Chris Grabenstein - Whack A Mole

“I know.”

“Of course you do, Johnny. You're very clever that way. Very clever, indeedy. But can you forgive me? Please? I know you can not tolerate liars, but surely you understand my need to temporarily distract you.”

“Put that down,” says Ceepak.

“I can't.”

I hear a small electric motor. Chugging.

“We must do this precisely at midnight. Just like the electric chair or the gas chamber.”

The motor's purr is coupled with a pulsing click. It reminds me of something.

Thanksgiving.

The electric carving knife.

“You don't need to do that, Mullen,” says Ceepak. “Not tonight.”

“Oh, but I do, Johnny. It says so in Scripture. Ezekiel's wording is quite explicit. First the ears, then the nose, then the remnant must fall by the sword and the residue must be devoured by fire!”

I spring up into a kneeling stance. Aim.

Cap'n Pete sees me. Looks shocked. Holds a huge electric knife stiffly at his side.

“Daniel?”

Now he glares at Ceepak.

“You lied!”

Gives me time to line up a shot.

“Freeze!” I scream. “Drop the knife! Drop it now!”

He does. I hear it clatter to the deck. The motor keeps running, the blades clicking.

“Put your hands above your head!” shouts Ceepak.

Cap'n Pete does.

Gus guns up the engines. Pushes us forward, tugging against the anchor line. The boat rocks. So do I.

For a second, I lose my line of fire. Stumble forward. Have to reach out with my left hand, brace myself against a railing.

When I look up, I see Cap'n Pete holding a red gas canister.

“Drop it!” I call out, lining up my shot again, aiming for the middle of his chest.

He smiles.

He dips to his right and swings to his left-sending up a liquid line of diesel fuel to the starboard cross.

The vapor explodes into a fireball.

“Take him out, Danny!” Gus screams.

“Now!” yells Ceepak.

I squeeze the trigger.

My first shot misses, thwacks into the gas can, pierces the plastic, sprays flammable liquid everywhere. The fire spreads.

“Ram him!” Ceepak orders.

Gus jams the throttles full speed ahead. We lunge forward, as far as the anchor will allow.

I take a second shot.

My firing stance is shaky but I hit Cap'n Pete in the chest.

I hear a hard smack.

He stumbles backward.

My third shot whacks him in the chest again. Our bow smashes into his stern.

Ceepak leaps off the nose pulpit, boards the Reel Fun.

I see Cap'n Pete flip backward over the side rail. Hear the splash.

Gus goes scampering down the ladder. I'm right behind him.

He heads into the cabin to grab one of those fire extinguishers. The right half of the Reel Fun is totally engulfed with flames. The stack of tires must be soaked with diesel fuel. They bubble up toxic black fumes.

The fire hasn't reached Rita's chair. Not yet. It licks its way across the deck, picking up speed when the swells rise and tip the boat in her direction. Retreating when it rocks back.

I head up to the bow, race out on the harpoon pulpit. We've drifted back from Cap'n Pete's stern. There's a two-foot gap between the two fishing boats.

Gus, behind me, sprays foam at the fire.

Ceepak uses his knife to cut the restraints off Rita in the portside chair. Her naked skin glistens in the heat of the fire. I see a gutter of flame roll downhill and find Ceepak's shoelace. It burns like a cartoon fuse. Ceepak stomps it out and scoops Rita's slumped body up into his arms.

“Cover me!” Ceepak yells.

The pulpit sways. I point my pistol where I last saw Cap'n Pete. I try to lock my feet. Take a solid stance.

“He's gone!” I yell. “I saw him fall overboard.”

Ceepak brings Rita to the railing. Gus shoots more foam at the fire.

I pray to God Rita isn't hurt. I pray to God she isn't dead.

I reach out my left hand to give Ceepak something to grab on to. I keep my right hand, my gun hand, pointed toward the flames. I bet the Coast Guard can spot the fishing boat from the air now. It's sizzling and sparkling like a floating roadside flare.

Ceepak hugs Rita closer to his chest and reaches out for my hand.

Our fingers touch.

I see movement.

I swivel right, let Ceepak slip from my grip. He and Rita topple down. Hit the water. Go under.

Through the flames, I can see Cap'n Pete. He has pulled himself up and over the starboard railing. He must be wearing a bulletproof vest. My shots hit a hard shell of plastic and knocked him backward.

Pete raises some kind of lance or grappling hook or spiked pole. He holds it up over his head like a demented Eskimo spearfishing for polar bears. He tears through the wall of fire, means to use the weapon on Ceepak and Rita, off the side of his boat. Impale them like trapped sharks thrashing in his nets.

I pump the trigger on my Glock. I squeeze off one round, work my way up the target, and squeeze off another-because Cap'n Pete won't fall down. When my third bullet tears through the fleshy double chin cowling around his neck, I hear him drop the metal spike, hear it clank behind him on the deck.

Then he stares at me.

He looks worried. Scared. Hurt. Sad. Like he wants to ask, “What did I ever do to you, Danny Boyle?”

But he can't ask anything because he doesn't have a throat anymore, just a big gaping hole in the middle of his neck.

He stumbles sideways.

Takes a step. Maybe two.

His body tumbles over the side of the boat.

This time, I'm pretty certain he's dead.

I have the same nightmare again.

I'm a kid. About nine or ten. My Cub Scout pack is deep-sea fishing on Cap'n Pete's charter boat.

“Gather round, laddies,” says the skipper. “See young Danny Boyle here? Well, let me tell you, boys-one day he's going to grow up and kill me.”

The other kids stare at me. Even my best friend Jess, who's grinning and nodding and giving me two thumbs way up because he thinks it's cool that I'm gonna grow up to become a cold-blooded killer.

Then my Scout pack turns into a bunch of lobsters flailing on the floor in front of a shattered aquarium. And a battery-powered parrot in a puddle starts screeching, “Man overboard! Man overboard!” And a canon fires.

Then Cap'n Pete's neck explodes.

That's usually when I wake up.

I start shivering, no matter the temperature.

Now I know how it feels.

I have killed a man.

• • •

Ceepak and I took a couple days off.

I spent most of that time alone in my apartment listening to this one depressing Springsteen CD over and over: Darkness on the Edge of Town. Its tracks are full of sadness and anger and rage all jumbled up together. Songs about badlands and streets on fire, rattlesnake speedways and howling dogs on Main Street, broken hearts and chasing some mirage, living it every day and proving it all night.

“I wanna find one face that ain't looking through me,” Springsteen snarls. “I wanna find one place, I wanna spit in the face of these badlands.”

Lucky for me, Ceepak stopped by the apartment half a dozen times on Wednesday. Ten on Thursday.

He knows what it's like to kill a man.

He brought me food. Told me his stories. Made me tell mine. Over and over. Then, together, we listened to the CD some more. Listened to the Boss scream about a “twister to blow everything down that ain't got the faith to stand its ground.”

Ceepak nodded every time Bruce sang that line.

Ceepak knows about the twisters.

Thursday night, I nibbled on a Whopper that Ceepak brought me from Burger King. Then I tried to joke about how I dunked him and Rita into the drink that night. How we were lucky Gus's boat didn't catch on fire-even with all that water all around us.