“He’s not coming, is he?” asked Gayle.
“He’s coming,” said Patty, though she did not sound all that certain.
Dianna went over and stood next to Mike Sweeney, staring out at the night.
“He’s coming,” she said.
Thirty minutes later headlights flashed through the window as a car pulled a U-turn and parked badly, the front wheel up on the curb. The door opened and a big man with a battered face ran for the shop. Patty was there to open the door and she pulled him inside.
“Holy shit,” gasped Monk as rainwater sluiced down his body. “It’s like the end of the goddamn world out there.”
Patty brought him a big mug of hot tea and a bunch of towels. Monk stripped off his jacket and shirt and toweled himself dry. He was acutely aware of everyone looking at his tattoos.
“Oh my god,” said Gayle. “Those faces. I … I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—”
“No,” said Monk, “a lot of people have that reaction. It’s cool.”
“Nothing’s cool,” said Patty.
Monk sipped his tea and looked around him. He nodded to Dianna and Gayle. “Who are you?”
Patty made introductions. “They’re caught up in this, too.”
Monk noticed that Patty wasn’t wearing a bandage over her disfigured tattoo. Dianna held out her arm and showed the faded roses.
“Okay,” said Monk, “you all got stories to tell. Let’s hear ’em.”
“We need to hear yours, too,” said Crow.
“Yeah,” said Monk as he sat down on the third chair, “we’ll get to that. You first.”
Everyone already knew Patty’s story, so Dianna went next to explain what had happened to her and Gayle; then Crow and Mike tag-teamed to explain everything they’d seen and learned—Joey Raynor, Lester Mouton, Agent Richter, and other cases across the country. At one point Monk held up his hand.
“Whoa, whoa, stop there,” he said, “go back to that last name. The guy the girl Tink worked for.”
“Malibu Mark,” said Mike. “What about him?”
Monk cursed. “I don’t want to make a weird night weirder, but he’s one of the dead guys back at Spider’s.”
They all looked at one another.
“Damn,” said Crow.
“There’s a little more of our stuff,” said Mike, and he explained about going to Monk’s house and finding the dead fly made of tattoo ink.
Monk got up and prowled around for a few minutes, chewing on his thoughts. He saw the shopping bags with one big bottle of wine left unopened. He twisted off the cap and tossed it in the bag and then chugged down at least eight ounces. He didn’t like wine very much, and zinfandel not at all, but it had alcohol and that was fine.
“I think it’s my turn,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was the bandaged hand, which tinted the sodden bandage a pale yellow. He studied them all. Dianna stood against the workbench, one hand clasped around a crystal she wore on a pendant. Gayle, seated nearby, simply looked freaked. Like way freaked. Monk wondered how much more of this she could actually take. Mike Sweeney stood by the door. Or rather, he loomed there. Kid was a moose, and there was something weird about him. Spooky weird, and it made him remember Jonatha’s warning. No, in fact, he would not want to cross that son of a bitch. Crow wore the same shit-eating smile he had when they first met, and it was as false now as it was then. Like a plastic Joker mask that was starting to crack.
Then he caught Patty’s eye. She gave him a small nod and even managed a fragment of her old smile. The sweet-sad one she wore every day. Her usual expression that was a shield between her and the reality of being the mother of a sodomized and murdered child. Everyone, he mused, had their defenses.
“Okay,” said Monk, “you’ve all been through some weird shit. But I’m going to see your last couple of fucked-up days and raise you this.” He brushed his fingertips across the inked faces. All of them staring. All of them way too real.