Mr. Monk on the Road (10 page)

“I can’t do this,” I said as I pulled the key out of the ignition and started to take off my seat belt.

“Fine, back out of this,” Monk said. “But you will have to explain to Julie, Captain Stottlemeyer, and Lieutenant Devlin that we canceled our vacation at the last second because you’re afraid of motor homes and devil worshippers.”

“Why would I have to do that?”

“Because they will ask and I’m a lousy liar.”

“But I’ll be humiliated,” I said.

“Oh, it will be much worse than that,” Monk said. “You’ll be a disappointment to your daughter, who’ll never take your authority as a parent or your advice seriously again, and you’ll be a joke to the entire police department, which would be tragic considering how many years it took you to earn their respect.”

I stared at him, my anger almost outweighing my fear. “You’d really do that to me?”

“Of course,” Monk said. “It would be for your own good.”

“It would be selfish, insensitive, and cruel.”

“You’ll thank me later.”

“No, I’ll kill you.”

“I’d catch you,” he said.

“That’s going to be hard to do from the grave.”

“I’d catch you anyway,” he said. “I’m that good.”

“I can’t believe we are having this stupid discussion.”

“Now you’re talking sense,” he said. “So what are you more afraid of? The unlikely possibility of running into devil worshippers or the absolute certainty of being ridiculed for the rest of your life?”

I took a deep breath, swallowed hard, started the RV, and shifted it into drive.

 

As I drove the motor home out of Tewksbury toward San Francisco, my heart was beating so fast that I figured at least I’d succumb to cardiac arrest before the Satanists ever caught up with me.

I knew I was being silly. I knew Monk was right. And that’s why I drove on, not so much because of his threats, but because it was time to confront my fears. Mine weren’t nearly as crippling as what Ambrose was facing. Of course, it helped that a person doesn’t run into many RVs living in the heart of San Francisco.

We were on the freeway and nearly at the Golden Gate Bridge when there was a loud yelp from the back of the motor home.

“Earthquake!” Ambrose, disoriented and in a dazed panic, came staggering out of the stateroom, clutching the walls for support. “It’s the Big One!”

I quickly steered the RV toward the turnoff leading to the scenic outlook, a popular tourist spot for taking postcard-perfect pictures of the bridge and the city. It was like trying to turn an aircraft carrier, but somehow I managed.

“It’s okay,” Monk said, climbing out of his seat and heading into the back. “It’s not an earthquake.”

“Then why is the house moving?” Ambrose said. “Wait a minute, this isn’t my house. And why is there a car in the living room?”

“Sit down and I’ll explain everything,” Monk said, leading Ambrose to the couch.

I found a parking spot with a fantastic view of the bridge and angled the motor home so Ambrose could see the bay from the window across from him.

“I’m having a nightmare,” Ambrose said, closing his eyes. “I am going to wake up now.” He opened his eyes. “Oh God, I’m still dreaming. Wake up! Wake up!”

He dropped onto the couch and shook his head.

I glanced around quickly to make sure there were no Satanists in the cars next to us or lurking in the bushes on the periphery of the parking lot.

“You’re in a motor home,” Monk said to Ambrose. “Also known as a recreational vehicle or an RV.”

“Oh God, does that mean I am outside?”

“You’re inside but outside at the same time,” Monk said. “That’s the brilliance of it. Since you won’t leave the house, I decided to move the house instead. For the next week this is your home on wheels.”

“How did I get in here?” Ambrose asked.

“I drugged your slice of birthday cake and then we carried you inside,” Monk said.

“You abducted me,” Ambrose said.

My gaze fell on a middle-aged, very prim lady in the Honda Civic parked right beside us. She was sitting ramrod straight, staring out at the bay. She turned mechanically toward me and smiled. A chill ran down my spine.

“Don’t panic,” I said. “But I think they are on to us already.”

“Who?” Monk asked.

“The Satanists,” I said.

“Why do you say that?” Monk said.

I tipped my head toward the driver’s-side window. “Look at that lady. She hasn’t blinked in at least thirty seconds.”

“So?”

“Devil worshippers don’t blink. They stare at you like wide-eyed zombies,” I said. “Just like her.”

“There are no devil worshippers in Marin County,” Monk said. “Only swingers, nudists, poets, and NPR subscribers.”

“I am none of those things,” Ambrose said.

“Only because you never leave the house,” Monk said.

“That’s
why
I don’t leave the house,” Ambrose said.

“We are setting you free,” Monk said.

“I don’t want to be free,” Ambrose said. “I want to go home.”

“You heard the man,” I said, starting the RV up again and stealing another glance at the Devil Woman. “Let’s get going before she takes out her pitchfork.”

“We’re not going back,” Monk said. “We’re going through with this.”

“With what?” Ambrose said. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I’m even. I have a balance in my life that I haven’t had in years, and it feels really good. You deserve to have that, too. So that’s what I’m giving you for your birthday, something that you’ve been missing, that’s made your life unbalanced.” Monk motioned to the view. “The world. Something new to see outside your window besides the same old street you’ve been looking at for decades.”

Ambrose leaned forward a little bit and looked out the window, staring wide-eyed at the Golden Gate just as a massive cruise ship passed beneath it. He sat back quickly and took a few deep breaths.

I looked at the woman in the car beside us. She was texting on her cell phone, probably alerting the entire Satanic network to be on the lookout for us.

“This is madness,” Ambrose said. “Where did you get such a crazy idea?”

“From a murderer,” Monk said. “The guy who killed his sister with Major Munch Peanut Crunch.”

“Of course you did. Sociopaths always give the best advice. What are you going to do next? Kill me?”

“We’re taking you on a road trip.”

“I’d rather be killed,” Ambrose said.

“It’s a vacation,” Monk said. “You need one.”

“Is that what the sociopath told you?”

“You’ll thank me later.”

“Like his sister thanked him,” Ambrose said, then shifted his angry gaze to me. “I can’t believe you went along with this insidious plan. I trusted you, Natalie. I thought you were a true friend.”

“I am, Ambrose.”

He shook his head. “No, you’re a black widow, wooing men to their doom with your feminine wiles.”

“You wooed? With your wiles?” Monk said. “What are you doing waving your wiles around?”

“I didn’t woo, with wiles or anything else,” I said to Monk and then turned to his brother. “I helped Mr. Monk because he loves you and wants to make you happy.”

“Do I look happy to you?”

“Not yet, but give it some time. This is going to be a lot of fun,” I said, trying to convince him as much as myself. “It will be an experience that you will treasure.”

“That’s what they told the passengers on the
Titanic
,” he said. “And look what happened to them.”

CHAPTER TEN

M
onk began showing Ambrose the world by taking him on a tour of San Francisco’s major landmarks—Monk’s apartment, Monk’s shrink’s office, and police head-quarters.

As we passed Dr. Bell’s office, Ambrose urged me to pull over and invite Monk’s psychiatrist to come out and join us.

“I’d love to get his professional opinion of what you’re doing to me,” Ambrose said.

“Dr. Bell doesn’t practice drive-through psychiatry,” Monk said.

I didn’t blame Monk for not wanting to bring Dr. Bell into this. I didn’t want to, either. I doubted that Dr. Bell would endorse Monk’s plan and I didn’t want him to find out about my
Race with the Devil
fears.

As we passed the police station, Ambrose banged on the windows of the RV and tried to attract the attention of the cops outside. Monk closed the blinds, perhaps afraid that the police would take a dim view of us drugging, abducting, and imprisoning his brother. I didn’t blame him for that, either. I didn’t relish the idea of being interrogated over my part in the scheme.

But Dr. Bell and the police weren’t my big worries. I was more concerned that we were showing all the devil worshippers in San Francisco precisely where Monk lived and I worked so they could catch us later if we managed to elude them on the open road.

Yes, I knew those were crazy thoughts, but the scariest thing of all was my realization that Monk was probably the most rational person among the three of us. That fact shocked some sense back into me and gave me a modicum of control over my phobia. I forced myself to concentrate on my driving and to make Ambrose feel safe and secure, even if I didn’t.

As we drove through the city, and then south through San Mateo, I could see that Ambrose was conflicted. He wanted to be angry with us, but he couldn’t stop staring in fascination out the window at all the activity. He reminded me of a child watching a monster movie, scared and captivated at the same time.

We were silent for the next two hours and, since we had no predetermined destination in mind, we were in no hurry to get anywhere.

Monk, being Monk, had wanted to plan out the entire week in detail, to keep to a strict timetable, and to know exactly where we would be going, what we would be seeing, and when we would be seeing it. He had to know where we’d be parking the RV each night and what time we’d get there.

But I reminded him that we were doing this trip for Ambrose and that we should be guided not by some arbitrary schedule but rather by his brother’s interest and curiosity, assuming he ever got past his anger and fear.

I also reminded him that since we were in an RV, we were virtually self-sufficient. We didn’t have to worry about finding a place to stay, and if we couldn’t find a suitable campground or trailer park, we could simply pull off the road somewhere for the night.

That level of uncertainty unnerved Monk, but I made it clear that if he wanted me along, that was the way it was going to be.

Much to my surprise, he gave in. He didn’t have much choice, not if he wanted me to be his driver.

Our only plan, if you could call it that, was to do a loop, going south down the California coast to Los Angeles, then perhaps east as far as the Grand Canyon, then northwest, maybe passing through Las Vegas and Yosemite on the way back to the San Francisco Bay Area. Of course, all of that was open to change depending on what caught our fancy along the way.

We had some maps and a travel guide to the western United States, but that was all the advance preparation we had done.

The longer we drove, the more relaxed I became, and I supposed it was the same for Ambrose. He was safely indoors and, since the cab is the same as any Ford van, I actually forgot I was in a motor home.

It also helped that I was entering familiar territory. We were heading down the coast along Highway 1 toward Monterey Bay, where I grew up. There’s something undeniably comforting in being around places where you have some history and lots of good memories. I’m sure that was one reason Ambrose never left the house.

Ambrose seemed utterly enthralled by the high cliffs and the crashing surf, gripping the back of the couch for dear life and rearing back to avoid getting wet as each wave hit the shore far below us. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the natural spectacle.

“Do you have to drive so close to the edge?” he said. “Are you trying to send us hurtling to our deaths?”

Monk turned to me. “See, I’m not the only one who thinks you’re a reckless driver.”

“Ambrose has been in a motor vehicle twice in thirty years,” I said. “He’s hardly in a position to be critical about my driving.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve won the Mushroom Cup, Flower Cup, Special Cup, Shell Cup, Banana Cup, and Leaf Cup multiple times in Super Mario Kart,” Ambrose said. “I’ve experienced things on the international racing circuit that would curdle your toothpaste. I’ve survived the blood-soaked sands of Shy Guy Beach, the hairpin turns of Toad’s Turnpike, and the quicksand pits of the Dry Dry Desert, all while dodging pirate cannon fire, piranha plants, and the pincers of mighty crabs.”

“That’s very impressive, Ambrose,” I said. “But one thing you will discover on this trip is that the real world is infinitely more complex and exciting than what you can experience in a video game.”

“Show me something that can beat Yoshi Falls or Mushroom Gorge, and then we’ll talk,” Ambrose said.

“Just look out the window,” I said.

He did. And that shut him up again.

 

Santa Cruz is Berkeley by the beach. Like Berkeley, the city is home to a university, which means the entire place has a student vibe. But it’s also inexplicably caught in a time warp, still evoking the 1960s, the counterculture, and the laid-back, hippy lifestyle. Berkeley has gentrified, sanitized, and marketed its hippy history to the point that the city feels like a theme park re-creation of itself. But in Santa Cruz, it doesn’t feel self-conscious, prefabricated, and franchised. It feels authentic.

There wouldn’t be a lot of Satanists here, and if there were, they were probably too busy studying for finals or getting high to bother with us.

I found a parking spot on West Cliff Drive facing the beach, the bay, the pier, and the boardwalk, which was dominated by the massive, and iconic, wooden roller coaster. The view was spectacular.