you, just a possibility."

"Yacht, longship, knarr… they are all boats," Joe expounded. Then he returned the favor and patted Jerome on the shoulder in a good-buddy fashion.

Maggie caught a warning glance from Harry and immediately stepped forward. "Joe, would you mind coming down to my office with me?"

Joe immediately brightened and complied. Thank God! He probably thought there was more hanky-panky on the menu. Not that any of it had ever been initiated by her. "I hope to see you again soon, Jaw-rome. And remember what I told you about putting whale fat on aching muscles…arthur-itis, you named the malady, I believe. 'Tis what my father does all the time for his creaking bones, especially after a long time at sea a-Viking."

Oh, no! Had he just accused Mr. Johnson of having a creaking body?

But Mr. Johnson just laughed. "You betcha, young man. Make a note of that, George. I want a tubful of whale lard, ASAP. I'm willing to try anything for this damned arthritis."

George was turning a strange color of pale green.

"And here is a surprise for you." Joe was talking to Harry now. "Jaw-rome loves the idea of our field trip. So you must put aside all your res…reservations, I think you called it."

Harry started to turn green, too.

As Maggie and Joe walked down the hallway toward her office, she was steaming, and he was beaming.

"Am I cured yet?" he had the nerve to ask.

A week later…

At last the momentous day had arrived. Maggie was taking Jorund and all his new comrades in madness on their promised field journey.

Jorund had to admit to being a mite fearful. In order to get from the Rainbow Hospitium to Orcaland, the first leg of their journey, he would have to ride in one of the horseless carts he had seen nigh flying down the road from his chamber window. Actually it was a huge, yellow, boxlike structure with windows and wheels, known as a bus.

"What's wrong with a good pair of oxen to pull a cart? Or a sturdy horse?" he muttered to Mag-he, who was checking names off a piece of parchment on her clipping board as the other members of the group filed up the steps of the vehicle. It was a sign of his condition that he paid no mind to Mag-he's tight den-ham braies and short-sleeved sweat-her that exposed a tiny bit of her midriff each time she lifted an arm in the air to wave someone new onto the death cart.

Mag-he darted a quick look of concern toward him, sensing his reluctance to join the others. "There are plenty of horses in Texas, but a bus is more practical for our purposes…and safer."

"So you say!" he muttered under his breath. It would not do to outwardly show his trepidation, especially when everyone, even Not-a-lie, the wench who was afraid of crowds, had already bounced up the steps. Not-a-lie was wearing the most unseemly garb: white boots, a cowgirl hat —Who ever heard of a cowgirl? Or bragged of being such?— and a shert and short gunna , known as a skirt, both with fringes all along the edges. With that amount of skin showing, she could pass for a harem houri.

Dock-whore Hairy was behind a large wheel inside the bus. He was going to drive, not trusting Mag-he and her demented troop to go off on their own. Two of the guards, who were known as attendants in this world, would accompany them as well. Norse Hatch-her came, too—surprisingly feminine in a long, gauzy purple skirt and matching shert with the words, C'mon. Make My Day . On second thought, she resembled a giant plum.

Bracing himself, Jorund forced himself to go up the steps, feeling much as if he were walking the plank. Breathing a sigh of relief at passing that hurdle, he glanced down the rows of seats, many of which were empty, since their group numbered only twelve—their original therapy group and a few others.

"Stop touching my fringe," Not-a-lie snapped to her seat partner.

Hair-vee ducked his head sheepishly. "I was just counting them for you."

"Well, I don't need you to count them," she grumbled. "And why do you have to sit next to me? There are plenty of other seats. You're crowding me." Not-a-lie's waspish demeanor was belied by her shivering body. This outing must be an ordeal for a person with her unique anxieties.

Hair-vee got up and stared longingly toward the empty seat next to Rosalyn, the mousy woman who worked all day long with books—a lie-bear-ian, which was amazing, really. In Jorund's world, books were a rare commodity; in this world, they were as plentiful as grass. Ros alyn gave Hair-vee a glare that was as forbidding as a berserker with a battle-ax guarding a castle wall. All of the men had been trying to get on Rosalyn's good side ever since she'd announced her extraordinary longing for sexual activity.

Rosalyn's word- shert spelled out, Read My Lips . He tried to read her lips, to no avail. Apparently he was capable only of reading whale's minds.

Jorund began to walk down the aisle when his gaze snagged on Furr-red Burns-tine. He stopped dead in his tracks. The man had gone too far this time. Much too far!

Last week, at group therapy, Furr-red had arrived in the garb of a caveman. Cavemen were apparently the ancestors of all human beings, though Jorund could hardly credit that. Jorund's Viking forbears had never looked like that rendition of early man—of that he was certain. Furr-red had worn naught but a beaver skin, which turned out to be one of Norse Hender-son's winter outer-garbs—a coat—wrapped around one shoulder like a Roman toga. When he bent over, everyone got a good view of his bare, flabby buttocks…not a pretty sight. And he'd carried a huge club, which Mag-he had immediately confiscated, claiming that it was the trunk of a newly planted crab apple tree from their back courtyard.

Today Furr-red was impersonating his idea of what a Viking warrior would look like. It was insulting, to say the least. On his head was a long, blond wig that Jorund could swear he'd seen on a scullery maid's head just yestereve. On his upper arms were two makeshift bracelets formed from strips of tinfoil, a product used in modern kitchens to save food. He wore tight sweating braies on bottom and a loose black T- shert with the sleeves and neckline ripped off, the whole cinched in at the waist by a wide, brown leather belt.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Jorund demanded.

Furr-red cowered back into his seat near the window. He was nigh whimpering when he replied, "Fred the Viking."

Jorund shook his head from side to side. The man meant no harm, he decided. Still, under his breath, he commented, "More like Furr-red the Idiot."

Just then he noticed Steve, who was motioning him toward the back of the bus. He headed in that direction, passing other Rainbow comrades along the way, including Chuck the Duck. That was who he assumed Chuck was today, since he was quack-quack-quacking to no one in particular. Just as long as he didn't drop any bodily "gifts" in the bus, Jorund could care less what animal he chose to be this day or any other. Chuck's message- shert said, Out of My Mind. Be Back in Five Minutes .

Mag-he sat down in the front seat, directly behind Dock-whore Hairy. The doors swished shut. And they were off. Well, he assumed they were off. At first the bus lurched and stopped, lurched and stopped, lurched and stopped till Dock-whore Hairy got the feel of driving a bus. Holy Thor! Not only am I riding in a most dangerous horseless cart, but I am putting my life in the hands of an incompetent driver. 'Tis comparable to going aviking with my sister Katla at the rudder . But they were riding smoothly now. Jorund let out a pent-up breath, although he held on to the seat in front of him as they traveled at an excessive speed out onto the road.

"What's the problem?" Steve asked, staring at Jorund's white knuckles and his face, which was, no doubt, white as well.

"Must we travel so fast? What is the hurry?" he complained.

"Huh?" Steve responded. "We're only going twenty miles an hour on this entrance ramp. Wait till we get on the highway. The speed limit there is sixty-five."

"I cannot wait," Jorund said dryly.

Steve was frowning as he studied his rigid demeanor. "You've never ridden on a bus before?"

"I've never ridden on anything that moved without animal power…unless it was a ship on the open seas, driven by the winds and the hard rowing of well-muscled men."

Steve shrugged his shoulders sadly. "Man, you are as screwed up as the rest of us."

"Nay, I am not," Jorund declared. "What you all cannot accept is that I really am a Viking, come here from the tenth century."

Instead of arguing, as he usually did, Steve asked skeptically, "Why?"

Jorund relaxed back into the seat. As long as he didn't look out the windows and see the landscape passing in a blur, he could almost forget where he was. He pondered Steve's question. "I do not know. I am hoping some answers will come to me today."

"At Boot Scootin' Cowboy? In a music hall? Hell, I know a lot of guys who think they can find answers in a bottle of booze—I did for more years than I can count—but I guarantee that even a glass of beer will be off-limits to us today."

"I did not mean that music place. I was referring to the killer-whale place."

"Do you still think that a killer whale is the key to your being here in Galveston?" Steve and all the others in his group therapy had laughed this week when he'd told them the tale of his arrival atop Thora's back, bare-arsed and raging mad. Steve wasn't laughing now.

"I know it." Jorund snorted with disgust. "If I can find her, I'm certain that this puzzle will become clear." Leastways, he hoped that was the case. He thought of something else. "Mayhap you will get some answers yourself when we visit that war praise-wall."

It was Steve who turned stiff then. "I am not getting off this bus when we get to that freakin' wall. I swear, I'm not. I know Dr. McBride has all these piss-poor ideas about making a big breakthrough with me, but it isn't gonna happen there…or anywhere else, for that matter." He turned away and stared morosely out the window. In an undertone, he murmured, for his own benefit only, "I don't see enough of 'Nam in my dreams. I gotta see it on a damn wall, too?"

The hairs rose on the back of Jorund's neck then. In the distance, he could see a large sign that said, WELCOME TO ORCALAND . And beyond that was the water inlet that led out to Galveston Bay and the seas beyond.

Would this be the day he returned to the past?

Maggie found Joe, finally. He was sitting on a small promontory near the outer rim of the inlet, arms resting on bended knees, gazing out beyond the bay. Of course, he had defied all rules by wandering away from their group, which was still watching the Gonzo show back in the arena.

"Joe?" she inquired softly.

At first he didn't seem to hear her. Even though his lips were moving, no words came out. It was as if he were speaking some silent language. Then he turned. Maggie's heart almost broke at the bleakness in his gray eyes.

"She's not there," he told her.

"Who's not there?" Maggie dropped down to the ground beside Joe and put a hand on his shoulder in concern.

"Thora."

"The killer whale?"

He nodded. "Much as I've tried to communicate with her, there is no response."

"You…you talk to orcas?"

"Not all orcas…leastways, I don't think I can talk to them all—just my own personal pain-in-the-arse killer whale, Thora."

This was not good news. After all the progress Joe had made, believing that he could talk to an ocean mammal could be chalked up to additional delusions, along with his time-travel and Viking claims.

"Does the whale talk back to you?"

"Yea, it does. In my head."

Oh, God .

He slanted a glance her way. "You think I'm demented, don't you?"

"Of course not."

"You are a poor liar, Dock-whore Muck-bride."

"Well, anyhow, it's not the end of the world that you didn't have a chat with Thora today," she said brightly. "Let's view it in a positive light."

"For the love of all the gods, spare me," he replied with a groan. "You are going to start the sigh-colic-jest blathering again, aren't you?"

She raised her chin, affronted. "I don't know what you mean."

He exhaled with a loud whoosh. "All those words and phrases that say nothing: ‘I see. How do you feel about that? What do you think?' Never do you answer a question directly, but always turn it back on your pay-shuns. 'Tis enough to drive a sane man mad, I tell you."

She began to ask him how he felt about that, then stopped herself short. He was right. She did have a tendency to spout psychobabble, when the philosophy behind Rainbow was to avoid the therapist-as-robot approach. Psychologists no longer needed to hide personal emotions and reactions or remain silent and unmoved in the client relationship. At Rainbow, a therapist was supposed to be free to be oneself, while remaining objective at the same time. "What I started to say about putting a positive light on this event is that maybe this is a sign—I know you are big on signs—that it's time to put aside the past and move forward."

"To heal myself?"

"Yes!" she said enthusiastically.

He shook his head. "There is no bright side in this catastrophe today…and, yea, it is a catastrophe. Look at this from my perspective, m'lady. There is no winter chill in the air here, but winter has already begun in other parts of your country. On the seas I need to travel, the air will be frigid—too cold for sailing on an open longship till springtime. Have you ever tried to row a boat with ice on the oars? Have you ever stood for hours at a time in weather so wet and cold that every hair on your body turns to icicles, even the chest hairs? Of course you haven't. Can you not see that I must communicate with Thora soon, or be forced to wait many months to leave this land?"

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"Yea, it is the worst of all things. My brother Rolf is in danger. Every day might count in my completing his rescue."

Maggie thought about all his impossible words. "Assuming I believe everything that you've said, Joe, it seems to me that there must be a good reason why you were sent to this land…and this time." She nearly choked on that last part. "If you're going to accept that the Fates—or the gods…or even a killer whale—are determining your destiny, then you also have to accept that coming to Galveston was preordained."

He followed her words with interest. "I have considered all these things, and I agree that it was no mistake that landed me on these shores. But sometimes man can influence his destiny. In fact, does not your Christian religion have a saying that God helps those who help themselves?"

Maggie had to laugh at Joe's quick mind. She wished she knew who or what he really was. Aside from being a gorgeous specimen of man hood, he was intelligent and strong and a born leader. What did he do for a living? Was he a career military man? A construction worker? An adventurer, or an extreme exercise fanatic…like the father of her two children, who had a perfectly good career as a resident physician but had to jump out of airplanes, as well? There should be a clue in all she knew of Joe, but the answer eluded her.

"Well, enough of this for today," she said, standing and brushing the dirt off the rump of her jeans—a maneuver that Joe watched with decided masculine interest, despite his desolation over his predicament. "We have to get back to the orca show. It should be over soon."

As they were strolling in front of the bleachers toward the Rainbow group, which was watching the show avidly, Joe remarked, "I just wish that damned killer whale would get back here and rescue me, so I can rescue my brother."

Just then Gonzo swam up and flicked his huge tail fins, causing a wave of water to cover Joe from head to toe. So much for communicating with killer whales! Or maybe Gonzo was communicating, after all, in response to Joe's deprecating comment about whales. Sort of an orca version of "Screw you, Viking!"