Chris Grabenstein - Whack A Mole

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.

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.”