Chris Grabenstein - Whack A Mole

“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.

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.”

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.”