Whack A Mole jc-3 Page 17

  “Handsome dude,” Diego says, wiping Dorito grease off her fingers and onto her pants.

  “Stay away from this one, Dee,” I say. “He's trouble.”

  “Roger that,” says Ceepak.

  “A bad boy, hunh?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Sometimes those are the most fun.”

  We leave our colleague to her dirty daydreams and head out of the computer room, into the open bullpen around the front desk.

  “Ceepak? Boyle?”

  It's Chief Baines, lurking in the doorway to his office.

  “Sir?”

  “Santucci's back on task,” he says. “I told him to concentrate on finding the girl.”

  Ceepak nods. It's not what he wants to hear, but he has to live with it for the moment.

  “Did the wife know where Dr. Winston went?”

  “Negative,” says Ceepak.

  “He's probably our doer. Why else would he run?”

  “It's a possibility, sir.”

  “The guilty ones always bolt.”

  “So do the frightened ones, sir.”

  “Yeah, well, I say he's guilty. Where do you think he's hiding out?”

  “No telling. He's pretty familiar with the island. He's vacationed here a number of summers over the years.”

  “He was here back in the 1980s? When those other girls were killed?”

  “Yes, sir. Our intelligence suggests as much.”

  I smile a little. I'm “our intelligence” because I let the jerk talk my ear off one night in a bar.

  The chief doesn't know this, however. I think he thinks he's the one who just figured it all out. “He's our man, John. Go nab him.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ceepak says it without any of the gung-ho enthusiasm I suspect the chief was looking for.

  Ceepak just said it so the chief would shut up and let us go do our job.

  “Where now?” I ask.

  “Reverend Trumble's,” says Ceepak. “I suspect Life Under the Son is where our killer first met his victims. Perhaps his face is even captured in one of those photographs hanging on the Reverend's office wall.”

  “Those surf baptisms? The ones with the crowds?”

  Ceepak nods. “The killer may have heard the girls confess their so-called sins and then, his head filled with the Reverend's fire and brimstone, become something of a vigilante, enforcing a rigid code of justice as outlined in the writings of Ezekiel-a code he may have first learned from the Reverend himself.”

  We head over to Beach Lane and travel north to The Sonny Days Inn.

  “Let's see if the good Reverend is in.”

  We head toward the office. On the walk across the parking lot, my stomach growls because it's after five and I can smell Italian sausage, onions, and sweet peppers wafting on the breeze. We're that close to the boardwalk. I can even see the sausage booth. The curly fries shop. The funnel cakes wagon. It's hard to resist the siren call of indigestion.

  But I do.

  I pull open the squeaky aluminum storm door and we enter the motel office. In here it smells wholesome. Like air-conditioned lemonade and sugar cookies and crisp apples.

  The young girl behind the counter is definitely a devoted member of the Trumble flock. I can tell by the tight green T-shirt hugging her ample chest. It says, NO TRESPASSING. MY FATHER IS WATCHING. Clever. Disappointing, but clever.

  “We need to see Reverend Trumble,” says Ceepak.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “We need to see him now.”

  “I understand, but….”

  There is the sound of a door opening.

  “Hello, Officers.”

  We turn around. Smiling at us, the Reverend Billy waves off his anxious, T-shirted minion and beckons us into his private chambers.

  “Are you familiar with Ezekiel Twenty-three, verses twenty-five to twenty-seven?” asks Ceepak.

  “Of course. ‘And I will set my jealousy against thee, and they shall deal furiously with thee: they shall take away thy nose and thine ears; and thy remnant shall fall by the sword!’”

  He recites it like he's Charlton Heston in that movie about Moses. He points a finger toward the ceiling, up where God is, I guess. In a room on the second floor. Maybe higher.

  “‘They shall take thy sons and thy daughters; and thy residue shall be devoured by the fire. They shall also strip thee out of thy clothes, and take away thy fair jewels. Thus will I make thy lewdness to cease from thee, and thy whoredom brought from the land of Egypt!’”

  He looks at us when he finishes.

  “I believe I quoted it correctly.”

  “Have you preached on this text?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Often?”

  “Indeed. For it describes the punishment God promises all promiscuous women.”

  “Really?” says Ceepak. “I always thought it was more of a metaphor.”

  Another smile. “Officer, there are no ‘metaphors’ in the Bible. It is, quite simply, God's Holy Word.” He picks up the Bible conveniently perched on his desk. “I, sir, believe in the whole Bible. I don't throw out the unpopular parts, the verses that make so many so-called Christians squeamish. For instance, I firmly believe that, as is stated in First Corinthians, all those who engage in premarital sex are automatically damned to Hell.”

  He says it to Ceepak like he knows about Rita. Then he points his finger upstairs to God's room again.

  “‘Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor abusers of themselves shall inherit the kingdom of God.’”

  Now I think he's talking about me.

  Ceepak edges closer to the preacher's big desk.

  “Tell me, sir, exactly how many ears and noses have you personally cut off?” Ceepak points to the framed pictures lining the walls. “These girls. The ones you baptized after they confessed their sins. Some of them had been promiscuous?”

  “Indeed. It is a common transgression.”

  “Then I'll ask you again, how many noses and ears did you take away? Or did you ask someone else do it for you?”

  Ceepak pulls out a copy of Teddy Winston's driver's license photo.

  “Was this one of your disciples?”

  Trumble studies the picture.

  “Doubtful. He looks far too old.”

  “What about twenty-eight years ago? 1979. Was he here the same summer as Delilah?”

  “I have no way of….”

  “What about 1980? Was he here with Miriam and Rebecca?”

  “As I stated….”

  “Maybe 1981. That's the summer Esther and Deborah had their ears and noses cut off. The summer one of your followers amputated their heads. Mutilated their faces. Did exactly what you and Ezekiel told them to do!”

  The preacher looks shocked. He's finally figured out that Ceepak and I didn't come here for Tuesday evening Bible class.

  “Someone actually …?”

  “A dozen times we know of.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I'll ask you one more time: is this man in any of those photos?”

  “I … I….”

  “Was Theodore A. Winston one of your disciples?”

  Trumble is fresh out of smiles.

  “Many youngsters who heard my words chose to take up the road to redemption….”

  “And one chose to do exactly what you told him to do. Remember, there are no metaphors.”

  The Reverend holds on to the armrests of his chair; he's a shriveled balloon all out of hot air.

  “Please believe me, Officer,” he says weakly. “I never thought any one would … never, ever believed….”

  His voice fades into silence.

  “Danny?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Take the photographs off the wall. All of them.” Ceepak leans on the desk. “Sir, do you have a box we might use?”

  “Hmm?”

  “A box.”

  “Yes.” Billy Trumble has lost his radio voice. He sounds like a sa
d old man. “Take whatever you need….”

  “Use that one,” says Ceepak, pointing at an empty carton on the floor. Probably left over after somebody made a food donation. I don't think Reverend Billy would ever let his flock down a whole case of Captain Morgan Rum.

  “Take down the photos, Danny.”

  I yank the framed photographs off the wall. They're all from the ’80s and early ’90s. Strange hairdos. Bushy sideburns. College-aged kids lined up along the beach, watching the Reverend dunk another sinner in the surf. I scan their faces, looking for a younger version of Teddy Winston. Did he crash the scene on the beach? Was this his happy hunting ground?

  In one picture, I see a girl on the shore I think might be Ceepak's Rita, only younger, her hair wilder.

  “Let's roll, Danny.”

  Reverend Billy Trumble sits slumped in his chair-probably wondering what he's going to tell God the next time the two of them chat.

  We hit the parking lot.

  “We need to rush these pictures back to HQ,” says Ceepak. “Find someone to examine them more closely, check for a younger Dr. Winston. Meanwhile, we will remain mobile and continue field pursuit of our prime suspect.”

  “Right.”

  I pull open the cargo bay to stow the cardboard carton. I take one last look at the boardwalk to bid a fond farewell to the sausage-andpepper sandwich I know I won't be eating any time soon.

  Suddenly, I see her. Strolling up the boardwalk near The Frog Bog.

  The redheaded girl.

  The one with the green hair.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Stacey still looks as sexy as I remember.

  She has on a new bikini top. I can see the red-and-white sunburn lines from the other bathing suit, the one she was wearing Sunday. Today's is even skimpier.

  Now she turns and bends. Her tiny Catholic schoolgirl miniskirt rides up high on her thighs and reveals a bikini bottom that looks more like a pair of white panties.

  I watch her fingers dip into the back pocket of the guy in front of her at The Frog Bog, who's paying no attention to what's happening behind him. He's too busy smacking his mallet down on a tiny seesaw to send a rubber frog flopping up into the air, aiming to land it on a floating lily pad too small to actually hold the fake amphibian.

  “Ceepak!” I yell. “Girl.” I point. “Girl!”

  Ceepak's momentarily confused, trying to figure out what the hell I'm yelling about.

  “Redhead! Boardwalk. Green hair!”

  He pivots. Sees her. Makes the connection. He rips the Motorola mike off his shoulder.

  “This is Ceepak. Request all available backup. Boardwalk area near Sonny Days Inn.”

  “The Frog Bog!” I try to help out.

  “Frog Bog. We have made visual contact with target. Repeat. We have spotted the girl from the photograph.”

  Ceepak has good breath support. He's able to say all that stuff while we run across Reverend Billy's parking lot. A chest-high chain-link fence is fast approaching. It separates the motel property from the boardwalk. I figure we'll be scaling it soon.

  “Girl is approximately 5'5",” Ceepak continues. “She is wearing a white bikini top, short plaid skirt, yellow sandals. Her hair is green. Repeat. Hair is currently dyed green.”

  We reach the fence.

  Ceepak braces the top bar, swings his legs sideways, does an Olympic-style vault, and flies over. I need to jam my toes into the chain gaps and climb it like a ladder. When I reach the top, I sort of haul myself up and over in stages. The fence shakes, rattles, and pings.

  The girl hears the metallic racket. She turns. Sees us.

  She kicks off her flip-flops and runs.

  Man, she's fast. Like one of those Olympic sprinters who train up in the mountains of Kenya. Her bare feet barely touch the boardwalk. At least she won't have to worry about splinters.

  We take off after her.

  She has a head start and a better idea of where she might be going.

  Up ahead, I see Water Blast, Lord of the Rings Toss, Peach Bucket Ball, and Crabby's Race Track, where you squirt a water pistol at a target to make your crab race up this track against everybody else's crab-and if you win, you get a stuffed Nemo.

  “Danny?”

  “Yeah?” I huff. He runs every day. Five miles. The only exercise I get is playing beer pong.

  “Swing right,” he says. “I'll swing left.”

  We're in a stretch of the boardwalk that's like a mall-booths and shops lined up on both sides.

  “If we run behind the stalls, she may think she lost us.”

  “Got it.”

  “Reconnoiter at the Whack-A-Mole.” He does one of his three-finger hand chops toward the horizon. About a block ahead, I see a gap in the booths-an open square at the next street entrance to the boardwalk. I also see the blinking chaser lights screaming WHACK-AMOLE in yellow, green, and red.

  “We'll surround her.”

  “Got it.”

  “Go!”

  We split up.

  He scoots through an alley alongside a zeppole kiosk. I dash down this narrow strip between Splash Down and Looney Ladders.

  Behind me I hear a grunt and thud.

  I stop, check over my shoulder.

  Ceepak's on his butt.

  “You okay?”

  “Slipped,” he says, hoisting himself back up.

  Guess that's where the zeppole folks change their fry grease once a month.

  “Go, Danny!”

  I don't answer. I just run.

  I turn right and I'm behind all the booths, zooming along this tight little path as fast as I can. I have to leap over a tall stack of cardboard boxes. Then I almost trip on a tangle of air hoses and electrical cords behind the Balloon Pop. But the clearing, the opening onto Whack-A-Mole Square, the rendezvous point, is just up ahead. I can hear bells ringing. Kids squealing. Fuzzy hammers hitting furry heads.

  I make the right. Race into the square. Ceepak is already standing there.

  He's looking left, looking right. Looking like we lost her.

  I meet him in the middle. Kids licking lollipops the size of steering wheels surround us. I see tattooed slackers lugging gigantic plush toys they wish they hadn't just won for their girlfriends because now they have to haul them up and down the boardwalk all night long. The sun is sinking lower so half the booths, the ones to my west, are in deep shadows. The kind of shadows that make good hiding places.

  “Do you see her, Danny?”

  “No.”

  I crane my neck. I see this other girl, about nine. She is whacking the bejesus out of the moles that keep popping up in the five holes in front of her. The digital counter clicks over every time she whacks a mole back into its hole. She grips her hammer with both fists. The hammer head is huge, resembling a forty-eight-ounce can of stewed tomatoes wrapped with grey foam. Lights flash. Whistles whoop. Little Miss Mallet is very close to going home with a stuffed gopher.

  But she isn't our girl.

  “We've lost her,” says Ceepak, his eyes sweeping the scene.

  “Yeah. But she couldn't have gone far.”

  “Roger that. Where are we, Danny?”

  Ceepak knows of my misspent youth. He knows I know this boardwalk better than Bruno Mazzilli, the guy who owns most of it.

  “About a quarter mile down,” I say and point at the ramp to our west, sweeping down to Beach Lane. “This is the Dolphin Street entrance.”

  Ceepak nods, works his handy-talkie.

  “This is Ceepak. The target has fled. She was last seen in the vicinity of the Dolphin Street entrance to the boardwalk.”

  While Ceepak calls it in, I check out the game booth directly in front of us.

  There's an Asian-looking dude behind the counter, a clothesline of yellow Tweety Birds strung up over his head. The booth is called Machine Gun Fun. Behind the guy is a row of targets. Sort of like the ones they have at the police academy shooting range, only the targets here look more like the mobsters on Th
e Sopranos.

  I aced the firing range when I did my nineteen weeks at the academy. Mostly because I spent my formative years playing Halo on my Xbox, blasting Grunts, Jackals, and Drones. In Jersey, you need an 80 on the standard shooting test to become firearm-certified. I scored a 96. And my mother used to tell me I was wasting my time pointing my plastic pistol at the TV set!

  Now I notice the Asian guy is wearing a head mike but he's not saying anything to hustle up a fresh crowd of suckers. All the barkers manning the other games of chance are into their raps, telling everybody how they can be a winner and take home a Tweety for their Sweetie. But this guy directly across from us is, for some reason, keeping mum about his clothesline full of Tweeties.

  I also notice he's standing extremely close to his front shelf. His belt buckle is pressed up tight against the plywood.

  There are no shooters. No customers.

  But the guy is wearing a goofy, dreamy grin.

  He slumps down some. Maybe an inch. Now the counter cuts him off above the waist. He wobbles a little. Closes his eyes.

  Okay. I know where Stacey is.

  “Ceepak?”

  “What've you got, Danny?”

  I nod toward the booth.

  “I think our suspect is over there … under the counter. I think she's, you know, giving that guy a….”

  Ceepak nods. I need say no more.

  We walk slowly, so as not to draw the guy's attention. Not to worry. His attention is currently fixated somewhere near his zipper.

  “Oh, shit!” cries this angry voice behind us.

  It's the little cutie on the Whack-A-Mole game. She's smashing her mallet against the glass panel that shows her score.

  “Shit, fuck, shit, fuck, shit!”

  She has a 95. Guess you need a 100 to win. Guess you learn those words when you're nine years old these days.

  “Fucking piece of fucking shit!”

  The glass pane isn't shattering. Her mallet is mostly sponge.

  Her colorful choice of words, however, has snapped the guy at Machine Gun Fun out of his trance.

  He sees us.

  Two cops strolling over to tell him his fly is open.

  His hands drop from his hips and fumble under the counter.

  His row of toy machine-guns shakes. One pops off its pedestal. The countertop is being bumped from below.