Whack A Mole jc-3 Page 22

“See anything?”

  “There's a line of boats heading out to the ridge,” I say.

  Gus nods. “Night fishing for blues. The commercial guys go out even farther, off the continental shelf, for the scallops … stay out all night.” He taps the long-range screen. “Most of the captains head out this way.”

  “What if he's heading to Bermuda?” Ceepak asks. “Maybe the Caribbean?”

  “Jeez. He could be heading up to Canada, too. Nova Scotia. You're gonna need a freaking airplane.”

  “We have two,” says Ceepak as he reaches for the ship's radio to check in with the other assets. See if the Coast Guard search planes have spotted anything suspicious.

  Then he pauses.

  “Gus?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you ever communicate with Mullen?”

  “Whoa. Hold on, hot shot. I'm not going back on your freaking list again, am I? You making me for some kind of accomplice or something?”

  Ceepak shakes his head. “Negative. But, as a fellow fisherman, do you ever chat over your radio with Captain Pete?”

  “Sure. We all do it. Pass on tips. Hot spots. Plenty of fish out here for everybody. This, of course, was back before I knew Pete was some kind of freaking whack job.”

  “But you know how to contact him?”

  “Sure. I have his frequency programmed into a preset … hey!”

  Ceepak holds out the microphone. Its coiled cord goes taut.

  “Let's contact him now.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  This is Lady Fran for Reel Fun. Come in Reel Fun. This is Lady Fran.” Gus lets go of the thumb switch on the radio's microphone.

  Shakes his head. Nothing.

  Ceepak nods. “Keep heading due east, Danny.”

  “You got it.”

  I maintain my bearing of 90 degrees. Heading straight across the Atlantic Ocean for Europe. Maybe Spain. Probably Portugal. It's still Tuesday. We might make it to Lisbon by the weekend.

  I check the radar. We're about an hour out. Thirty-some miles. On the long-range screen, to the north and further east, I see clusters of commercial fishing vessels working the Hudson Canyon and the scallop beds. To the south, I'm picking up even bigger ships. Probably oil tankers heading up to Newark to dump their loads and keep the air near the Turnpike smelling like rotten eggs. Here and there I see smaller dots. Fishing boats. Sailboats. Pleasure craft.

  I look to my right and see Ceepak checking his cell phones. Both of them.

  “No signal,” he says.

  Gus points to his own cell phone, the one he keeps wrapped up in a tight leather case that reminds me of a steering-wheel cover. His phone is clipped to the control console so it won't fly overboard when the boat bangs across a six-foot swell.

  “Cell phones only work about ten miles out,” he explains. “After that, no freaking towers. They're not putting 'em on buoys-not yet, anyhow. You know, I thought about getting one of those satellite phones. Maybe next Easter.”

  “If we were in cell range,” says Ceepak, “we might be able to triangulate his location-provided, of course, he or Rita are currently carrying their phones.”

  “Look, I hate to tell you this,” Gus says, “but he probably tossed her phone into the drink as soon as he brought his boat out of the bay.”

  “Agreed.”

  “The key,” I say. Sometimes the hypnotic drone of a boat's motor makes my mind drift.

  “Come again?” says Ceepak.

  “Dr. Winston's room key. The one we found near the dock on the north shore. He probably lost it on Cap'n Pete's boat when he and his wife went out on that fishing charter … probably just slipped out of his pocket while he was working his rod.”

  Ceepak nods. “Indeed. Mullen then planted the key when he buried the snapshot of the redhead. Both clues were purposely left there to mislead us.”

  Gus snatches up the radio microphone again.

  “This is Lady Fran for Reel Fun. Come in Reel Fun. This is Lady Fran. You out there tonight, good buddy? Come back.”

  We stay silent. Wait for a response. None comes.

  I hear the propeller screws churning up water behind us: the constant washing-machine whoosh of waves and wake, the flap-slap sound of antenna poles and jacket fabric buffeted by the sea breeze. Thirty miles out to sea, the world is one gigantic Sharper Image sleep machine, but I'm wide awake.

  I look up and make out an airplane's belly lights blinking across the sky.

  “Think that's one of ours?” I ask.

  “Negative,” says Ceepak. “Too high up for Search and Rescue.”

  He's probably right. Maybe we should've called in more air support. Planes and helicopters cover square miles of water faster than we can. Maybe we should've called up some of those pilots who buzz the beach dragging ad banners. Frankly, I don't think the captain and crew of the S.S. Lady Fran have a chance in hell of finding Cap'n Pete. The ocean is too big, our boat too small.

  “I suspect this was his modus operandi with the other girls,” says Ceepak.

  I figure he's been ruminating on the case. Probably helps him forget that his girlfriend Rita is apparently an unwilling stowaway on a ship skippered by Admiral Whackjob.

  “He didn't kill the girls at his place,” Ceepak continues. “He came out here, out to his secret fishing spot. Some place where he could drop anchor undetected, where no one could hear the girls scream. His boat became his floating torture chamber.”

  We all let that one soak in for a second.

  “The girls would be tied up,” Ceepak says in a way that makes you see it. “Probably down below. In the cabin. He would bring along provisions, enough for several days. He'd also pack his death kit. Torture tools neatly organized and arranged with excruciating care. He would derive tremendous pleasure from seeing the girls suffer and would, therefore, make efforts to prolong their pain. Death would most likely come at the climax of a final sex act. When he was finished, when he found his release and his fantasy was fulfilled, this would become his convenient burial ground.”

  Ceepak waves his hand out at the ocean.

  “He'd have his cutting tools on board, of course; the same tools he'd use on deep-sea fishing expeditions. Knives. Saws. Power equipment. He would slice up the girls’ bodies in the same manner he might a bucket of bait and chum the water with their flesh, blood, and bones.”

  Gus and I wince. Like I said, Ceepak has a way of making you see these things. These awful, awful things.

  “Sharks. Carrion birds. They'd help him destroy any forensic evidence. He'd keep the girls’ heads. He'd saw them off the spine with the same saw he might use on a ninety-pound swordfish. Then he would take his filleting blade and slice off the noses and ears. He would return to the cabin and preserve his trophies in jars of formaldehyde. His compulsions satisfied, he would chart a course for home, knowing he could safely return to society whenever he chose. No questions would be asked. No suspicions aroused. His profession gave him permission to be out at sea for days at a time, to be bloodstained, and to carry with him at all times the stench of death.”

  Gus, like me, is disgusted. And angry. He grabs the radio microphone again. Jabs down the thumb button. Hard.

  “This is Lady Fran. Come in Reel Fun. Pete? You out there? This is Gus. What a freaking lousy night. Came out looking for yellowfins, ended up with nothing but a couple tangled lines. Come back.”

  Nothing.

  “Tell you what,” Gus practically shouts into the microphone cupped in his hand, “I'm thinking about calling it quits, heading home, saving my bait for another day.”

  Silence. Then a crackle.

  “This is the Reel Fun. Come in Lady Fran.”

  It's him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Hey, Pete. That you?”

  “Yes, Gus.”

  “About time. Thought you might not have your ears on tonight. Over.”

  “Sorry. I've been busy. Down on deck.” Cap'n Pete's voice sounds pinched coming out of the small
radio speaker.

  “You running a charter tonight?” Gus asks.

  “No. Came out for a little R and R. Found a good spot.”

  “So what's hitting out that way?”

  “Mr. Mako took the close line.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Forty pound S-fin.”

  “What'd you use for bait?”

  “Mackerel.”

  “Really? I'll have to remember that one. Mackerel.”

  “Would you like another tip, Gus?”

  “Sure, Pete. What the hey. If you're givin’, I'm takin’.”

  “Stay out of the Hell Hole, my friend. It's deader than dead tonight.”

  Gus chuckles, even though I can tell it's searing his soul to pretend to be this maniac's buddy. “Ain't that the truth! Deadest spot in the seven freaking seas….”

  “Gus?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We've been friends a long time, right?”

  “Sure we have, Pete. We go way back.”

  “Twenty, thirty years.”

  “Something like that. Sure.”

  “You know my wife. Our sons.”

  “Of course I do….”

  “You were a pallbearer at my mother's funeral.”

  “Yeah. Sad day.”

  “That was fifteen years ago.”

  “Was it? Jeez, seems like yesterday.”

  “Gus?”

  “Yeah, Pete?”

  “In the coming days, you might hear things about me. Things I'd rather keep from Mary and the boys.”

  Gus looks to Ceepak.

  “What sort of things, Pete?”

  “Ugly things. Untruths. Lies. Falsehoods.”

  “What? Somebody gonna say you're a lousy fisherman? That you couldn't catch a cold running naked in the snow?”

  “Worse, Gus. All I ask is that you tell people the truth.”

  “Whataya mean?”

  “Tell people I made my mother proud. Tell them I finally finished my mission.”

  Gus raises his shoulders to tell us he doesn't know what the hell Pete's talking about. Or what to say next. He dabs some sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm.

  “Uh, what's your mission there, Pete? Over.”

  There's this pause.

  “Gus, I will not tolerate sinners. I cannot abide those who defile His laws.”

  “Hey, I know what you mean, pal. I used to be a cop, remember? Laws should be obeyed. I agree.”

  “And yet I, myself, did not fully fulfill all His Commandments. My mother told me so. She said I was being selfish.”

  “When'd she say all this? Before she passed on?”

  “About a month ago.”

  Gus shoots Ceepak a look that says he's hearing the cuckoo clock down in his den counting off midnight.

  “Mother told me I was a greedy tub of lard. Always choosing the young girls. Disobeying His Commandments. Violating Ezekiel's law just so I could caress their supple flesh. Flesh already sullied and stained by other men. This is why I never completed my task, Pete. Do you understand?”

  Ceepak nods. Suggests Gus continue to play along.

  “Sure, pal. Sometimes a pretty girl can turn your head, make you forget your own name.”

  “These girls were gorgeous on the outside, Gus, but their souls were wretched and ugly. Yet, repulsive as they were, I needed to fondle them. To feel them. And so, I never did all I was meant to do. Do you understand?”

  “Sure, pal. Sure.”

  “I fear, by being selfish, I may have allowed certain sinners to relapse. Is Ceepak with you, Gus?”

  Ceepak is about to speak. Gus holds up his hand.

  “Ceepak? Nah. He's from freaking Ohio. They don't do deep-sea fishing in Ohio.”

  “Are you lying to me, Gus?”

  “Lying? Me?”

  “Gus, did you know that Johnny Ceepak forces himself to tell the truth, no matter how injurious it might be to his own personal well-being?”

  “Yeah, I think I heard him say something about that once or twice back when I was….”

  “Did you also know that he will not tolerate lies told by others? Did you know that, Gus? Oh, he's quite rigid about that one. But he's the true offender, the foul….”

  Ceepak grabs the mike out of Gus's hand.

  “This is Ceepak.”

  “Of course it is. Hello, Johnny. How sweet to hear your voice. Yes, indeedy. Johnny Ceepak. The last honest man on earth. Oh, yes. You would never bear false witness against me, would you, Johnny?”

  “Where is Rita?”

  “The lovely Miss Lapczynski?”

  “Where is she?”

  “Did you know she once fornicated with a young man to whom she was not married and then gave birth to his bastard? A child she named T. J.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Reverend Trumble encouraged Miss Lapczynski to renounce her sins and beg God's forgiveness. But Rita left the church and has become something of a backslider. What we call a ‘recidivist.’”

  “Where is she?”

  “Here, Johnny. Here with me. But I suspect you already knew that. Am I right?”

  “Did you hurt her?”

  “No, Johnny. No. Of course not! Not yet. She needs to repent first. God granted her a new life-free from the stigma of her original sin. Yet she chose to throw it all away, to spit in His holy face, to copulate once again outside the sanctity of marriage. Oh yes, Johnny. I know she has shared your bed on a regular basis. I suspected it for months. Your partner, young Danny, he confirmed it.”

  Damn. I did. I made that stupid crack about Rita sleeping over at Ceepak's. I said it to Pete that night at his dock.

  “Rita is the unrepentant, shameless harlot the Lord has placed in my path as a final test.”

  “Mullen, if you harm her….”

  “If I do so, it will be the Lord's choice, not mine! I am but His hands here on earth! I do but His bidding! Tell him, Miss Lapczynski, tell Johnny why you must be punished!”

  The radio cuts out. Cuts back in.

  “John?”

  It's Rita. Her voice weak. Terrified.

  “John?”

  “On your knees!” The charter skipper from hell rattles out of our radio. “Beg the Lord for forgiveness! Tell Him how you sinned! How you spread your whoring legs and took this man, this man who is not your husband, this man to whom you are not even betrothed! Confess how you took him inside your loins over and over and over….”

  Ceepak is pale, straining to hear.

  I hear a tremendous gush of jagged breath rasp out from the radio speaker. Cap'n Pete exhaling or worse.

  The radio goes silent.

  “Forgive me, gentlemen,” Cap'n Pete says finally. “Sorry for that little outburst. It has been quite a long day. I'm certain we're all very tired. And so, we must say good night, gentlemen. His will shall be done. Sleep well, Johnny. Gus. Sleep well, my dear ones. Over and out.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  I don't think the ocean has ever looked so dark.

  It's bleak and endless and unrelenting.

  “I'm sorry,” I say to Ceepak who's standing next to me on the flying bridge, staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on some distant constellation. “I'm the one who jammed us up inside this hell hole. I never should've said anything about you and Rita in front of Pete.”

  Ceepak turns to face me. “You had no way of knowing how he would interpret your remarks. Furthermore, you cannot be held accountable for his actions.”

  “Yeah, but if I had told you about the redhead. If I had told you earlier that I picked her up hitchhiking….”

  “The girl was a distraction, Danny. A red herring meant to throw us off course. If we had apprehended her earlier, some other young woman's Polaroid would have ended up in that final hole. Peter Paul Mullen's primary target was and always has been Rita Lapczynski.”

  “Still, I feel I'm the one who got us into this. If I had….”

  “Danny, I repeat-I do not hold
you responsible for our current situation. However, at this juncture, I would appreciate a modicum of silence. We need to concentrate. Focus. Strategize our next move.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut. Brings a hand up to his head. Massages his temples.

  Down below, the engines hum. The waves whoosh. Lady Fran's nose plunges up and down.

  Ceepak opens his eyes. Stares at me.

  “What did you say?” he asks.

  I shake my head sideways, hold up my hands, and mime a quick and silent Nothing.

  “No. Earlier.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “You mentioned how you felt. You inadvertently echoed a phrase Mullen used in his communiqué.”

  “Hell hole,” says Gus. “They both said ‘hell hole.’”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I feel like I jammed us up-put us in so deep we can't crawl out, in a hell hole.”

  Ceepak is starting to look more like himself.

  “When you two were discussing fishing spots, Mullen advised you to stay clear of the Hell Hole.”

  Gus nods. “Sure. But he didn't need to bother. Everybody knows it's the worst freaking fishing spot there is. Can't catch nothin’ out there but a good nap.”

  “Where's this dead spot, Gus? If it's a location the local boats know to avoid….”

  Gus gets it. “Then it's the perfect spot for Pete to drop anchor with the girls! No one would drift by to bother him.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Scoot over, Danny.”

  I slide sideways, keep both hands clasped on the wheel, keep us heading due east.

  Gus hovers over the control panel and starts plunking keys on the GPS monitor. The green screen flashes. The nautical charts change like a quick-flipping slide show.

  “I got it stored in the memory here. Patch of most unproductive water in the whole freaking Atlantic … maybe it's the spot where they dump the medical waste … you know … the hypodermics that wash up on the beach … maybe the fish faint when they see needles … my wife does….”

  The chart frame he's searching for finally fills the screen. Gus taps the center with his finger.

  “We're in luck, boys. Just need to backtrack a little on a bearing south-by-southwest. Lay in a course, Danny.”