Mind Scrambler (34 page)

When, after repeatedly torturing her, Rock was convinced that Katie didn't have the missing notebook or know its whereabouts, he killed her and widened the search. Gave Krabitz additional responsibilities.

“We realized we may have taken action against Miss Landry based on faulty information, false assumptions. However, that didn't matter. She would have eventually become a problem. We eliminated the threat before it had a chance to attack us.”

Krabitz was charged with finding the notebook “before the police stumbled over it.” The ACPD detectives killed in Jake's room were considered collateral damage because, as Mr. Rock wrote, “stuff happens.”

Krabitz also found Jake's personal journal with the Katie to-do list. Thought it was gold, he told Rock later. Made sure the police saw it along with the incriminating Pink Pussycat shopping bags.

When the missing notebook still couldn't be found, Krabitz, under orders from Zuckerman, was sent after Julia Pratt and the two dancers.

Mrs. Rock?

She helped out. Rented the room across the street for Jake on Sunday. Kept a close eye on Katie all Monday afternoon, after Mr. Rock learned the nanny had been in the parents' side of the suite. Agreed to take the initial fall, if need be. She knew she would ultimately be set free when the casino cameras showed her “sneaking out” to play the slots during Monday evening's performance of Lucky Numbers. Her sister, Julia, signed all the autographs in the lobby Monday night. In fact, Jessica Rock barely made it back to the theater in time to play the hysterical mother-of-the-missing-children in the hallway for us.

She knew what Richard Rock was up to with all the boys.

She didn't care.

They were rich. Famous. And, as Rock wrote in one of his journals, “I let Jessica have all the young men she wants. Including her current favorite, David.”

Zuckerman.

 

 

None of the boys listed in the mountains of Mead composition books stacked inside Rock's treasure chest were over the age of twelve. Some were as young as eight.

The dark-haired boy in the pool? Rock nicknamed him “Stromboli.” He was from up in Seaside Heights but currently residing in a very nice room in the Crystal Palace Tower.

One passage in a notebook from back in August suggested the whole reason for bringing the show to Atlantic City: Richard Rock had a “hankering” to explore “back east” for “fresh ethnic treats.” Italian. Puerto Rican. “Rosy-cheeked Irish lads.”

Mr. Krabitz then came to New Jersey a week or two before everybody else involved in giving Richard Rock whatever he wanted. He was the advance man, a talent scout trolling in the hous
ing projects and trailer parks, looking for parents eager to make a fast buck by renting out their sons, sending them on the vacation of a lifetime to Atlantic City.

 

 

Three thousand nine hundred and ninety-four boys over twenty years.

None older than twelve.

Some as young as eight.

In other words, can you blame Ceepak for wanting to kill the sick bastard underneath the Steel Pier?

I can't.

But, man, Ceepak sure blames himself.

Early Wednesday morning we're on the first Coast City bus back to Sea Haven.

Ceepak takes the window seat so he can stare out it and silently torture himself. His honor code? It's something he imposes on himself, not others. Now I think I know why. When you've seen as many horror shows as John Ceepak, in war zones all over the world, you probably want to drown bad dudes on a daily basis.

Especially if they remind you of your asshole of a father.

But Ceepak knows acting on his darker impulses would diminish his soul. Debase and degrade him. So he keeps to his code. Keeps himself in line.

“It's okay,” I finally say.

He turns from the window. “No, Danny. My behavior was inexcusable. Certain things are set in stone. Who we are, what we'll do, and what we won't.”

He's channeling Springsteen again. “I won't tell anybody.”

“Really? I intend to tell anyone who asks me about it. Hopefully, by owning it, I will be able to learn from it.”

“Hey, that's why pencils have erasers, right?” I'm parroting
this corny thing Ceepak always tells me when I screw up. “We all make mistakes.”

He nods. Fakes a weak grin.

He's not buying it. I can tell: John Ceepak thinks there isn't a chunk of rubber in the world thick enough to wipe his slate clean. I guess there never is. All you can do is stumble back to your feet and try to find your way home.

Ceepak looks back out the window. New Jersey's pine trees clip by. Tires hum. He remains disappointed in who he almost became, what he nearly did.

It's a good thing his wife is meeting us at the bus terminal. Rita's the only person capable of walking beside Ceepak when he ventures into these shadowy recesses of his soul. He won't let me in there, that's for sure.

She'll help him find his way home. I know it.

And if Richard Rock, the bogus hocus-pocus cowpoke, can actually make John Ceepak believe he is a bad man then he really is the most amazing illusionist in the world.

The truth? John Ceepak is the most decent and honorable man I have ever met.

I mean that.

How do you think I knew to tell Ceepak to let the sick bastard live?

I learned it from him.