Monk nursed a second beer and let the minutes burn off. He wanted a cigarette and didn’t think Sandy would yell at him for smoking, but he hadn’t bought a fresh pack and was half-ass glad of that.
Half an hour in, his phone rang. He saw that it was Jonatha, so he told Sandy he’d be right back and stepped outside to take the call.
“Hey, Professor,” he said, leaning a hip against his car. “You got something for me?”
“Nothing and a lot,” said the folklorist.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that there is nothing in the literature that matches what happened to Patty.”
“Well, shit, ’cause it’s not just Patty. It’s other people and it’s me.”
There was a pause. “Yes, I spoke with Malcolm Crow. There may even be some you don’t know about. You should really go talk to him. You’re both pulling at different ends of the same thing. That’s what I meant by ‘a lot.’ This is a bigger case than you think, and if it is something paranormal or supernatural, then it’s new. Or at least unrecorded, and believe me when I say I searched.”
“Maybe I will,” said Monk grudgingly. “I’m in Doylestown right now following up on a tattoo artist who may be involved.”
“I’m serious … talk to Crow.”
Jonatha ended the call, which left Monk feeling frustrated as hell. He drank his beer and went through every detail again in his mind. Nothing wrong with his memory—except for the stolen memories of Tuyet. Unlike Patty, who—thank god—still clung to something of that poor little girl, Monk felt as if she was really gone from him. From his life, his experience. It stabbed him with knives of grief.
It also made him very damn angry.
He stood up, told Sandy he’d be right back, and went to check on INKreadible, but the CLOSED sign was still there. He came back to a fresh beer and a bowl of mixed nuts. He drank, he crunched, he thought, and he fumed.
Sandy came over a few times and that part was nice. And he needed something nice to think about. Monk was fascinated by her. From the jump he could tell she had some history, and he picked up clues as they chatted. No rings. She flirted but not in a guilty way, so Monk didn’t think there was a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. He’d watched the bartender watching a woman in tight jeans who’d come in for a drink with a construction worker. Sandy watched her, not him. But the same controlled interest in her eyes was still there when the woman left and Sandy looked at him. That was okay with him. Straight or bi, she was who she was, and she was lovely. He wondered if he was going to ask for her number. He wondered if she’d give it. He liked his odds betting on both.
Which was weird. Monk wasn’t a good-looking man. He knew that. His face had been hit too many times with great enthusiasm and from too many angles. He had boxer’s gristle on one ear, a nose that wandered this way and that, scars that didn’t come from anything nice. He was the kind of guy cops and bouncers always took note of. He was the kind of guy that encouraged decent folks to cross the street, lock their car doors, and avoid eye contact with. Fair enough.
The fact that Sandy seemed to like what she saw said a lot. She was okay with rough trade, or at least rough packaging. She wasn’t afraid of how he looked but had other kinds of caution lights blinking.
He watched her deliver a pitcher and glasses to two utility company repairmen and she caught his eye as she strolled back to the bar. That’s what it became—a transition within two steps from brisk business walk to a stroll that invited him to observe. It was such a clear invitation, too, that Monk didn’t feel awkward looking at her curves. She was petite, but every inch of her was lush. She gave him a small slice of a wicked little smile.
Nice.
Earl did not come in.
Monk had a third beer, checked five times to see if Spider had opened his shop, ate the nuts, ate a plate of fish and chips, and felt like there was a big clock ticking in his head.
Finally Sandy came and leaned on the bar. “Shift is over in ten.”
“Okay.”
She leaned farther.
“For god’s sake, Monk, ask.”
He grinned. “Okay … can I get your number? Maybe take you out for some food sometime?”
She rolled her eyes. “You are actually corny.”
“I—”
“I think that’s sweet. The world could use a little more corny.”
Monk said nothing.
“I get off in nine minutes. I need to eat. You have two choices.”
“Which are?”
“You could take me to the nicest restaurant that would take someone who looks like you, and let’s face it, that limits the choices here in Doylestown, No offense.”
“Truly, none taken.”
“Or, if you’re not fussy, I could reheat the lasagna I made the other night. We could watch a movie on Netflix, maybe.” There was a beat, and her smile widened. “Oh, you so get points for not making a ‘Netflix and chill’ joke.”
“I’m not actually an asshole.”
“No,” she said, giving him an appraising look, “I don’t think you are.”
“Thanks. You want me to leave first and meet you?”
“I’d rather you walked me to my car.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. Let me cash out, wash my face, and I’ll be back.”
Eighteen minutes later they left the bar. Eyes watched them, from the squinty-eyed night bartender to several of the customers. There was envy in those eyes. Good dollop of hostility. No one said shit, though. Smart choice.
Monk checked the tattoo parlor, knocked really loud, and called the number from the website. Zilch.
“He must be away somewhere,” said Sandy. “Which is weird, because he usually asks me to feed his cat when he goes off to a convention or something.”
“Short of kicking down the door,” said Monk, “I’m out of options here.”
Sandy glanced around and asked what he drove, and when Monk pointed to his rust bucket of a car, she laugh-snorted. “Sweet baby Jesus.”
“It runs.”
Thunder rumbled and a few fat drops splatted on the pavement.
“God. Let’s take my car,” she said, then turned and ran down the side alley as lightning forked the sky. He followed and found that her car was actually a hefty Ford Expedition. Huge, and new. She popped the locks and they got in just as the drizzle turned into a downpour.
Sandy shivered and wiped drops from her face. When she saw him checking out the sleek interior, she said, “Divorce settlement. At least he was good for something.”
“It’s cleaner than anything I’ve ever seen in a showroom.”
“I like clean.”
He nodded, getting it. Big car was protection. New car was a statement about self-worth, especially after a bad divorce. Clean car was imposing her will over aspects of her life. He upped his appreciation for her even higher because he was pretty sure she was aware of all that and deliberate in how she played the cards dealt.
She was also a good driver, which earned her more Monk points.
Sandy made a couple of backstreet turns and then found a road that took them into the suburbs, but the rain was getting as bad as it was the night he’d driven to Pine Deep. The streets metamorphosed from gray to purple to black, with walls of water falling like iron bars. She slowed from road speed to a crawl.
“I think we need to pull off and wait until it eases up,” she said. “I haven’t seen rain like this in years.”
“This is nothing,” he said as she pulled off into an empty parking lot. “You should visit Pine Deep.”
“That place? No thanks.”
“I just moved there.”
She cut him a look. “Why?”
“Long story.”
The parking lot was ringed by big oaks and pines and wrapped around a big old church that had a sign out front saying that the whole location was for sale for commercial development. A dead church. Monk wondered what had killed it.
Sandy drove around the building and pulled in between the back entrance and a big construction Dumpster, both of which created a natural shelter from the winds. The rain still hammered down, though.
She left the engine on, put on some music—some Goth stuff that Monk half-ass knew. No metal. Nothing harsh. He watched her unbuckle and then turn to him and pick up his bandaged left hand. “What happened? Pop a knuckle in a fight?”
“Nah,” said Monk, making it casual. “Mishap with a tool. Nothing to tell.”
Sandy did not immediately let go of his hand.
“I have to ask a question,” she said. “And it’s important. I’ll know if you lie.”
“Ask me anything.”
“Will you hurt me?”
Monk looked into those brown eyes. Seeing the colors. Seeing her.
“No,” he said softly. “I won’t ever do that.”
Sandy sat there, reading his eyes. Seeing him, too.
She reached out and took him by the jacket lapels and pulled him to her. Maybe she was just nervous, or maybe it was something else, but she pulled him with a lot of force.
He came willingly.