by Lee Goldberg
"You wouldn't," he said.
"You'll be a mess," I said. "For eternity."
Monk gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and grabbed my pants with his left hand. At the same instant, the rock he was holding gave way and he dangled over the abyss, clutching my pants. His deadweight was pulling me over the edge.
I screamed in pain and fury, digging my free hand and bare knees into the hard dirt to prevent my slide.
"Climb!" I yelled.
Monk used my pants like a rope, pulling himself up, hand over hand.
My outstretched arm was burning with pain and I could feel myself sliding over the edge, the gravel scratching my bare legs and tearing at my fingernails.
And then I felt a pop in my arm and a searing pain that made me scream again. Through the agony, I felt my fingers going numb. I willed myself not to let go, to maintain my grip.
Monk grabbed my left shoulder and nearly pulled my hand out of the ground.
"Let go of me!" I said. "You're breaking my hold!"
He swung up one of his legs, got a knee over the edge, and lifted himself out of the pit, landing almost face-first against my butt.
I lay there, tears stinging my eyes, my arm blazing with pain and still draped over the side of the pit.
I struggled to sit up with my good hand, which was covered with blood. I'd torn a couple of my fingernails clawing at the earth. My knees were scraped raw. My dislocated right arm hung uselessly at my side. I must have looked like the heroine at the end of a bad slasher movie.
Monk was sitting up, breathing hard, his eyes closed.
"You can open your eyes, Mr. Monk. It's over."
"Are you wearing pants?"
"Not at the moment," I said.
"Then it's not over."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mr. Monk on the Road
He was right, it wasn't over. We were alive, but our struggles were just beginning.
"I can't put on my pants," I said. "My right arm is dislocated and my left hand is covered with blood."
Monk opened his eyes and looked at me.
"Oh, Natalie . . ."
He said it with such tenderness, and with such an expression of sadness on his face, that I couldn't stop the tears. But that seemed to horrify him even more than my nakedness or my injuries.
"Relax, Mr. Monk," I said. "The tears will stop in a minute or two. It's nothing to worry about."
Monk picked up my pants, shook off the dirt, and then carefully fitted my feet into each pant leg, looking away as he did it. He slowly worked the pants over my legs, but he was having a hard time.
"Why did you have to get such tight pants?" he asked.
I was asking myself the same question but wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
"I didn't anticipate a situation like this coming up," I said.
"I've been telling you that you need to be better prepared for emergencies."
"I'll keep that in mind next time I buy pants," I said.
I swung my left arm over his shoulder so that I could lift myself up a few inches off the ground and he could tug the pants over my hips. It wasn't an easy operation for either of us. I would have found it funny if I weren't in such pain. There was probably a better way to do it, but my head wasn't very clear.
He whimpered, keeping his eyes closed and his teeth gritted, as he zipped my pants up and buttoned the fly.
"I should have just let go of that rock," he said. "Or let the vicious spider get me."
"You would have preferred death over putting my pants on me?"
"And to see you hurt," he said.
"Your eyes are closed, Mr. Monk."
Monk opened them. He looked at my tear-streaked cheeks, my limp arm, and my bloody hand and shook his head.
"You need a wipe," he said.
"I know," I said. "What about Clifford Adams? Can we do anything for him? How is he?"
Monk looked over his shoulder in Adams' direction and winced. "He's dead."
"How can you tell from here?"
"Because there are vultures picking at him," Monk said.
I looked back. Sure enough, two large vultures were stabbing at him with their beaks. That was usually a pretty definitive sign of death. I turned away before I saw something gross, though what I'd seen wasn't so pleasant either.
Monk put my shoes on my feet, making sure the laces were tied in neat, even bows. Then, careful not to touch my bloody hand, he put one arm around my waist, draped my left arm around his neck, and gently lifted me to my feet.
I immediately felt woozy and nauseous and had to clutch Monk for support. I'm sure I got blood on his jacket and that it would probably have to be incinerated as a result, but there was no way around it.
It took a moment for me to regain my balance and for the nausea to pass, then we started walking slowly, and cautiously, towards my car.
"What do you think happened here?"
"It was a trap," Monk said. "Clifford Adams didn't call you. His killer did. Adams was placed out there to lure us across this field. The killer wanted us to fall in one of the mine shafts. There are probably other holes hidden under a thin sheet of plywood and covered with dirt."
"So Adams must have known something," I said.
"Or the murderer thought he did," Monk said.
"Have you figured out who it is?"
Monk shook his head. "I'm too dirty to think."
We reached the car. Monk opened the driver's door, rooted around in my purse, and took out a wipe.
"Sit down," he said.
I sat down on a bench in front of the Quonset hut.
Monk tore open the wipe and softly cleaned the dirt from my face. My right arm was throbbing with pain, my fingers were numb, and my skin tingled, but the disinfectant wipe on my cheeks somehow made it feel a little better.
"You're going to have to drive us back," I said.
"You can drive," he said.
"My right arm is dislocated and my left hand is a bloody mess."
"We can call for help."
He stuck the dirty wipe in a plastic bag and pulled out my phone.
"There's not going to be any reception out here," I said.
A quick look at the screen on my phone proved I was right. Monk grimaced and took out another wipe.
"Let me see your hand," he said.
I raised my left hand and he took it tenderly in his own. He gently dabbed away the blood from my fingertips. The disinfectant stung, but compared to the agony in my right arm, I hardly felt it.
"We could wait for help to arrive," he said.
"Nobody knows we're out here," I said. "I need a doctor and lots of very strong drugs."
"We have wipes," Monk said.
"That's not going to be enough," I said.
Monk nodded, then glanced at Adams' huge machine. "Does that crush rocks?"
"And coffeemakers," I said.
Monk went over to the machine, studied it for a moment, then took off his jacket and tossed it inside. He hit a button, the machine shook, and a few seconds later, shreds of fabric sprayed from the funnel onto the pile of gravel.
He turned the machine off, rolled his shoulders, and sighed.
"Okay," he said. "Let's do this."
Monk drove slowly and cautiously, gripping the steering wheel with both hands (a wipe in each of them) and leaning as close as he could get to the goop-streaked windshield.
His lethargic driving was both good and bad for me.
The good side was that each bump caused me pain and he was driving so slowly that the car wasn't being jarred too much.
The bad side was that it was taking us forever to get anywhere and my pain was getting worse with each passing second. We'd been driving for fifteen minutes and we were barely a quarter of a mile from the compound.
I was beginning to think that it would be faster to walk back to the highway on my own and wait for Monk there.
"You can go a little faster," I said.
"
It's an unpaved road and I can barely see through the windshield," Monk said. "We can't be too careful."
"I'm in pain here," I said.
"So am I," he said.
"Mine is different," I said.
"Yes, yours will end," Monk said. "You have hope. I have no hope."
I gritted my teeth and braced myself for the long journey. After what seemed like days, we finally reached the junction of the unpaved road and the highway.
"Stop," I said.
"Good idea," Monk said, stopping the car. "We should clean up that skid mark while we're here."
"That's not why I asked you to stop. I can get cellular reception here. I can call for help."
"We can do both," he said. "You don't want the authorities showing up and seeing your vandalism."
While I called 911 to report a murder to the police and request medical assistance for myself, Monk went out and examined the skid mark. But he stopped first at the pothole that I'd hit before. He was probably trying to decide whether or not he should fill it. He crouched, picked up a rock from the pothole, and stuck it in his pocket before continuing on.
That was a strange thing for him to do, but I didn't really care. When I finished talking to the operator, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and waited for help to arrive.
Monk found his spare cleaning supplies in the trunk and was busy scrubbing off the skid mark with a soapy sponge when the phalanx of official vehicles arrived covered in dust and butterfly goop, sirens wailing. Kelton's squad car was in the lead, followed by another squad car, a paramedic truck, and an ambulance.
The chief skidded to a stop, much to Monk's obvious dismay, and bolted from his car, running right over to me. He yanked open the door of my car and grimaced when he saw how I looked.
"What happened to you?"
"Mr. Monk fell in a mine shaft and I pulled him out," I said.
Kelton glanced at Monk. "What is he doing?"
"Cleaning the highway," I said. "Adams was dead when we got there. We were going out to his body when Monk fell in the pit."
"This is getting worse with each passing day," he said.
"Tell me about it," I said.
Two pale and callow paramedics ran up to me and gave me a quick once-over.
"We're going to have to reduce your dislocation," the palest of the paramedics said.
"What does that mean?"
"We've got to pop the ball of your humerus back into your shoulder socket," he said.
"That doesn't sound very funny to me," I said. The paramedic stared blankly at me. "It's a joke. How bad is it going to hurt?"
"Bad," Kelton said. "But you'll feel better right away. At least until tomorrow morning, when you'll be thanking the Lord for the invention of painkillers."
"How do you know?"
"I've dislocated my shoulder nine times," he said. "Mostly playing football. I once did it twice in one day."
Monk ambled over to us, his hands in rubber gloves.
"So how do you pop it back in?" I asked.
"I can do it if you like," Kelton said.
I figured if he'd been through this nine times himself that he probably had more experience than those two paramedics did. Plus I felt safe with him.
"Okay," I said.
The paramedics spread a blanket down on the ground and then they helped me lie down on my back on top of it.
Kelton stood on my right side, put his foot in my armpit, held my right wrist, and told me to scream as loud and as hard as I could.
I did.
And in that same instant, he yanked my arm straight out to the side. I felt a stab of pain and a popping sensation as the ball of my arm snapped back into the socket.
The pain I'd been feeling eased almost immediately.
"Nice job, Chief," the paramedic said, nodding appreciatively.
Kelton helped me to my feet. "The ambulance will take you to the hospital in town. Monk can follow you in your car."
"I can't," Monk said. "I don't drive."
"I'll drive your car for you," the other paramedic said. "We have to go back to the hospital anyway."
"I'll ride in the ambulance with Natalie," Monk said, then handed the car keys to the paramedic. "Be sure to thoroughly disinfect yourself when you get there. Her car is pestilence on wheels."
I wondered whether he wanted to accompany me because he was concerned for my well-being or because the ambulance was cleaner than my car. It didn't really matter what his reasons were. I wanted him with me.
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to stay out here with me and help with the investigation?" Kelton asked Monk. "I could use your insights."
"I've only got one," Monk said. "Be careful where you step."
"Wasn't that the advice I gave you?"
"People don't always follow their own advice," Monk said. "And the next thing you know, you're facing doom."
I spent the next few hours in the hospital emergency room. A nurse helped me change into a gown, then she cleaned up my wounds and bandaged my fingers. They took a lot of X-rays and gave me a bunch of shots in my good shoulder that hurt almost as much as dislocating the other one.
While I was going through all of that, my employer filled out all of my forms. I was glad that Monk was doing that. I wanted him to see for himself how much money I was on the hook for. I had lousy medical insurance, so I knew I'd have a big deductible bill to look forward to and a nasty fight with Monk to get him to pay it.
I dozed for a few minutes on the bed until the doctor came back with my X-rays. He had a warm smile, lots of white hair, and wrinkles that suggested wisdom rather than age.
He told me that the X-rays showed no signs of fractures and that I'd suffered a simple dislocation. He helped me put my arm in a sling, gave me some prescriptions for painkillers, and told me I could expect the muscles and tendons to complain painfully for the next twenty hours over what had been done to them, especially if I tried moving my arm. The doctor said that it would be about six weeks before my arm was back to normal again, so I could cancel any plans I had to participate in arm wrestling tournaments for a while.
The doctor left and a few moments later Monk came in wearing blue surgical scrubs and disposable white slippers. My purse was over his shoulder and he was carrying another folded set of scrubs in his hands.
"Where are your clothes and your shoes?" I asked him.
"The same place yours are, in the hazardous waste bin." He handed me the scrubs. "The nurse will come in and help you put these on. While you do that, I'll get your prescriptions filled and then a police officer will drive us back to the motel."
He walked out before I could protest, not that I had any intention to. The nurse helped me dress, eased me into a wheelchair, and wheeled me out to the waiting squad car, which drove us the two blocks to our motel.
Monk led me into his room, insisting that it was more sanitary than mine, and got me into bed. He handed me a bottle of Summit Creek water and pulled up a chair beside me.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
"Not right now," I said.
"You're supposed to take those pills with some food," he said.
"I've got a few more hours until then," I said. "We can order a pizza. Uncut, of course."
"I've got my tape measure, but I forgot to bring string, a compass, a T square, and a level."
"You'll manage to cut the pizza without all of that," I said.
"It's going to be dicey," he said.
"We've been in dicier situations," I said.
"Speaking of which," he said, "you'll be glad to know that I don't have a pants infection."
"That's a big relief," I said. "You have no idea how much that was weighing on my mind."
I knew that the sarcasm was completely wasted on him, of course, and that he was taking my words straight, but there's no harm in amusing yourself when you feel like crap.
"But I insisted on getting a tetanus shot just in case," he said.
"Good thinking," I said.
"Thank you for saving my life," Monk said. "You do it every day, but today you did it especially well."
I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything. I just nodded.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "You can read me a story."
The Extraordinary Mr. Monk
The Case of the Golden Rail Express
(From the journal of Abigail Guthrie)
TROUBLE, CALIFORNIA, 1856
Mrs. Cromartie, who ran a boardinghouse in Trouble, showed up at the door of Artemis Monk's assay office one morning asking for help, but it wasn't for his expert opinion on some rocks.
She came to him because Sheriff Wheeler, his deputy, and Dr. Sloan were all several long miles away, dealing with the aftermath of the robbery of the Golden Rail Express, which had occurred the previous night.
Although Monk was the town assayer, he'd developed a reputation in Trouble as a man capable of solving vexing mysteries, yet another reason people tolerated his many eccentricities.
Mrs. Cromartie was pretty eccentric herself. The widow was a large woman with a mustache nearly as full as those of the miners she rented rooms to. She wore a gun belt to ward off unwanted male attention, though from what I'd heard, for a pinch of gold and a bottle of whiskey, she'd gladly drop her gun belt and lift her skirt.
She'd come to Monk because there were two dead men in one of her rooms. She couldn't tell whether they'd died of natural causes, murder, or some horrible plague.
Monk was eager to help, which surprised me. We almost had to run to keep up with him as he bolted out the door into the street.
"What if it's plague?" I asked.
"We'll have to burn the boardinghouse down," he said with a smile. "Perhaps the entire block."
Mrs. Cromartie gasped. "God, no. The boardinghouse is all I've got."
"You're hoping it's plague," I said to Monk. "Aren't you?"
"All the buildings on that street are different heights, some aren't even symmetrical," Monk said. "It's already a serious health hazard."
"So they aren't identical," I said. "How is that unhealthy?"
