Whack A Mole

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ceepak reaches for our radio, which had been enjoying the shade underneath my folding chair.

“The Life Under the Son Ministry,” he says.

“The guys who run that booth on the boardwalk?”

“Roger that. They also operate a soup kitchen of sorts in the motel nearby.”

“The motel lets them do that?”

“The ministry owns the building. Has its offices inside. Rita volunteers there some mornings when she isn't busy at the bank. They serve a hot breakfast to anybody who walks in hungry, no questions asked. However, to gain access to the chow line, you need to have your hand stamped.”

“With a bright orange sun.”

Ceepak nods. “I'm going to radio in a request for the chief to relieve us, assign another team to this location.”

“So we can head over to the boardwalk and check it out.”

“10-4.”

• • •

Billy Trumble, the evangelist guy who does the early morning preach-a-thon Sundays on WAVY radio, also runs the Life Under the Son Ministry.

Their booth up on the boardwalk is staffed by born-again Christian kids who sit inside and reach out to all the young sinners happily strutting through life in string bikinis and Speedos. They'll tell you about the hell that awaits those who fornicate outside the sanctity of marriage- and they don't just mean the hell of having to wake up with each other after the beer goggles wear off. They'll even try to convince you not to gamble at the boardwalk arcades, to avoid the Wheel of Chance, which, if we're honest, is just another spin on roulette, and even the humble Whack-A-Mole, this game where you bop furry little critters on the head with a mallet while more moles pop up in the holes you're not whacking.

It's very hard to win at Whack-A-Mole. Even attempting to do so, the Life Under the Son Ministry will advise you, is the first step down a slippery slope that leads directly to losing your shirt and pants and the family farm at Trump's Taj Mahal in Atlantic City. Next stop after that? Hellfire and damnation.

It's a tough sell.

But they do, apparently, serve a hot breakfast to anybody who walks in hungry.

The chief approves Ceepak's plan, freeing us to head up the island to The Sonny Days Inn, the motel that doubles as worldwide headquarters for Reverend Trumble's ministry and outreach programs. I think it used to be a Days Inn. They only had to paint two extra words on all the signs to make the switch.

A young girl comes out of the office to greet us. She's probably seventeen, with a bright open smile and a gray T-shirt that says CHASTITY IS REAL LOVE. The “o” in Love is a heart.

I see other girls up on the second-floor balcony, leaning against the railing, wondering why a police car just pulled into their seaside sanctuary. Some of them stand next to vacuum cleaners. Others hold armloads of linen. They must be the Lord's handmaidens doing double duty as chambermaids.

“Good afternoon, Officers,” says the official greeter. “How can I help you?”

“We're investigating a minor incident on the beach,” says Ceepak.

“Oh, dear. An incident?”

“Minor, ma'am. We'd like to talk to Reverend Trumble.”

Her face blossoms into a beautiful ball of tranquility. “Of course.” She leads us toward the motel office. “Would you gentlemen care for some lemonade while you wait?”

“Lemonade would be wonderful,” says Ceepak.

“I'll tell Reverend Billy you're here,” she says.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

As she walks away, I check out the sky. It's gone greenish gray. The thunderheads bubbling up over the ocean all day long look like they're finally ready to unload a torrent of rain-or hailstones.

In a few moments, our personal handmaiden comes back. We follow her through the small lobby, past the front desk, and into the Reverend's office. After she leaves, a different girl soon appears with two frosty glasses of lemonade and a plate of sugar cookies. She's a blonde. Maybe seventeen, too. Looks wholesome, like she grew up in Nebraska.

Ceepak takes his lemonade. “Thank you … I'm sorry, I don't know your name.”

“I'm Rachel.”

“I'm John. This is Daniel.”

I can't believe Ceepak just called me that. Daniel's what my mother used to call me-but only when she was real mad.

“Thank you for the refreshments, Rachel.”

She leaves. Ceepak puts down his glass and drifts behind the small desk to study the framed photographs hanging on the paneled walls.

“Interesting,” he says.

The pictures all have that hazy, washed-out look of snapshots that have been sitting in the sun too long.

“These photographs were taken during a baptism on the beach,” says Ceepak. “Out in the ocean.”

“These, too.” I point to a frame holding six pictures: 5-by-7s laid out comic-strip style, telling a story from left to right.

“Look,” says Ceepak. “This man in the clerical collar is leading a fully clothed girl out into the surf.” He's now in full analytical mode. “The man with the Bible is most likely a young Reverend Trumble.”

He continues narrating the story as it unfolds across the panels. “Reverend Trumble holds up his arms in prayer. He dunks the girl under an incoming wave. She emerges from the water, jubilant. Everyone on the shoreline applauds….”

“Verily, they rejoice,” someone croons smoothly behind us. “‘For what was lost, now is found.’”

It's the Reverend Billy Trumble. I recognize the buttery voice from his radio show.

“Of course,” he continues, “those photographs were taken many years ago. Before my hair turned white.”

Ceepak extends his hand.

“Reverend Trumble?”

Trumble clasps Ceepak's hand with both of his.

“That's right, brother. And you are?”

“Officer John Ceepak. Sea Haven Police. This is my partner, Daniel Boyle.”

“Danny,” I say and hold out my hand.

Trumble gives me the double pump, too, and locks his eyes on mine. They're crystal blue and set off by a rich tan-the kind you can only get from a spray can.

As we shake hands, the sky explodes with a roar of thunder that makes the windows rattle. I think Reverend Billy just read my mind and called in a retaliatory lightning strike. I look out the window. Fortunately, it's just raining buckets of water, not frogs or anything biblical. Droplets the size of quarters ping and splatter off car roofs.

“Guess we better build an ark,” I joke.

“No need, son. The next time God destroys the earth it shall be with fire, not water!”

When he says “God,” it sounds like a three-syllable word: “Ga-uhuhd.” Why is it even New Jersey radio preachers sound like they grew up in North Carolina?

“Second Peter. Chapter Three.” Trumble continues. “‘But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a mighty roar and the elements will be dissolved by fire, and the earth and everything done on it will be found out.’”

I nod because I can't change the channel like I do when this guy invades my radio.

“Now then, Officers-how may I be of assistance?”

“We're looking for a girl,” says Ceepak.

“Is she a lost soul?”

“Perhaps. We have reason to believe she came here for breakfast this morning.”

“Very likely. Many do. They come to seek sustenance. Physical and spiritual.”

It's beginning to sound like Reverend Billy has some endless loop of sermon tapes spooling through his brain.

“She had an orange sun stamped on her hand,” says Ceepak, unmoved by our host's holiness.

Trumble lifts his hand to show us the sun mark on his own. “As do I. For we are all sinners, marked so with Adam's stain.”

“She has orange hair, too,” says Ceepak.

Trumble sits in the swivel chair behind his desk and smiles knowingly. He puts his hands together to form a steeple in front of his lips.

“In Scripture, evildoers are often identified by red or orangish hair. Judas had red hair. Eve, as well.” He pauses. “Was this red-haired girl a runaway?” he suddenly asks.

“We have no way of knowing at this juncture. We can assume, however, that it is a distinct possibility.”

“I'm not surprised. So many of the children who flock to my table are runaways.” He shakes his head sadly. “Why do they choose to leave their homes? To flee loving parents?”

I figure maybe they just listened to Springsteen's “Born to Run.” You know: “We gotta get out while we're young, ‘cause tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.”

“There are several reasons,” says Ceepak, who knows a thing or two about loving parents. His own father was a drunk who smacked his mother around and picked on his little brother. I'm guessing that, in his teens, young John Ceepak considered running away from home but decided to stick around to do his duty and protect his mom and kid brother. “Often times the teenage runaway….”

Reverend Trumble holds up his hand to silence Ceepak.

“You gentlemen are sworn to uphold the laws of man. I, however, answer to a higher authority. A God who commands that all children honor their fathers and mothers-no matter what. Exodus 20:12.”

Ceepak's back goes ramrod stiff. “‘And, ye fathers,’” he says, “‘provoke not your children to wrath.’ Ephesians 6:1–4.”

I'm impressed. Something that happens on a daily basis when you work with John Ceepak.

Trumble's hands reform the steeple below his nose, only this time the rafters are bent and wobbly because he's squeezing hard. I think he's used to having the last word.

“Is there a number where I might call you gentlemen should a girl answering this description return to our table?”

Ceepak pulls one of our cards out of his shirt pocket.

Reverend Trumble takes it, studies it.

“John Ceepak. Unusual name. Tell me, son-are you a Christian?”

“Call us if anyone matching her description shows up.”

“I certainly will.”

“We'd appreciate it. We suspect she may be stealing money and credit cards from vacationers.”

The Reverend sighs. Shakes his head. “Placing her soul in mortal jeopardy by defying the Eighth Commandment as well: ‘Thou shalt not steal.’”

Ceepak nods.

That one's part of his Code, too.