The storm wasn’t predicted. It came out of nowhere and got big and loud and it pissed Monk off.
The skinny blonde on Channel Six Action News out of Philadelphia said it was going to drizzle and then mostly clear. But it was raining harder than hell as Monk drove toward town. Big fat drops at first, splatting onto blacktop behind him. Monk saw them in the rearview and tried to outrun them. They caught up.
By the time he passed the sign for Dark Hollow Road, the rain was rapping on the hood like a million knuckles. The car was too old to have automatic headlights, so he punched the button and then turned on the high beams. The storm that had chased him out of New Jersey now barraged him here in Bucks County. Within minutes it was raining so damn hard he couldn’t see five feet in front of his headlights. On a twisty country road like this there were too many ways to get killed, so he pulled to the verge to wait it out.
He tried Patty’s cell again and got voicemail. Left a message. He popped the cassette and found a bootleg tape of Buddy Guy killing the crowd at his Legends blues club in the South Loop of Chicago. Singing about dying of a broken heart in the rain.
“Preaching to the choir, brother B,” murmured Monk.
The sky outside the car was raining hammers and nails, so Monk turned the sound all the way up. Then he sat there eyeing the stale butts in the ashtray. Weighing his options and making bad choices.
On either side of the road, the nightbirds stood in lines on the fences, huddled into their wings. Cold but curious.