belt.
“No,” Ceepak says. “My fault. I forgot to turn mine off.”
I see a red light glowing on the walkie-talkie clipped to the back of Ceepak's belt.
So does Betty.
She understands now that Morgan and the FBI have heard everything.
“You son of a bitch. I'm going to call Cosgrove-”
“Chief Cosgrove can't help you any more,” says Ceepak. “He's in jail.”
“You goddamn son of a bitch!”
Ceepak ignores Betty. “Ashley, remember when I gave you my word? Said I would protect you?”
“Yes.”
“I meant that. I'm going to take you away from your mother now-”
“No!”
“We'll take you someplace safe, okay, sweetie?”
“Get away!”
“Jane?” Ceepak says calmly. “Please take Ashley out of here.”
Betty stretches her arms to her daughter, but Ceepak restrains her.
“Come on, honey,” Jane encourages.
“No! I need to stay with Mommy. Stop!” Ashley kicks at Ceepak.
“Leave her alone!”
Jane reaches for Ashley.
“Come on, honey!” she repeats.
“No!” Ashley screams like I hope I never hear anybody ever scream again. “No! I want my mommy! I want her now!” Ashley is kicking and blubbering, her whole body shaking.
Ceepak loosens his grip. Betty loses her balance and falls to the bed. Ashley immediately curls up against her, her thumb in her mouth.
Betty is wailing into the bedspread.
Ashley twists her head back to face us, just as Morgan and his men enter from the hallway.
“Leave my mother alone,” she hisses at Ceepak, “or I'll kill you, you son of a bitch! I'll kill you!”
He steps back.
Ashley grabs a stuffed animal. A pink lamb. She squeezes her hand tight around its neck and glares at Ceepak, then Jane, then Morgan, then me.
I think we just lost another child.
EPILOGUE
I'm not a lawyer, but I hope Ashley gets a good one. She needs to be locked up in a loony bin, not a juvenile detention center or whatever. But like I said, I'm not a lawyer.
The chief and Miss Betty Bell?
They're in custody and need very good lawyers.
Me? I'm thinking about becoming a cop full-time. Not that I'll ever be as good as Ceepak, but I think the world could use a few more guys trying to be half that decent.
Ceepak?
They rocked his world. Rocked it hard.
Defend the defenseless, do your sworn duty, look for the good in everything, and then boom-he turns over this rock and sees nothing underneath but worms.
But he's still on the job.
At least today.
We meet at The Pancake Palace at 8 A.M. Tuesday. Ceepak decided we've both earned an extra half hour of sleep.
Everybody in the place is pretty glum, barely pushing their pancakes around their plates, glued to their newspapers, reading how a little girl and her mother and the Sea Haven chief of police tried to dupe us all. Sent us for a ride on our own little Tilt-A-Whirl. You can hear a lot of stainless steel scraping against plates this morning. Not much else.
Ceepak's back to fruit and cereal.
I order the same thing. Figure I should at least try it. At least this once.
We eat in silence.
Every now and then, the waitress comes over to pour us more coffee and that sloshing is the loudest sound in the dining room.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Maybe Springsteen is right.
Maybe faith will be rewarded.
Maybe tomorrow.
“You ready to roll?” Ceepak says when half his cereal is gone. Guess he's not so hungry this morning. Me neither.
“Yeah. Where to?”
“Wherever.”
He's right. We are currently without a boss, since there's no chief of police on the job in Sea Haven. We can make up our own duty roster.
“How about we cruise up Beach Lane? It's busy this time of day….”
“That'll work.”
We pay and head to the parking lot.
I wonder if Ceepak will stay in Sea Haven.
After all, he was sort of lured down here under false pretenses. It's not like he grew up here or has family here. His one friend? His old Army buddy? You know what they say about friends like that- they're total assholes.
We cruise up the road fronting the beach. I see people lugging all sorts of gear across the street and down to the sand.
“Pull ‘em over.”
I don't know who Ceepak is talking about.
“Pull ‘em over.”
He points to these two kids riding bicycles behind their father in the bike lane with the other bikers and joggers and early morning fast-walkers. The kids don't appear to be doing anything terribly illegal.
But I do as I'm told.
I whoop the siren once and give the lights up top a twirl.
The father looks over his shoulder and motions to his kids to stop.
I pull the Ford over to the curb.
The family straddles their bikes. Other people stop what they're doing to rubberneck. Ceepak and I climb out of the Explorer.
“Good morning,” Ceepak says.
“Morning,” the father says. “Is there some problem?”
“No, sir. It's all good.”
He bends down to talk to a boy on a blue bike.
“What's your name?”
“Sam. Sam Morkal-Williams.”
“And who are you, young lady?”
“Meghan Morkal-Williams.”
