Mr. Monk on the Road (9 page)

“This is going to be the best birthday ever,” Ambrose said.

Or it would be a disaster of unparalleled proportions. I sincerely hoped he was right and I was wrong.

 

It didn’t take long for the sleeping pills in Ambrose’s slice of birthday cake to knock him out cold.

As soon as he slumped forward onto the table, we jumped into action with the precision of the Impossible Missions Force. We didn’t have much time.

Monk and Molly carried Ambrose to the couch while Julie went out to her car and brought in some cardboard boxes left over from her move to Berkeley. Ambrose never left the house so he didn’t own any suitcases.

I grabbed some boxes, rushed into the kitchen, and gathered dishes, utensils, and cookware, while Monk took some boxes upstairs and got Ambrose’s clothes, shoes, linens, and toiletries together. Julie got Ambrose’s laptop computer, some books, and his reading glasses.

Molly went outside, ran around the corner, and drove up in the Jamboree, a loaded class-C motor home that Monk had rented for the week and that I was supposed to drive. But we’ll get to that part later.

The Jamboree was an automotive Frankenstein, a typical Ford van chassis with a cab-over, thirty-two-foot trailer grafted inelegantly onto it. A swish of vibrant color, meant to create an illusion of constant motion, ran along both sides and onto the cab in a halfhearted attempt to join the two disparate pieces into one unified whole. Viewed from the side, the deception almost worked. But from the front, it looked like a trailer was in the midst of consuming the van that was pulling it.

The motor home also had two side sections, called slide-outs, that at the flick of a switch expanded the living space dramatically once the vehicle was parked.

Molly deftly backed the Jamboree into the driveway and got out. I carried the box of kitchenware from the house to the motor home, and she helped me unload everything into the cabinets in the galley.

Notice that I didn’t call it the kitchen. The rental guy described everything about the motor home in nautical terms, as if it were a yacht and we were going on a cruise, and insisted that I do so, too.

The entrance to the motor home was on the starboard side. As you entered, the L-shaped galley was to your immediate left, the dinette area was in front of you, and the built-in leather sleeper couch and the cab were to the right.

The dinette area was one of the two slide-outs, as was the private stateroom that was at the rear of the motor home. Excuse me, I meant to say the stateroom was
aft
.

The bathroom was separated from the living area and the stateroom by a short corridor on the driver’s side—I mean the
port
side—of the motor home.

There was a cab-over bunk that had been converted into a built-in entertainment center with a nineteen-inch flat-screen TV, DVD player, and surround-sound speakers.

The cabinetry throughout was a pleasing natural cherry-wood. The floors were imitation travertine vinyl tile in the kitchen and bathroom and beige shag carpet everywhere else. The upholstery was rust colored, with a subtle checked pattern that complimented the off-white blinds. Everything was lit with pinpoint halogens and fiber-optic accent lighting.

I hate to admit it, but the interior was more upscale than my house.

The day before, after the rental place had thoroughly cleaned the unit, Monk did his own cleaning, which took him almost all night. That morning, we’d loaded our clothes, Monk’s linens, and several cases of Fiji bottled water, filled the refrigerator with food in labeled Tupperware containers and Ziploc bags, and then left the keys with the rental office so Molly could pick up the motor home and bring it to Ambrose’s house.

“You backed that motor home into the driveway as if it was your little Miata,” I said to Molly.

“My adoptive parents owned one a lot like this when I was a kid,” she said. “We mostly used it for weekend getaways. I loved it.”

“Maybe you’d like to come along as our driver.”

“I wish I could,” she said, “but I don’t have any vacation time left.”

Monk brought out Ambrose’s clothes and linens. We made up the bed in the stateroom with Ambrose’s pillows and sheets while Molly and Julie unpacked his clothes and toiletries and stowed his laptop and books.

Then, while Molly and Julie kept watch for witnesses, Monk and I carried Ambrose out of the house and laid him down on the queen-size bed.

We put the leftover birthday cake in the refrigerator, and then we were ready to go.

Well, Monk was ready to go. I was not.

The three of us women stood outside the motor home while Monk locked up the house.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Mom?” Julie asked. “It seems insane to me.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“I think it’s sweet,” Molly said.

“That’s because you’re not going to be stuck on the road with the Monk brothers from San Francisco, down the California coast, to Los Angeles, the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, and back,” I said.

But that wasn’t the real reason for my apprehension. Not even Julie knew what that was. I’d managed to keep it a secret, which was easy, since I’d never had an opportunity to travel in a motor home until that moment.

“It shows how much you love them,” Molly said. “That’s going to mean a lot to Ambrose.”

“If he doesn’t have me and Monk arrested for kidnapping,” I said.

“Then you better make sure he enjoys the trip,” Julie said. “But if he doesn’t, I left before you abducted him.”

“Me, too,” Molly said.

“Thanks for the support,” I said.

“We’re too young, pretty, and vulnerable to go to jail,” Julie said.

“We have our whole lives in front of us,” Molly said.

“What does that make me?” I said. “Old, ugly, and hopeless?”

“No, of course not,” Julie said. “Just insane. But don’t worry, I’ll visit you every week in prison, or the nuthouse, whichever the case may be.”

“That’s comforting,” I said and gave her a kiss.

Monk came out and joined us. “The house is all locked up and the oven is off. I checked twice.”

“We never turned the oven on,” Molly said.

“It never hurts to be sure,” Monk said. “In fact, I should check again.”

He went back to the house. I sighed and gave Julie and Molly each a hug.

“Thank you both for your help,” I said. “We couldn’t have done this without you.”

“My pleasure, unless you are arrested,” Julie said. “And then you did it all by yourselves.”

Monk came back out. “Everything is locked up. We’re ready to introduce Ambrose to the outside world.”

“Have a great trip,” Molly said, and gave Monk a hug. “You’re doing a great thing for him. He’ll appreciate it for the rest of his life.”

“Or you’re committing a felony that he’ll never forgive you for,” Julie said. “Remember that as you’re crossing state lines.”

Julie led Molly to her car and they drove off. After they went, I turned to Monk.

“She has a good point,” I said. “It’s not too late to rethink this.”

“We aren’t committing a crime,” Monk said. “We’re going on a vacation.”

“You drugged him,” I said.

“You’ve never given your daughter medication?”

“This is different.”

“No, it’s not,” Monk said.

“He would never have left the house if we hadn’t knocked him out,” I said.

“See?” Monk said. “We’re helping him.”

“We’re removing him from his home against his will,” I said. “It’s an abduction.”

“It’s a family vacation.”

“You have a strange family,” I said.

“Yes, I do. I’m glad we got that settled.” Monk climbed inside the motor home and I could see him getting into the passenger seat in the cab. He waved for me to get in.

I took a deep breath and joined him, settling into the driver’s seat. From where I sat, it seemed like a normal Ford van. But I knew that it wasn’t. I knew that it was a motor home and that we would be on the open road, sleeping in RV parks and off-road locations for the next week.

I broke into a cold sweat.

“I can’t do this,” I said.

“Trust me, even if Ambrose is angry with us, he won’t press charges.”

“That’s not it,” I said.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m scared.”

“No, you’re not.”

I showed him my hands. They were shaking. “I’m terrified, Mr. Monk.”

“It’s no big deal,” Monk said. “The rental guy told you it’s just like driving a car. You just have to approach driveways at an angle to avoid scraping the bottom of the RV and take special care backing up since you’ve only got side-view mirrors. Otherwise, it’s no different than being in your Buick.”

“It’s not that.”

“So what are you afraid of?”

“Devil worshippers,” I said and tried not to whimper. “If we go out there in this, they’ll get us.”

“You’re kidding,” he said.

I shook my head. “We’re going to die.”

CHAPTER NINE

O
ne Saturday night, when I was nine years old, my father succumbed to my incessant nagging and took me and two of my girlfriends to a drive-in movie theater.

The three of us girls got into our pajamas, took our sleeping bags, and crammed into the “way-back” of my dad’s Ford Country Squire station wagon.

When we got to the drive-in, he backed up so the rear of the station wagon was facing the screen. He got us a huge bucket of popcorn, a bunch of candy, and some drinks, then settled into the backseat, where he had to watch the movie with his head turned to one side the whole time.

The movie was
Race with the Devil
and was about these two couples who go on a trip in their motor home, witness a Satanic sacrifice one night, and are then chased all over the place by evil devil worshippers. Everywhere they went, wide-eyed, unblinking Satanists were waiting for them. There was nowhere they could run, no one they could trust, and no way to escape their doom.

It was the scariest movie I’d ever seen, made even more frightening because my dad leaped out from behind us in the backseat and roared like a monster at the most frightening moments. We screamed until our throats were raw. He thought we were having fun. Maybe my friends were, but I certainly wasn’t.

Race with the Devil
scarred me for life.

Ever since that Saturday night, I’d been terrified of motor homes. Whenever I saw one on the road, I was sure that it was being chased by devil worshippers, or driven by devil worshippers, or would soon attract devil worshippers.

I always got away from RVs as fast as I could. Even parked RVs made me uneasy.

So clearly there was no way I could drive a motor home around the western United States and become chum for whatever devil worshippers might be around, just waiting for a woman to sacrifice to Beelzebub.

And that’s what I told Monk.

I expected sympathy and understanding. What I got was a look of disbelief.

“That’s the dumbest thing I have ever heard,” he said.

“It’s the truth,” I said.

“It’s ridiculous.”

“I know,” I said.

“It was a movie,” he said. “It wasn’t real.”

“I know,” I said.

“So there we have it. Problem solved. Let’s go.”

He slapped the dashboard as if it was the flank of a horse, not that he’d ever ride a horse, much less touch one.

“My heart is racing. My throat is dry. It’s not that simple, Mr. Monk.”

“Of course it is. Your fear is irrational and absurd. All you have to do is tell yourself that and you’ll see reason.”

“I wasn’t this scared when I had a knife to my throat. Knowing my fear is irrational and making it go away are two entirely different things.”

He glanced at his watch. The sleeping pill we gave Ambrose would begin wearing off soon and Monk wanted to be well on our way before that happened.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Natalie, you’re a grown woman. Suck it up and let’s go.”

I gave him a look. “Phobias can’t just be rationalized away.”

“Of course they can.”

“So how come you’re terrified of tumbleweeds?”

“That’s not a phobia,” Monk said. “That’s common sense. They can mow you right down.”

“What about milk?”

“It’s a health and safety issue.”

“Trees?”

“They’re a haven for killer insects and rabid animals.”

“Dust bunnies?”

“Carriers of death.”

“Well, I feel the same way about motor homes.”

“That’s just stupid.”

“No stupider than dust bunnies.”

“You can’t compare dust bunnies to motor homes. Balls of dust and pestilence are dangerous. Motor homes are completely safe, unless you’re run over by one, but since you’re driving this one, not crossing in front of it, that’s not an issue.”

“You’re not helping, Mr. Monk.”

“We aren’t going to encounter any devil worshippers.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I’m a sane, rational person,” Monk said.

That was supposed to be my role in our relationship. I couldn’t help feeling that I was letting us both down. But my fear was real.

“Devil worshippers don’t announce themselves, Mr. Monk. You don’t know someone is one until he’s got you on the sacrificial altar. Anybody could be one of them.”

“Including me?”

“You’re too fussy to be a Satanist.”

“What about Captain Stottlemeyer?”

“You’re not taking me seriously.”

“No, I’m not,” Monk said. “Think of this vacation as an opportunity for you and Ambrose to finally overcome your irrational fears.”

“What about yours?”

“I don’t have any,” he said. “I’ll be your rock. But not like a rock you find on the ground, caked in dirt. I’ll be the disinfected rock that’s all clean and shiny.”