The kid, who looks vaguely familiar, has his arms pumping and keeps chugging straight at us.
“Halt!” Ceepak shouts, raising his hand like a traffic cop.
When he was an MP over in Iraq, Ceepak used to stop entire tank convoys in downtown Baghdad with his booming voice and a single flick of the wrist.
Too bad the purse-snatcher isn’t a tank.
He keeps coming.
“Police!” I holler.
Now the kid stops. Looks left, right, over his shoulder.
“Where, man?” he shouts like I’m on his side.
Ceepak sweeps open his sport coat, plucks that gold shield off his belt, and holds it out at arms length so the sun can flare off its bright and shiny face.
“Stay where you are, young man.”
“You heard him,” shouts Ceepak’s mom. “Stay put.”
The kid squints when the badge’s reflection pings him in the eye.
He looks around again.
And makes an extremely dumb move.
He dashes toward the back end of the Ye Olde Mill ride. I see him grab hold of the picket fence bordering the unloading dock and hop over it. Two seconds after he disappears, we hear a series of thrashing splashes.
Yes, he is running up the lazy river into The Tunnel of Love.
“I’ll follow after him,” says Ceepak, because he goes running six days a week, even when he doesn’t have to. “Lock down the ride, Danny. Go in the front. Block his means of egress.”
“On it.”
Ceepak takes off.
“Go, Johnny, go!” This from Mrs. Ceepak. “That’s my son.”
“He’s a good runner,” says Hank.
Adele gives that a flick of her wrist. “Aw, he’s not even trying.”