Mr. Monk on the Road (12 page)

“Did you see that, Rhoda?” said a man with a heavy Southern accent and a huge camera around his neck. “It just won’t swing.”

“I think I’m gonna puke,” said Rhoda, his beanpole of a wife, who was wearing a flowered dress so colorful, it created its own unexplainable vortex. “This place is making me dizzy.”

“It will pass and is totally harmless,” Mitzi said. “People who are very attuned to nature can be sensitive to dielectric biocosmic radiation.”

“That’s true, I am a very attuned person,” Rhoda said.

“You might want to step outside where the forces aren’t quite so powerful and give your personal energy a chance to counterbalance.”

Rhoda went outside, but her husband stayed behind to take pictures of his kids standing on the walls at bizarre angles and hanging sideways in midair from handles on the doorframes.

After a few minutes of bending the laws of physics, everyone went back outside, where Mitzi was about to begin another demonstration of the powerful forces at work at the Mystery Spot.

“Who’d like to stand on this picnic table?” she asked.

Half a dozen children raised their hands. Mitzi picked a little Chinese girl who must have been about ten years old and invited her to climb up on the tabletop. The girl did and stood rigidly at a forty-five-degree angle even though she was on a flat surface. Everyone gasped in wonderment and used whatever electronic devices they possessed to share the moment on their Flickr, MySpace, Facebook, YouTube, LiveJournal, Blogger, and Twitter pages.

Monk cocked his head from side to side and rolled his shoulders. He seemed impatient.

“The answers to these mysteries lie well beyond science,” Mitzi said by rote, “and continue to defy explanation.”

“I can explain them,” Monk said.

Everyone turned to him.

“Is it buried wreckage from a flying saucer?” one man asked.

“Is it aberrant magnetic fields?” one woman asked.

“Is it playful ghosts?” a child asked.

“It’s none of those things,” Monk said. “It’s a trick.”

Mitzi quickly spoke up. “You are welcome to use your own level or testing equipment anywhere you like, and you will get the same results.”

“Undoubtedly,” Monk said.

“Then how can it be a trick?” a Chinese man asked, pointing to the little girl on the picnic table. “My daughter is really standing there. She’s never been here before. And look at her!”

“It’s our eyes and our minds that are deceiving us, helped along by the intentional distortion of the cabin and the fence, which create a false sense of context for everything we see.”

“I saw the ball roll upward,” a woman said. “And a bottle, too.”

“Actually, you saw them rolling down,” Monk said.

“I did not,” she said.

“Neither did I,” said another person.

Soon everyone was voicing their disagreement with Monk’s statement.

“You must be a very attuned person, like me,” Rhoda said, “because you are seeing things.”

“We have a natural need to keep things straight and balanced, and the trickery here plays on that,” Monk said. “Here’s how it works. The curving trail that led us here, and the fence alongside, were designed to distract us from the angle at which we were walking. The house is tilted far more than it appears to be because part of it is buried in the hillside. The fences are not a uniform height. They are actually taller, narrower, slanted, and shorter in key places to confuse your depth of field. More important, the top of the fence creates a false horizon and, therefore, an inaccurate context from which to determine whether something is actually straight. The truth is, we are all standing at an angle right now. Your daughter is the only one of us who is standing straight relative to the actual landscape.”

“You’re saying that we’re faking ourselves out?” one teenage boy asked.

“Don’t take it personally. It’s how our brains are wired. That’s why all airline cockpits have a gauge called an ‘artificial horizon’ for pilots to use when the real horizon isn’t visible or the context might be deceiving. That fence, this path, and the roofline of the house are artificial horizons, only unlike the gauge in an airplane, these are intentionally designed to fool you.” Monk turned to Mitzi and wagged a finger at her. “Shame on you.”

“I didn’t know,” she said. “Honest to God.”

I believed her. Everyone was silent for a long, awkward moment while Monk beamed with pride, waiting for the accolades that usually followed one of his summations. But they didn’t come. The Chinese girl climbed down from the table and started to cry, her special moment ruined.

I didn’t feel so good, either. And it wasn’t because I was sensitive to dielectric biocosmic forces. It was a sense of loss. We were all grieving.

Monk was oblivious, of course, because as smart as he was about some things, he was completely clueless when it came to understanding people, unless they’d killed someone. He was the murderer this time, but the victim wasn’t a human being.

“I’ve been coming to the Mystery Spot since I was a kid,” one old man said with a heavy sadness in his voice. “It hasn’t changed in sixty-five years. I brought my children and my grandchildren here.”

“And now you can tell them it’s not the Mystery Spot anymore,” Monk said. “It’s the Solved Spot.”

“Where is the wonder in that?” the old man asked.

“Now you don’t have to wonder anymore,” Monk said. “Your lifetime of confusion and frustration is over.”

“Did it ever occur to you, young man, that there isn’t enough wonder left in the world?”

“No, it didn’t. Wondering is what you do until you find the solution to what you’re wondering about, and then order, the natural balance of things, is restored. Wonder is wrong, so I fixed it.”

A young woman stepped out of the crowd, her face red with anger. “What you’ve done is the same thing as standing up in a theater while a magician is performing and telling everybody the secret behind the magic trick. How would you like it if somebody did that?”

“I wish more people would,” Monk said. “Then I wouldn’t have to do it anymore and all those so-called magicians would be forced to find honest work.”

“A magician came to my birthday party and he was great,” a little boy said. “Why would you want to ruin his show? Isn’t that being rude?”

“Because there’s no such thing as magic, only deception, lies, and trickery,” Monk said, squatting down to his eye level. “Like Santa Claus.”

The boy’s faced turned ashen. “Santa Claus isn’t real?”

“Obviously not,” Monk said. “No more than the Tooth Fairy is.”

“She’s not real either?” the boy said in horror.

His mother picked up her mortified son and glared furiously at Monk. “You’re a monster.”

“I’m not the one who is swindling you out of your money with blatant lies and cunning spatial trickery,” Monk said and pointed at Mitzi. “It’s them.”

“I didn’t do anything,” she said. “I really thought it was a buried meteor or something like that. I feel so stupid.”

“No one is angry with you, dear, you’re sweet,” Beanpole said to her and then glowered at Monk. “But you’re not.”

Her husband, the big man with the camera, stepped up to Monk and got an inch from his face. “Get out of here, you insensitive bastard, before I beat the crap out of you.”

Monk took a step back. “I’m telling the truth.”

“You have five seconds,” the man said and started counting slowly.

“Could you make it four or six?” Monk asked.

I took Monk by the arm and led him away. “Let’s go, Mr. Monk.”

He didn’t resist and came along with me. He seemed genuinely stunned by everyone’s reaction.

“I tried to warn you that this wouldn’t go over well,” I said as we hurried down the path to the parking lot. “But you wouldn’t listen.”

“Everything about this place is a lie,” he said. “How can they be angry at me for revealing it?”

“To be honest, Mr. Monk, I’m as hurt as they are. The only reason I’m not furious with you is because I know you, and I understand why you were compelled to do what you did.” I looked over my shoulder and was relieved to see that nobody was pursuing us yet. “Even if you were wrong to do it.”

He looked at me in disbelief. “How can you say that?”

“Because this isn’t a mean-spirited ruse. It’s harmless entertainment.”

“What’s entertaining about being deceived?”

“Everyone wants to believe in magic. It’s exhilarating to think that on this one tiny patch of land the impossible might just be possible. It’s called the willing suspension of disbelief.”

“It’s called ignorance and self-delusion.”

“We do it every time we step into a theater to see a movie or watch a magician. We know it’s all fake, that we’re watching actors and sleight-of-hand trickery, but we allow ourselves to believe in it anyway because it’s fun, it’s an escape from our everyday lives.”

“You people need psychiatric help, and this place needs to be shut down. I’m calling the police as soon as I get back to the motor home,” Monk said. “Save your ticket, Natalie. The detectives will want that as evidence.”

But Monk didn’t have to call the police. They were already waiting for us.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
he two police officers were emerging from their patrol car just as we walked up. They’d parked right behind our motor home.

Monk gave me a look of smug satisfaction. “Apparently someone in the tour group realized the seriousness of the crime and called the police. I’m disappointed that it wasn’t you.”

One of the uniformed officers was a big man with a fat neck that had absorbed his chin so that he appeared to have a very long face. His partner was considerably younger and seemed to be having trouble getting used to wearing his equipment belt.

“I’m so glad to see you two,” Monk said. “You got here fast.”

Perhaps too fast, as if they’d known that we’d be there. “Are you Mr. Monk?” the chinless cop asked. His name tag identified him as Sergeant Mitchell Brozinsky.

“Yes, I am. Do you need me to brief you on the details of the crime or are you ready to make an arrest?”

“You don’t look to me like you’re being held against your will,” Brozinsky said.

“Maybe he just escaped,” the young officer said, hiking up his belt. His name was Santos.

“Wrong Monk,” Ambrose said from the open window of the motor home. “I’m the prisoner.”

“You called the police?” Monk said. “How could you?”

“I’ve been abducted from my home, taken captive, and spirited away into the unknown. I’d be a fool not to take advantage of my first opportunity to escape.”

“So why are you still in there?” Brozinsky asked. “Are you tied up?”

“No, I’m not,” he replied.

“Can you open the door?”

“Yes, but I would prefer not to.”

“It’s okay, we’re here.” Brozinsky glanced at the two of us, giving us each the once-over, then turned his gaze back to Ambrose. “They aren’t going to hurt you.”

“Of course we’re not,” Monk said. “My name is Adrian Monk, that is my brother, Ambrose, and this is my assistant, Natalie Teeger. We’re from San Francisco and we’re on a road trip.”

“Against my will,” Ambrose said. “They put sleeping pills in my birthday cake and I woke up in here.”

The sergeant looked at us. “You drugged his cake?”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I said. “It wasn’t malicious or a prank.”

“Then what was it?” Santos asked.

“A birthday present,” I said, feeling like an idiot. “It’s complicated.”

Brozinsky sighed and looked back at Ambrose. “You aren’t drugged now, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you afraid of these two?” Brozinsky asked, gesturing to us.

“No, sir.”

“So why won’t you come out of that RV?”

“Because I can’t,” Ambrose said.

Brozinsky rubbed his brow. “You called 911, told the operator that you’ve been kidnapped and that you’re being held prisoner.”

“I am.”

“But you can walk out of there anytime you want,” Brozinsky said.

“No, I can’t.”

“Are you paralyzed or disabled in some way?” Santos asked.

“Not physically,” Ambrose said. “So I would appreciate it if you’d knock me out with tranquilizers and take me back to my house in Tewksbury before I wake up.”

Brozinsky turned his back to Ambrose and lowered his voice so only we could hear him. “Is your brother mentally ill?”

“Yes,” Monk said.

“No,” I said.

“He’s only left his house three times in thirty years,” Monk said. “And even then only for a few hours.”

“That sounds pretty crazy to me,” Brozinsky said. “On the other hand, it explains a lot.”

“Good,” Monk said. “Now that we’ve settled that, we can focus on the real crime.”

“Which is what?” Santos asked.

“That place.” Monk pointed at the entrance to the Mystery Spot, where I noticed most of the tour group had gathered to watch us. “The proprietors of the Mystery Spot have been swindling people for seventy years and I can prove it.”

“I hope you’re arresting him, officers,” Rhoda yelled from the crowd. “That man is a lunatic and a danger to the community.”

“You are an ignorant rube. You’ll thank me later for this,” Monk yelled back, then turned again to Brozinsky. “You need to shut this place down immediately and arrest the owners.”

“We’re not going to arrest them because you didn’t enjoy your tour,” Brozinsky said.

“You don’t understand, Sergeant. I am a detective, I consult with the San Francisco police on their most difficult cases, and I have solved the mystery of the spot.”

“No way. It defies explanation,” Santos said and pointed at the sign. “It says so right there.”

“It’s a fraud that has bilked hundreds of thousands of people out of millions of dollars. The only thing that ‘defies explanation’ is how the Santa Cruz Police Department let it go on for so long. It’s either corruption or incompetence, but either way, it’s time for justice to finally prevail.”