Whack A Mole jc-3

by Chris Grabenstein

  I turn away. Focus on the curtained entryway. Raise my gun higher and aim it at nothing.

  I don't want to see Stacey's nose and ears or what Cap'n Pete might've already done with his knives. I assume he cuts up his victims here in this dark chamber but maybe he takes them out back and uses that plastic fish-cleaning table mounted on the dock. That's where he keeps his crate of old newspapers. He could wrap up Stacey's skull in Friday's local Sports section, then hose everything down, wash all the evidence down the drain, and watch it trickle off the dock, out into the bay, disappearing into the Atlantic Ocean.

  “We need to call an ambulance,” says Ceepak.

  “Is she … did he …?”

  “She's unconscious but uninjured.”

  I decide it's okay to look.

  Stacey still has her nose, which I now notice she's currently using to snort out some room-rumbling snores. Ceepak takes off his windbreaker and drapes it over her. For the first time since I met her over near the causeway, Stacey looks like what she probably is: a high-school kid who needs a nap.

  “This is Unit Twelve,” Ceepak says into his radio.

  “Go ahead Twelve.”

  “Request ambulance at Cap'n Pete's Pier House. Bayside Boulevard and Gardenia Street.”

  “Status of injured party?”

  “The prognosis is optimistic. We assume she was the victim of foul play, an abduction involving chloroform. Please advise the chief that we have located and secured the girl, the subject of Sergeant Santucci's recent search.”

  “Is she the one who needs the ambulance?”

  “Roger that. We also need to issue an APB. Please alert all units to be on the lookout for one Peter Paul Mullen.”

  “Cap'n Pete?” The dispatcher sounds surprised.

  “Suspect should be considered extremely dangerous,” Ceepak continues. “Please send a unit to his house at 32 West 14th Street in Cedar City.”

  “He and his wife go to my church. His sons are….”

  “Send the car to his house immediately. Officer Boyle and I will continue our search here at his Pier House and dock.”

  “10-4.”

  Ceepak clips the mike back to his shoulder.

  “Should we check out these boxes? On the shelves?” I ask.

  “Not now. We can surmise what they contain. Doubtful they will give us clues as to our suspect's current whereabouts.”

  Stacey moans. Squirms. Flutters her heavy eyelids.

  Ceepak moves back to the bed.

  “Keep an eye on the entryway, Danny. I suspect Mullen will soon return to finish what he was preparing to start.”

  “On it,” I say. I move closer to the curtains. A drop of sweat trickles out from under my cop cap. Stings my eye. I squint. Great. If Cap'n Pete busts in now, I'll have to take him down with one eye clamped shut.

  “Ma'am?” I hear Ceepak say behind me. “Ma'am?” Now I hear a rattling of springs. He must be rocking the bed, shaking her awake.

  “Oh, shit,” I hear her mumble. “Where the fuck….”

  I sneak a peek. She's trying to sit up.

  “Stay still, ma'am….”

  “You … you're the asshole cop who was chasing me….”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Him, too!”

  Guess she recognized me.

  “We need to take you into protective custody,” says Ceepak.

  “What?”

  “The man who brought you here….”

  “Stupid fucker tricked me.”

  “Ma'am?”

  “He told me his ankle was twisted. Said he did it playing Skee Ball and needed help carrying his stupid stuffed panda to his car.”

  “Panda?”

  “Yeah. Huge fucking thing. A black-and-white teddy bear that was like five feet tall. Guess he won it somewheres.” The more she talks, the more alert she sounds. “So I grab the stupid panda and sort of use it as a shield to hide behind so you two assholes can't see me anymore. And this fucking bear? It's old and ugly and its fur is all matted and dirty and it stinks like a can of tuna.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “I figured some arcade must've scammed him, gave the guy a used prize-some secondhand piece of shit they stole from the Salvation Army or something.”

  Or maybe, cagey Pete brought his prop with him. Maybe he picked it up back in the 1980s when those Chinese Pandas Ling Ling and Ding Dong were all the rage. Maybe he's used the stuffed panda ploy before.

  “Where is he now?” Ceepak asks.

  “The guy who tricked me?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “I don't know. See, he's hobbling along and I tell him I need a ride out of town. He says no problem. If I help him carry the damn bear, he'll take me wherever I want to go. But when we finally get to his car, he jumps me. Puts some kind of cloth over my face. I have to breathe this gross chemical shit while he shoves me into the back seat.”

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  She thinks, then shakes her head.

  I hear a siren approaching.

  “Could be the ambulance,” I say.

  “Or Santucci,” says Ceepak. “Stay with the girl, Danny.”

  Right. Santucci. Maybe he heard Ceepak radio in our location. Maybe he wants in on the action again. We may find ourselves needing to dodge bullets. Stacey, too. And she's not dressed for it.

  Ceepak heads outside.

  I look at Stacey. Smile.

  She pulls a face. Half sneer, half wince.

  “I suppose you want your fucking twenty dollars back?”

  “Nah. That's okay. We're cool.”

  She unwraps Ceepak's jacket from her chest so she can slip her arms into the sleeves. I look away. There's too much flesh-stretching and bikini-top-tugging going on in the cot district. Need to maintain my professional demeanor. Need to not stare.

  So I peer past the curtains to the front door, which is still wide open. Moths are fluttering inside to check out the light bulbs and Cap'n Pete's charter prices. Outside, in the parking lot, I can see the paramedics hopping out of the ambulance. They open up the back, drag out their gurney.

  But I don't see Ceepak.

  I look harder. Try to make visual contact with my partner, make sure he's okay.

  The ambulance's strobing roofbar sends some light out to where the parking lot meets the street. Finally, in the distance, I see Ceepak.

  He's bending down. Petting a tail-wagging dog. His dog.

  Barkley.

  The dog's dragging his own leash.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The paramedics take over inside.

  I dash out the door.

  Barkley looks worried. You know how dogs get. Their tails go droopy, their ears arch up into question marks, their eyes go wide and sad, and then they whimper.

  “What's up?” I ask, winded from my sprint.

  “Barkley,” says Ceepak. He points to the dog's leash. I can see where it's wet and dirty from being pulled through puddles and gutters. “He's … she … he was….”

  I glance over at him. I have never seen the man look like this before.

  I have never seen John Ceepak look scared.

  He blinks. Purses up his lips. Pulls a cell phone off his belt. It's the one he uses for personal calls.

  He thumbs the power button, presses a speed dial number, raises the handset to his ear. Waits.

  “No answer. Just the message.”

  Waits some more.

  “Rita?” I ask.

  He nods. Closes up the phone.

  “She takes her cell phone with her when she walks the dog….”

  I grab the leash. “Come on. Let's roll.”

  “Where?” he asks.

  “Your place,” I say. His apartment is close. “We'll run by The Bagel Lagoon. See if she's upstairs. Maybe her phone's not charged or something. Maybe Barkley slipped out the door, took himself for a walk, and got lost.”

  Ceepak turns away. Faces the dock.

  “Mullen's
boat,” he says, hollowly.

  I see what Ceepak sees: The Reel Fun's berth is empty. Maybe Pete knew we were coming to get him.

  I see the back of Ceepak's rib cage swell under his shirt. He's taking in two big balloons of air. Pulling himself together. When he swivels around, his eyes are filled with the steely determination I'm used to seeing there.

  “Danny?” he says, clipped and efficient. “We need to contact the Coast Guard. Immediately. Advise them to send out their rapid response vessel. Employ any and all air assets at their disposal.”

  “Right.”

  “We'll alert the chief. Have him contact the State Police over in Tuckerton. They can deploy marine units.”

  “Okay. Yeah.”

  Ceepak scoops up Barkley, cradles him against his chest.

  “We need to hustle,” he says.

  Then he starts jogging toward our parked car.

  Once again, I'm right behind him, bringing up the rear. I huff and puff, and I'm not the runner lugging a sixty-pound dog.

  Ceepak's mind is racing. “Perhaps we can borrow the Mosquito Control Commission's helicopter again,” he shouts over his shoulder.

  We did that last October when we had those floods. Rescued some folks off rooftops. October is a slow month for mosquitoes. The helicopter was available.

  We reach the car and Ceepak places Barkley in the back seat.

  “You drive,” he says. “I'll work the radio, call it all in.”

  “Right. Where to?”

  “Home.”

  The Bagel Lagoon is a straight shot down Gardenia Street to Ocean Avenue.

  Ceepak lives only three cross-town blocks from Cap'n Pete's Pier. I think about the THANK YOU note we received. The J. C. typed on the front envelope flap. I'm wondering if maybe our resident psycho has been baiting Ceepak all along. Maybe after a fifteen-year hiatus he wasn't just trolling for his next victim, some runaway girl nobody would care about. Maybe he crawled out of his mole hole seeking the thrill of a true challenge: taking on John Ceepak, Sea Haven's one and-only supercop. Maybe Pete planted that high-school ring on Oak Beach where he knew Ceepak was sure to find it just to get the game started.

  Ceepak uses the radio and the short hop up Gardenia Street to put out the APB. I expect to see the French Foreign Legion and a couple aircraft carriers show up any second now.

  “Secure the dog,” Ceepak says, leaping out before I've technically brought the car to a complete stop. He bounds up the steps to his apartment.

  “C'mon boy,” I say to Barkley.

  He won't budge. Who knew the back seat of a police vehicle could be so comfy? I tug on his leash. I tug some more.

  “Barkley! Come!” It's Ceepak. Apparently, he's swept the apartment. Now he's up on the landing, calling his dog.

  Barkley's ears perk up. He snaps to attention and leaps out of the car. When he hits the ground, he barks three short, sharp blasts up to Ceepak. I believe the pooch just gave Ceepak a “Roger that,” in response to his “Come” command.

  Anyway, Barkley scampers up the steps. Ceepak ushers him through the door. Locks it.

  “Stay!”

  Ceepak comes pounding down the stairs.

  “Rita is not here. There's no note.”

  The emotion or fear I detected earlier is long gone. He's set to Search and Rescue.

  “Did you try her cell again?

  “Affirmative. No answer. Voice mail.”

  “Did you leave a message?”

  I don't know why I asked it, but Ceepak answers: “Roger that. I told Rita we were on our way.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Do you know what freaking time it is?”

  Ceepak glances at his watch. “Twenty-two forty-five.”

  Our old desk sergeant, Gus Davis, shakes his head, pulls on his I’M RETIRED, DO IT YOURSELF baseball cap.

  “Let's roll,” he says.

  The three of us hustle down the front steps of Gus's tidy little house and hit the concrete pathway out to the driveway and our car. Our light bar's still spinning, streaking the front of Gus's house with flares of red light.

  “You guys woke up my wife with your freaking cherry top.”

  “Sorry about that,” I say.

  “Yeah, well. Whatever.” Gus turns to Ceepak. “I take it I'm no longer a suspect?”

  Ceepak stands near the Ford's rear door.

  “Gus. I'm sorry. I truly am. I made a mistake….”

  “Yeah, yeah. Isn't that why your pencil has that freaking eraser sticking out its ass?”

  For the first time in about an hour, I see Ceepak almost smile.

  “Roger that,” he says.

  “Yeah, well, don't worry about it,” says Gus, pulling open a passenger door and sliding in. “I would've done the same thing. Hell, Ceepak-I probably would've arrested me. Come on, you two. Enough with the yakking. Let's go nail this nut.”

  Gus Davis keeps his boat, Lady Fran, docked at the public pier.

  I help him haul in the lines, run the pumps, get the engines going. Ceepak hails from Ohio. They don't have oceans in Ohio. Just that river. Maybe a lake. He's not much help on deck, so he's up in what we sometimes call the “tuna tower”-the canopied cockpit situated atop the main cabin. He's up there in the command and control center, working the ship's radio, checking up on the air and sea assets currently being deployed up and down the Jersey coastline. Off in the distance, over the ocean, I hear a helicopter. I hope it's one of ours.

  “When did Cap'n Pete shove off?” Gus yells up to Ceepak as the motors start to thrum under our feet.

  Ceepak leans over the bridge's aft safety rail to answer.

  “Uncertain. However, we know he abducted the girl on the boardwalk soon after our own encounter with her in the same general vicinity.”

  “Okay. So when were you two knuckleheads chasing after this girl?”

  “Right before you dropped by the house.”

  Ceepak omits the detail about Gus telling us both to go fuck ourselves.

  “Jesus,” says Gus. “That was what? Seven? Maybe seven-thirty?”

  Ceepak nods. “Giving him a three-hour head start.”

  Gus hauls in the last line.

  “He could be anywhere. It's a huge freaking ocean. Come on, Danny. Take us out.”

  “Right.”

  I scale the ladder up to the flying bridge and take the helm. Gus climbs behind me.

  “The Coast Guard Auxiliary Flotilla over in Avalon is sending out their swiftest boat,” says Ceepak. “It can do thirty-five knots.”

  “That'll work,” I say, and start manipulating the port and starboard throttles, working the wheel.

  “Cap'n Pete can only do about twenty-five knots in the Reel Fun,” says Gus.

  “That's like thirty miles per hour,” I say as we back out of the berth, reverse engines, and make for the channel.

  “Given his head start,” says Ceepak, “our search area therefore becomes a one-hundred-mile circle radiating out from this point.”

  One hundred miles. He could be far enough out to open a casino. Maybe start up his own country.

  We come out of the inlet, parallel to the jetty, and head out of the bay into the ocean. Waves crash against the seawall rocks, the white foam visible in the moonlight. We're in a narrow lane marked by blinking buoys to the right and left. The Lady Fran is in fine shape. I figure this is because Gus spends his days tweaking the engine, lubing and oiling the shafts-having himself a whale of a time.

  “You're familiar with Mullen's vessel?” Ceepak asks Gus over the roar of the engines.

  “Yeah. We're old fishing buddies.”

  “How so?”

  “We share information. Good fishing spots. Dead zones. We swap coordinates.”

  Gus flicks a switch on a screen mounted atop the control console. The color pixels zip to life, revealing a split image. On one side is a real-time ocean chart showing our current position with a blinking triangle. On the other side is a sonar image detailing ocean flo
or depth and filling with colorful streaks whenever fish pass under our hull.

  “That's the Matrix 97 Fish Finder GPS Combo,” says Gus. “Gave it to myself for Christmas last year.”

  “And how fast can we travel?” asks Ceepak.

  “If you push her?” Gus affectionately pats the compass globe bumping up on the control panel. “She'll give you thirty knots before she starts rocking and rolling.”

  “Should I push her?” I ask.

  “Hell yeah, Danny. See if she can do thirty-five. See if she can join the freaking Coast Guard.”

  I jam both throttles all the way up. The good lady responds nicely. Sure, there's some shudder, but we're speeding up, bumping across waves, bobbing over swells and moguls, churning up a foamy wake. We're out of the channel. Heading due east.

  I look out toward the horizon. The ocean is jet black. So's the sky. It's hard to find the line where one begins and the other ends. Higher up, the night sky is filled with stars and just enough moon to give a sheen to the rippling water, to make it look like an ocean of rolling trash bags, the black ones they use on construction sites.

  “You think Pete took Rita with him?” Gus asks Ceepak.

  Ceepak stares out at the black ocean.

  “It's a possibility,” he says. “Perhaps as a hostage to facilitate his escape.”

  And that's the best-case scenario.

  I press the heel of my hand against the two throttles, try to nudge the levers a little higher in their slots even though I know it's physically impossible. I glance down at the digital speedometer. Thirty-one knots and climbing. Lady Fran must be reading my mind.

  “What heading should I make for?” I ask, figuring it's time we decided in which part of the haystack known as the Atlantic Ocean we're going to go search for our needle named Rita.

  “Fire up the radar, Danny,” says Gus. He points to another instrument box. “Gave that gizmo to myself for Chanukah. It displays close-and long-range views. The more metal in a boat, the bigger the ping.”

  I push the appropriate buttons. Another split image. I watch the green arm circle around, pick up dots and blots. I feel like I should do the five-day forecast.