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
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:
“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-
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
Ceepak nods.
That one's part of his Code, too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The clouds have parted and sunbeams pour down as Ceepak and I march out of the missionary's motel office.
“Now where?” I ask.
“We'll hit the house. Make a report. Advise all units to be on the lookout….”
A beat-up old Toyota crunches into the parking lot. It's Rita. I recognize her clunker.
“Hi, guys,” she says as she climbs out.
Ceepak, always the gentleman, holds the door for her. It's a good thing, too-it looks ready to fall off its hinges.
“What're you boys doing over here?” Rita asks. “I thought you were supposed to sit on the beach all day.”
“Duty called,” says Ceepak. It's good to see him smile again. I think the silver-haired and — tongued preacher man hit too close to home with that pious little lecture about obeying your father and mother. Depends on the father and mother, if you ask me. I can tell Ceepak wants to kiss Rita but he won't-not while he's in uniform, not while he's on the job.
“What happened?” Rita asks. “Nothing serious I hope.”
“Routine run. Possible 10–92.”
“That's a robbery, right?”
“Roger that.”
My god: Ceepak has his girlfriend memorizing police 10-codes. They are definitely getting serious.
