Whack A Mole

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

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.”