Monk locked Patty’s place up and drifted down Boundary Street, discovering the Fringe. Even in the rain it looked like a happening place. Much more alive—or alive in a less disturbing way—than the rest of the damn town. The shops were nice, but he wasn’t in the mood to buy anything. The clubs were too loud for the mood he was in, so he began driving the side streets. There was a shithole of a beer joint off the main drag. He parked and headed in. A sign above the door read JAKE’S HIDEAWAY. Pretentious name for a place this nasty, dark, and dirty. Maybe thirty people in all, broken into little gangs that clustered around different parts of the place. But the beer was cold and the first glass tasted so good he had three more.
He called the hospital and got the same female nurse he’d pissed off the last time he called.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Addison,” she said in a way that said she was not sorry at all, merely pissed. “As I believe I told you last time, hospital policy prohibits us from sharing patient information with anyone except relatives.”
Monk looked around for a place at the bar, couldn’t see one, and stood there, trying hard not to go bang his head on a wall. He was never good at being stonewalled.
“Miss…” he said slowly, “I’m not asking for details. I just want to know if she’s okay.”
He heard her sigh. Long, caustic, unfriendly. “Mr. Addison, I don’t know how many ways I can say this—”
He hung up.
A truck driver–looking guy got up from the bar, tossed a five down, nodded to the bartender, and ambled away. Monk made a move but someone tried to cut him off and take the seat. The guy actually put a hand on Monk’s wrist as if to pull him away from the only available seat. Monk looked down at the hand and then up at its owner.
“Fuck off,” he said in a way that handed out credible promises.
“Um,” said the man, clearly running the numbers in his head and not digging his odds. “Sure. Fucking off.” And he did.
Monk shrugged out of his leather jacket, hung it on the back of the chair, and sat. A bemused bartender came over and took his order for a Jameson’s neat and a draft of Big Black Voodoo Daddy, a stout with serious balls. The bartender nodded approval and brought the drinks.
Monk shot the Jamie’s. “Fucking hick-town hospitals.”
A voice beside him asked, “If you’re talking about Pinelands Regional Medical, I can’t argue.”
Monk turned to see a white guy on the younger side of middle age, and almost dealt him a fresh “go fuck yourself,” too, but didn’t. The guy looked like Monk felt. Lean, harried-looking, hollow-eyed, with a Band-Aid on a bruised forehead. Even so, Monk said nothing, letting the other guy deal the next card.
“Sorry,” said the man self-consciously, “I heard you talking to Nurse Hitler on your cell. If it’s the one I’m thinking of, she’s a real piece of work. Tall brunette, eyes like she works in a Chicago slaughterhouse and enjoys it. Mean as a snake.”
“That’d be the one,” agreed Monk.
The man touched his bandage. “Spent some lovely hours with her.” When Monk didn’t ask how or why, the guy explained, “Hit a cow on the road. Well, the car did. I hit the windshield.”
“Cow?” asked Monk distractedly.
“Long story; I’m Duncan.” He nodded to the faces peeking out from Monk’s push-up sweatshirt cuffs. “Hey, you’re into tattoos … mind if I ask you a question?”
“Depends on the question.”
“Sure, sure, and it comes with a weird little goddamn story.”
“Try me,” said Monk.
Duncan signaled the waiter and then forked two fingers down at his glass and Monk’s. Refills happened as the guy told Monk the story about his missing tattoo. At first Monk wasn’t really listening, but then the details caught up and slapped him across the mouth.
“Whoa,” he said, “wait, go back and tell that part again.”
“Which part? Oh, right, sure.” Duncan showed him the faint scar and then picked his cell phone off the bar, scrolled through the pictures, and held it up for Monk to see.
“So, you had it removed…?” said Monk uncertainly.
“No, that’s what I was trying to tell you. I never had a tattoo at all, but the picture—and my wife—say I did. So either the world is fucked up, or I hit my head worse than I thought, or … or, well, something. It doesn’t make any sense to me at all. I mean, how could I have a tattoo I don’t ever remember getting, then somehow lose it with no memory of getting it removed? And, worse, how come I can’t remember why I got it? My wife’s cancer…”
Monk studied Duncan. The man’s eyes were bright with tears but behind that there was a terror that was close to the screaming point.
“I came in here,” said Duncan, “and spent the last couple hours scrolling through photos. That tattoo is in dozens of them. Here, let me show you. See? There it is, clear as day. I even went through my emails and found the receipt from a tattoo studio in Doylestown I never heard of. And I found so many”—and here his voice broke high and wet—“emails and text messages from my wife about her cancer. Emails from the doctor, from relatives, from friends, all talking about the cancer. The remission. All of it. Like three, four hundred messages.”
Monk stared at him. “And you don’t remember any of it?”
Tears fell down Duncan’s face as he shook his head. “It’s insane, man. I mean, this never happened. If it had, I’d remember something, right? Right?”