Whack A Mole

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

We follow after Trumble into a room set up with six cafeteria tables and three dozen folding chairs-all currently occupied by hungry young folk scarfing down breakfast off thin paper plates.

The Reverend moves behind a chafing dish to scoop up portions of what looks like scrambled eggs but could be yellow cottage cheese. He has given us all the information he plans on serving up today. Ceepak doesn't push it. Not this morning. But I have a hunch we'll be back.

“What about redheads,” Ceepak asks, his eyes scanning the chow line. “I don't see any girls….”

“Me neither.”

Suddenly, I spot Stacey. She's standing by the door.

I know I should point her out to Ceepak. But I don't. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe I don't want him knowing that, on my days off, I spend my time picking up jailbait I find hitchhiking by the side of the road. I know she's a thief, stole my twenty and Dr. Teddy's hundred, but there's really no evidence to suggest that she's the beach bandit, too. Except, of course, the eyewitness description. And the fact that she's here with a rubber-stamped hand.

Okay, I'm embarrassed.

If I finger her, she'll just ID me right back. Tell Ceepak and Reverend Billy's assembled multitudes what kind of skeeve I truly am.

I decide not to say anything.

I'll just have to take full responsibility for any twenties she swipes down the line from upstanding Sea Haven residents and unsuspecting tourists.

It's not what Ceepak would do.

But I am not Ceepak.

I take a second look. She still hasn't seen me. Luckily for me, Stacey has a new hair color. She's spray-dyed it green.

“No redheads,” I mutter in Ceepak's general direction.

Technically, I'm off the hook.

“Roger that.” He checks his watch. “We better hit the beach. We'll check up on your Dr. Winston lead later.”

On his belt, one of the cell phones beeps. He answers it.

“This is Ceepak. Slow down. Take it easy, Pete. Okay. Breathe in. Try to calm down. Tell me what you found.”

Now we have another reason to hurry back to Oak Beach, besides our official bulldozer-watching duties.

Apparently, Cap'n Pete returned there first thing this morning, hoping to find more buried treasure. He brought along a friend's metal detector.

“She started humming right away,” Pete says. “Lights blinking. Noise in the headphones. Knew I found something. Yes, indeedy. Didn't know it'd be this. No, sir. Not this….”

We're west of the roped-off area where the sand castle sculptors will soon start erecting their colossal creations. I can see their backhoes covered with tarps.

The beach, itself, is practically deserted. Some surfers are happily catching the waves before the lifeguards show up to tell them to knock it off. A few joggers are doing the Chariots of Fire thing down where the sand is wet. Two middle-aged romantics in matching sweat-suits stroll up the beach holding hands.

All is as it should be.

Except, of course, for what Cap'n Pete and his borrowed metal detector found buried three feet deep in the sand.

Ceepak crouches next to the hole.

“Did you touch it?”

“No, sir, Johnny. I called you right away. I wouldn't touch it. Still not sure what made this thing start beeping.” He motions toward the metal detector lying on its side in the sand. “It's Bill's. Bill Baiocchi's. You know him, Johnny. From the Treasure Hunter club. He let me borrow it. It's a CZ-20.”

Ceepak nods.

“The CZ-20 is an all-weather detector,” he says. “It's leak-proof to a depth of two hundred and fifty feet, with electronics able to ignore the destabilizing effects of saltwater, making it ideal for working a wet, sandy beach.”

“That's just what Bill said. But what made it start beeping?”

Ceepak grimaces.

“Uncertain.”

The thing in the hole looks like a salad bowl. An old-fashioned Tupperware container like my mother used to have.

Ceepak carefully pries off the lid.

Now we see what might be a soccer ball wrapped in newspaper. Ceepak reaches into one of his many pockets and draws out his forceps. He uses it to work open the sheet of newsprint, which is still dry, thanks to Mr. Tupper's famous watertight seal. He peels back the paper like you'd work open a head of lettuce.

“The Sandpaper,” he says, identifying the newspaper as our local weekly. He studies the top edge. “The Friday, August 4, 1979, edition.”

He splays open the paper. Unwraps the top of the package.

It's not a soccer ball.

It's a human skull.