Mr. Monk in Trouble

by Lee Goldberg

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mr. Monk's Endgame

  It was the pain that woke me up.

  I was only vaguely aware of the discomfort at first, but it crept up on me, getting stronger and more difficult to ignore as the Vicodin wore off.

  I tried to get comfortable, but my arm was in a sling and it hurt to make the slightest move. The bandaged fingers of my left hand throbbed where the nails once were. It felt like I had golf balls for fingertips. My scraped knees stung. Shifting the weight of my arm to my chest or to the mattress caused the ball of my shoulder to adjust, and the resulting pain was instant and intense.

  I fought a hard, mental battle to stay asleep, to remain protected by the cocoon of slumber, but the pain demanded my attention, poking, stabbing, and screaming at me until my eyes flashed open.

  I was sweating all over and, as odd as this might sound, it didn't smell like me. I smelled like I'd fallen into my plate at an Indian restaurant. I figured it must be the Vicodin leaking out of my pores.

  The room was dark, dimly lit by the glow of the parking lot lights through the closed drapes. The bathroom door was ajar and I could see that it was empty.

  Where had Monk gone?

  I turned my head and glanced at the clock radio. It was 7:37 p.m. An odd number. Monk wouldn't have liked that omen at all.

  I'd slept through almost the entire day and for some reason that angered me. It's not like I'd slept through a busy schedule or that I'd put off necessary work. But I still wasn't happy about losing a day to a drugged stupor that left me in a curry flop-sweat. And I didn't like that I wasn't able to keep my eye on Monk, though I probably needed care more than he did.

  My pills were laid out on a napkin on the nightstand alongside a bottle of Summit Creek water, a box of Wheat Thins, and a handwritten note from Monk.

  The note looked as if it had come out of a laser printer. It had probably taken Monk hours to write.

  Natalie,

  I am sorry I couldn't be here when you awoke, but I had a train robbery and three murders to solve.

  Here is your medication. Follow the directions on the bottle and take the pills with twenty Wheat Thins. Drink lots of liquids and get plenty of rest.

  I will see you in the morning and tell you all about how the cases were solved.

  Yours truly,

  Adrian Monk

  P.S. I have locked the movie channels as a precaution against you accidentally incurring extra charges in a drug-induced delirium. I recommend the wholesome and thrilling programming on the Weather Channel and the Game Show Network.

  I took the pills, washed them down with water, and ate some Wheat Thins while I pondered the situation and waited for the Vicodin to kick in.

  What was Monk thinking going off on his own? Didn't he realize how dangerous that was? What was the hurry? Why couldn't he wait until morning to wrap things up?

  My last memory before falling asleep that afternoon was the satisfied look on Monk's face after he'd read to me from Abigail Guthrie's journal.

  He'd solved Manny Feikema's murder, Clifford Adams' murder, and the robbery of the Golden Rail Express. But he was too damn egotistical and stubborn to just call Chief Kelton or Captain Stottlemeyer and let them handle it.

  Then again, maybe I was wrong about that.

  I snatched my cell phone off the nightstand and scrolled through the list of calls. Monk had made several outgoing calls while I was napping and Captain Stottlemeyer was one of them. That was a good sign. He'd made two other calls that, judging by the area code, were to people in Trouble.

  It wasn't easy holding the phone with one hand and also pressing the keys with my bandaged fingertips. I dropped the phone a couple of times trying to key in the phone numbers and almost threw it against the wall in frustration.

  I started by calling Stottlemeyer's office, but his phone was answered by a detective I didn't know who said that the captain was out. I asked for Lieutenant Disher and was told that he was out, too.

  I tried to reach them both on their cell phones and got bumped to their voice mail each time. They were probably at a crime scene or shadowing some suspect.

  That left the two local numbers. I dialed the first one and got the voice mail of the Trouble historical society. I didn't know why Monk had called Doris Thurlo, but I guessed that perhaps it was to double-check some facts about the Golden Rail Express robbery or even to learn more about Artemis Monk.

  The other number connected me to the voice mail at the Gold Rush Museum. Now that was a disturbing development. Bob Gorman worked at the museum. He'd lied when he told us that Gator Dunsen came to town looking for Manny Feikema.

  Did that mean Gorman was involved in the murders? Or did someone bribe him to lead us astray?

  I didn't know the answers, but I hoped that Monk hadn't gone alone to the museum to ask Gorman those questions. But I didn't see any calls to Chief Kelton in my cell phone log and that made me very nervous.

  I swung myself to the edge of the bed and stood up. I immediately wished that I hadn't. The swift movement must have sent a whole bunch of blood rushing to my arm. It hurt so bad that I sat right back down and cried.

  I couldn't imagine what it must have felt like for Kelton after he'd dislocated his shoulder twice in one day. Was the pain he'd felt the same as mine? Or was it doubled? If so, no wonder the guy drank.

  The pain ebbed and I stood up tentatively, but it didn't hurt so badly this time.

  I went to my purse, retrieved Kelton's business card, and went back to the bed to give his office a call.

  The dispatcher told me that he'd gone out for dinner. She asked if I wanted to leave a message but I figured a face-to-face meeting was probably better.

  I was still wearing the surgical scrubs and didn't want to go through the trouble of getting dressed with one arm in a sling and one hand with bandaged fingertips. So I got my jacket, put my good arm through the sleeve, and then draped the rest over my other shoulder. I didn't even try to zip it up.

  I slipped my purse strap over my head and draped my bag under my good arm. The strap served a double purpose--it also helped keep the right side of my jacket from slipping off my bad shoulder.

  I'd kicked off my running shoes without untying them before getting onto the bed. So I jammed my feet back inside them and managed, after some squirming, to get them on comfortably.

  By the time I was done with all that, I was sweating all over. I won't tell you how bad I smelled.

  I grabbed my room key and walked out.

  The Vicodin was kicking in and the pain in my arm was morphing from a hot poker jammed in my armpit into the dull ache of a badly pulled muscle.

  And even though I was being strangled by the two straps around my neck, one for the sling and the other for the purse, the pills seemed to take the edge off of that, too.

  Ah, the wonders of modern pharmaceuticals.

  I saw Kelton through the front window of the Chuckwagon. He was sitting with his back to me at the counter. I could see four other customers in the place.

  The chief was talking to Crystal DeRosso, who looked at me as I came in like I was covered in vomit. It didn't make me feel very welcome but, in her defense, I must have been a horrifying sight in my sweat-stained scrubs with my pillow-pressed hair, bloodshot eyes, my arm in a sling, and bandages on my fingertips. And that's not even factoring in my lovely scent.

  My breath probably smelled like a mountain goat's butt, too.

  There was no mystery as to what drove Monk out of the motel room to solve the mystery right away.

  It was me.

  Kelton turned around to see what Crystal was staring at and seemed startled to see me standing in the doorway. I noticed that he was wearing his gun. That was good. He might need it tonight.

  "Natalie, what are you doing out of bed?"

  "I'm looking for Monk," I said. "Have you seen him?"

  "No, I haven't. He isn't with you?"

  "If he was, do you think I'd be here askin
g you where the hell he is?"

  "You're right, that was a dumb question." He got off the stool and motioned to one of the empty booths. "Sit down and let me get you some coffee."

  I didn't sit down. "Have you talked to him?"

  "No, I haven't," he said. "Calm down, take a seat, and tell me what's got you so upset."

  "Oh, I don't know, maybe it was being in a bloody shoot-out yesterday, or maybe it was having my fingernails ripped off and my arm yanked out of its socket while pulling Mr. Monk out of a pit, or maybe it was seeing a couple of vultures eat Clifford Adams for breakfast. It's really hard to say, Chief. So why don't you pick one for me?"

  Everyone was staring at me now. The chief's face hardened and he opened the door.

  "Let's have this conversation outside," he said. It wasn't a suggestion.

  I walked past him into the parking lot. I glanced back and saw Crystal and the customers still watching us. I was tempted to flip them off, but I'm too ladylike for that.

  "Okay, so Monk left the motel," Kelton said. "I'm sure it's no big deal. He probably just went out for a walk or to grab a bite to eat."

  I would have shaken my head but the two straps lashed around my neck made it difficult to do without strangling myself.

  "You're wrong," I said. "He's solved the Golden Rail Express robbery and Manny Feikema's murder and I think he's gone after the killer."

  His eyebrows shot up so high they nearly went into earth orbit.

  "Who is it?" he asked.

  "I don't know," I said.

  "Where's the stolen gold?"

  "I don't know that, either."

  "Then how do you know that Monk solved those crimes?"

  "Because he told me he did, right before the drugs knocked me out," I said. "When I woke up, he was gone and he'd left me a note saying that he'd see me in the morning when it was all over. I'm afraid the over part could include his life."

  The chief frowned and rubbed his chin. "Don't get melodramatic. Assuming you're right, and he has solved those cases, what makes you think he's in any danger?"

  "He hasn't called you, which means he's going after Gorman alone."

  "Gorman?" Kelton said. "What does Bob have to do with this?"

  "He lied to us about Gator Dunsen coming to Trouble," I said.

  "How do you know that?"

  "Because there were no butterflies in the grill of Gator's car and the photos of the museum that were found in his house were taken after the murder," I said. "The prospector's pick wasn't in the shots of the diorama."

  Kelton grimaced. "Why the hell didn't Monk tell me that yesterday at the crime scene?"

  "He didn't want to embarrass you and get you into any more trouble than you were already in."

  "I've had worse embarrassments on the job," he said. "The damn fool."

  "What do we do now?"

  "I don't know where Monk is, but I know where to find Bob," Kelton said. "I'll go talk with him. You go back to the motel and wait for me."

  "The hell I will," I said.

  "You're in no condition to go anywhere," Kelton said.

  "I am not going back without Mr. Monk," I said and started walking purposefully towards the museum. "Let's go."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mr. Monk at the Museum

  The clip-clop of our footfalls on the plank sidewalk underscored the emptiness of Trouble's dusty streets. With each step, I felt like I was traveling backward in time to the 1850s. I wouldn't have been surprised to bump into Artemis Monk and Abigail Guthrie, our historical doppelgangers, in the darkness.

  It must have been the drugs working on my brain.

  "What else do you know?" Kelton asked, walking at my side. I glanced at him and, for just a moment, I could see Sheriff Wheeler and his raccoon-sized mustache.

  "That's it," I said.

  "There's got to be more. I can't solve either crime based on what you've just told me and what we already know."

  "Me neither," I said. "That's what makes Mr. Monk a genius. He sees things that we can't. What happened to Clifford Adams?"

  "Someone clubbed him with a blunt object and dragged him out to those boulders. He'd been dead since about midnight."

  "So Mr. Monk was right. The killer called me to lure us out there and used Adams as bait to get us to step on one of his booby traps."

  "It certainly looks that way," Kelton said. "There were several pits out there covered with plywood and dirt. In fact, if you'd walked another few feet, you would have fallen in a pit yourself."

  "Someone was afraid we knew who killed Manny Feikema or that we were close to figuring it out."

  "It had to be Gorman," Kelton said. "He was the one who lied to us and sent us after Gator Dunsen."

  "Not only that," I said. "Adams was at the museum last night."

  "He was?"

  "We saw him leave right before Gorman arrived. But Gorman saw him go, too. He was standing on this corner," I said as we rounded it and headed up Second Street. "Maybe Adams knew Gorman's motive for killing Manny and went there to confront him."

  "You think that's what got Adams killed?"

  "I hope not, because if it was, it doesn't bode well for Mr. Monk."

  But then it occurred to me that Bob Gorman couldn't have killed Clifford Adams. Gorman worked nights at the museum and had to log in with several sensors around the property to prove he was doing his rounds on time. Adams lived too far outside of town for Gorman to have gone out there and back without missing one of his rounds.

  Gorman must have had an accomplice.

  Or Gorman had nothing to do with the murders and had simply been paid to throw us off the trail by the killer.

  Either way, there had to be another person in the mix. But who?

  Crystal DeRosso immediately came to mind, mostly because her father may have been a train robber and Gorman was in her restaurant when he told us that whopper about Gator Dunsen.

  Why would either Gorman or Crystal want Manny Feikema dead? What did Adams know that got him killed?

  Just as I was pondering those questions, we reached the Gold Rush Museum. Kelton took a shiny new key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

  "You have a key to the museum?" I asked.

  "I'm the chief of police," he said with a smile. Then he opened the door and waved me inside. "After you."

  I stepped into the dark museum. I could hear a strange, metallic scraping sound from somewhere in the shadows.

  Kelton took one of those powerful little Maglites from his pocket, turned it on, and swept the area with the beam, briefly illuminating the rockers and sluices, the stagecoaches and carriages. The flashlight beam reflected off of the silver daguerreotypes on the wall and created ghostly faces that flashed in the darkness. It was creepy.

  I followed Kelton as he weaved through the displays towards the Golden Rail Express. I was surprised that Gorman hadn't noticed our presence yet. He wasn't much of a security guard.

  The closer we got to the train, the louder the scraping sound became, though it had an odd, echoish quality to it. It was like someone scratching a nail on the inside of a church bell.

  Kelton stopped in front of the train. A light glowed inside.

  "Bob," Kelton said. "I need to talk to you."

  A moment later, Gorman emerged from the engine of the train. He was wearing a mechanic's jumpsuit, a miner's hat with a light in the center, and there was black schmutz on his cheek and hands.

  Why wasn't he in his uniform? What was he doing mucking around in the train in that getup?

  "What the hell is going on?" Gorman said.

  Kelton drew his gun. "We're looking for Adrian Monk."

  "He ain't here," Gorman said.

  "I think you're wrong about that, Bob," Kelton said, then raised his voice. "Monk, this is Chief Kelton. I've got Natalie here with me. Come on out."

  I heard some rustling behind us. Kelton aimed his flashlight at the prospecting diorama.

  Monk emerged from the faux log cabin
. He'd been hiding in there just like Manny's killer did. He was wearing his signature outfit and made his way around the mannequin miners and stuffed donkeys and over to us.

  "I'm glad you're okay," I said.

  "You look awful," Monk said. "You should have stayed in bed."

  "You shouldn't have left me," I said. "I was worried about you and it turns out I was right to be. What were you hiding in here for?"

  "I wanted to catch Gorman in the act."

  "Of doing what?"

  "Robbing the Golden Rail Express of its gold," Monk said.

  I looked back at Gorman and then at the train. What Monk was suggesting didn't seem possible.

  "It's still on the train?"

  Monk nodded. "Slocum told us the truth. The third man was DeRosso. But what Slocum didn't know was that the boiler man and engineer were in on the robbery, too. DeRosso fell off the train after delivering the bags of cash and gold to Leonard McElroy and Clifford Adams in the engine."

  "What did they do with it?" I asked.

  "They threw it in the furnace, of course," Monk said. "That's why the bags were burlap, so they'd burn quickly."

  I looked at Kelton, but he didn't seem shocked by Monk's explanation at all.

  "It's really not as crazy as it sounds," Kelton said.

  "Yes, it is," I said. "Throwing the bags in the furnace would have burned up all the money, too."

  "They didn't care about the cash," Kelton said. "It was the gold that they wanted."

  "How did they get the gold by throwing it in a furnace?"

  "They melted the gold and lined the furnace with it, then hid it under a layer of black soot," Monk said. "But it wasn't necessary. It never occurred to anybody that the robbers would incinerate the loot."

  "Until now," Kelton said.

  "It wasn't until I read about how Artemis Monk, Trouble's legendary assayer back in the 1860s, solved another robbery on the Golden Rail Express that it all came together for me," Monk said. "In that case, the robbers hammered the gold coins into dust in a scheme to salt a mine. The plan got me thinking about Clifford Adams, his poorly performing mine, and something he said about how malleable gold is."