The first time Monk tried to call Patty, while he was still in New York, it had gone straight to voicemail.
The second time, while he was way out in some part of Jersey that seemed to be nothing but strip malls, there was no signal. One flickering bar that simply refused to push through his call. Or didn’t give a fuck. He wondered how the hell people who owned, worked in, or shopped at all those stores got through the day without Wi-Fi. He realized that he was being way too twenty-first century about that, and it soured him.
He called a third time as he was cruising along through farm country on the east side of the Delaware, while motoring between fields of corn that seemed endless. The corn was hypnotizing. Every mile seemed identical to the last. It was like being in one of those old Twilight Zone stories about being caught in a time loop, driving forever with no chance of ever getting where you needed to be. He was positive he was passing the same fence posts and the same damn scarecrow over and over again.
He called Patty again. Fourth time? Fifth? It rang three times and then she picked up.
“Monk…?” said Patty Cakes in a voice filled with sleep. It was early evening on a long workday.
“Hey, there,” said Monk, slowing to a stop on the shoulder for fear of driving out of cell range. “I’m here.”
“Here…?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Here. In town. Or almost. Still way the hell out in farm country, but I’ll be there soon.”
There was a pause. A little too long, even for someone who just woke up. “In town…? You’re here in Brooklyn?”
“Huh? No,” he said, “I’m in Pine Deep.”
Another pause. Then, in a voice that was more dreamy than sleepy, Patty said, “Oh. Sure. Good. See you.”
And the line went dead.
Monk stared at the phone as if the screen display would provide an explanation. Or translation. Or something. He frowned, not liking that conversation one little bit. Patty was going through some shit—that’s why she left New York. This place was supposed to be a dial-it-down move; zero stress in rural America. But she sounded out of it. Or high. He put the pedal down. The speed was posted at thirty-five. He didn’t give much of a fuck about that.