THE TWELVE NUMB3RS OF MONKMAS
BY
BOB WRIGHT
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Part of me was a little concerned about doing another "vacation" story of sorts, and another holiday tale at that. In the end, however, I decided the story I had in mind was original enough to run with it. I hope you the readers don't find anything too repetitive over the course of the work. Of course, after eight tales, it gets a little harder to be absolutely original, but I pledge to do my best. Again, reading previously stories in the series may help to get you acquainted better with this one.
Adrian Monk and all related characters and indicia are registered trademarks of USA Network, Mandeville Films, and Touchstone Television. Numb3rs and all related characters and indicia are registered trademarks of CBS/Paramount Television, Scott Free Productions, and the Barry Schindel Company. And now, as always, sit back and enjoy the story.
"There we go, like a glove," Adrian Monk commented, shifting his car into park. He'd been trying to parallel park into the space in front of the restaurant his wife had asked to meet him at for a good twenty minutes or so. In the process, he'd accidentally smacked into the cars in front and behind him fourteen times and had used up about a quarter of the gas in the tank. Finally, however, the car was in the space absolutely straight, exactly the way he wanted.
He hopped out and surveyed the damage to the bumpers of the cars next to his. The head and tail lights had taken a beating, but nothing he couldn't easily fix. First, however, Trudy was waiting with the information he'd waited so long for, so he did his best to suppress the urge to immediately fix the lights.
He strolled into the restaurant, stopping briefly to readjust the lone coat hanging on the coat rack and move it to the center peg. The restaurant was deserted except for a disreputable-looking man wearing a jacket labeled MEMBERS ONLY in the corner booth, whose head shot right up at the sight of the detective. "Excuse me, sir," Adrian hailed the bartender, "Did my wife come in here yet?"
"She stepped out for a moment," the bartender informed him, "She did order dinner, though."
He placed a bowl in front of Adrian. "Onion rings?" the detective frowned, "Why would anyone in their right mind have them?"
He shrugged and pulled his tweezers out of his tuxedo pocket. Slowly, he began separating the onion rings, stacking the perfect ones in one column, those with deformities on another, and so on.
He glanced back over at the man in the corner. Something didn't quite seem right about him. The look in his eye was downright murderous. Even more suspiciously, his hand was inside his jacket pocket, as if he didn't want anyone to see it. The sooner they got this over with, Adrian reasoned, the better.
It was then that the bells over the door rang. He smiled as Trudy walked over to where he was seated at the counter. "I, I hope I wasn't too late for you," he said, giving her a big hug.
"Of course not," she returned his smile, "I think a little music's in order for the occasion."
She walked over to the jukebox, inserted a quarter, and pressed a few buttons. The opening strains of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" cranked to life. "Why that one?" Adrian frowned again as she sat back down.
"It just seemed to fit," she told him, "You don't need to do that with the onions, Adrian, it's OK, really."
Adrian nodded and put the tweezers down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man walk into the bathroom. He was digging something out of his other pocket. "So, this is it?" he asked Trudy quickly, "Everything I ever wanted to know?"
"You've waited long enough for it," she told him, "I think everyone has."
"OK, tell me then, what happened on that day?" Adrian shot a quick glance at the bathroom. Any minute now he'd be back out again.
"Adrian," Trudy leaned towards him as the music reached a crescendo, "I was killed by..."
And then everything abruptly went black. "No, no, no, don't do this to me!" Adrian screamed into the darkness at whoever might be listening, "Some, Somebody plug the cable back in, quick! It can't end this way! I have to know! Everyone does! Somebody please, plug it back in!"
"Adrian? Adrian, come on, wake up," came the soft, masculine voice in front of him The detective opened his eyes to find his brother staring at him. "Adrian, we've landed," Ambrose told him.
"Landed?" Adrian frowned, confusedly glancing around the airplane he was in, which was pulling up to an unfamiliar terminal, "How can we have landed? We were still back at the gate; I was having a sip of Sierra Springs..."
His gaze fell on the stewardess walking up the aisle; it was the same one he'd had an infamous run-in with before. "It was you," he raised his hand to stop her, "You dropped something in my Sierra Springs when I was checking the bathroom, didn't you? YOU DRUGGED ME, DIDN'T YOU!?"
"Would you preferred if I'd shot you, sir?" she told him without an ounce of emotion, "Now remain seated until we come to a complete stop, or else."
She strode off before he could continue the argument. Half-panicked, Adrian leaned over the seat. "She drugged me, Natalie," he gasped at his assistant, "Quick, call the medics, I need a stomach pump, A.S.A.P.! I need..."
"Mr. Monk, it was only a mild sedative," Natalie Teeger told him calmly, "It's already out of your system. After the fuss you caused on the flight back from Philadelphia, it was probably for the best, too."
"The best!?" Adrian continued ranting, "That unscrupulous woman just put my life in mortal peril, and you say it's for the best!? You agreed with Dr. Kroger that you'd respect my wishes from now on; he witnessed you signing that document for...!"
"Monk, come on, don't start," came the firm voice of Captain Leland Stottlemeyer from across the aisle, "I want to enjoy this break. Here we go," he rose to his feet as the stewardess waved their aisle up, "Natalie put your stuff in the overhead bin, folded and ordered like you wanted it."
Adrian nodded softly and popped the bin open. "Hey don't feel so bad about the pill," Ambrose tried to reassure him as he pulled himself out of his own seat, "It was probably for the best that you slept the whole way, really, given that we went through a heck of a lot of turbulence over St. Louis, and the plane was rocking wildly back and forth..."
"AMBROSE!" Adrian raised a hand to make him stop. Just thinking of turbulence made him feel sick to his stomach. He put on his coat, which had been folded very neatly inside the bin-he had to give Natalie credit for remembering that-and followed his group towards the door. The terminal of the Harrisburg International Airport was decked out in holiday splendor when he emerged on the other side of the causeway. It had been exactly two months ago that his father had called to outline his ideas for Christmas vacation, since they had all by in large enjoyed the trip to Philadelphia with him they'd taken over the Fourth of July. His father's suggestion this time had been Gettysburg, which he'd said he'd visited once as a child and had now taken up residence there. Adrian had reservations, but had agreed in the end to join everyone on the trip-he doubted he could have survived completely on his own anyway. Thus, he'd had spent much of the previous week cataloging everything he felt was necessary to bring with him-which, as usual, was pretty much everything he owned.
He caught sight of his father waving to him now from over by the baggage carousel. "Merry Christmas, boys," Jack Monk greeted both his sons, giving them a simultaneous handshake, "How was coming over?"
"Uh, I'm not too sure, Dad, I, I sort of slept the whole way," Adrian admitted, waving for Natalie to give him a wipe, "You?"
"Just fine, just fine," Jack nodded.
"Here's the rest of the mail that came for you since July, Dad," Ambrose eagerly handed his father a thick stack of mail. "Uh, Ambrose, I thought we agreed you didn't have to keep collecting these for me," Jack told him slowly.
"Just thought you'd like to keep informed," the instruction manual writer told him, "I've, I've really been looking forward for this."
"So have I, Ambrose. Christmas with two of the greatest kids anyone could wish for. Speaking of which, Adrian," Jack turned to his younger son, "I saw you busted a big whale poaching syndicate not too long ago; it was all over the news here."
"We, we got lucky; the one suspect plea bargained and told the court everything to put the ringleaders away for the next twenty years," Adrian told him.
"Mr. Monk made friends with a whale too," Julie leaned over from behind her mother to shake Jack's outstretched hand as well, "We brought the pictures if you'd like."
"Of course I would," Jack smiled at her, "Everyone else here? Where's the Doc?"
"Dr. Kroger couldn't make it; he's taking his family to Hawaii for Christmas," Adrian explained, walking over to a fake plant nearby and fiddling with its leaves for no apparent reason, "Seems to be a popular destination. I dreamt I went there a couple of months ago."
The buzzer for the carousel went off, and suitcases began sliding down the chute. "Well, once we get all your stuff ready, we'll head on off to my place," Jack continued, handing Stottlemeyer his first suitcase off the carousel, "As I might have told some of you, I found a new career; motel management."
"Sounds interesting," Lieutenant Randall Disher remarked, picking up his own bag. He was wearing reindeer antlers that made bypassers gawk at him, "What made you choose that?"
"I met up with an old friend of mine a few months ago after the trucking company went under," Jack explained to him, stacking Adrian's suitcases in a straight even column once they started appearing, "Art and I were on the route together for seventeen years. Anyway, he told me he was making a mint running a roadside stop out by Grand Teton, and I should look into it. So when I chose to settle down here in the Gettysburg area, I looked around, and lo and behold, there's a place for sale about ten miles east of town. I bought it with what savings I had left, brought in the crew to renovate it, and voila, I'm pulling in a fortune within two weeks. People who can't find a place to stay in town come out and fill up the rooms. I can only imagine what I'm going to make next year when Reenactment Weekend rolls around...how many of these things did you bring again, Adrian?"
"Oh, I'd say around fifty," Adrian guessed, "Can't, can't be too careful at Christmas, you know."
Jack shrugged. "And before I forget," he dug through his pocket and pulled out a wrapped present, "One of my guests was your pal the rapper, Adrian. He stopped by in late September on his way to a gig in Philly. He told me to give you this as a token of his appreciation for clearing him."
Adrian ever so slowly opened the present along the tape lines. "Oh, it's MurdeRuss's latest album, 'Lord of the Machine Gun,'" he announced, glancing over the track listings, "Featuring, 'Retirement Home Massacre', 'Pop That Cop', Suitcase of Severed Limbs', 'Driving Over Miss Daisy', 'Blood in the Gutter', and 'My Agent's a Homey.' Just what I always wanted for Christmas."
He reached for the suitcase now third from the top of his stack, opened the lid, and slid the CD inside so it lined up with the various other square objects inside. It took about ten more minutes for every single piece of luggage to be collected and loaded onto the baggage racks Jack had purloined for their use. "This way then," the aspiring hotelier waved them towards the door, "I had two of my own shuttles reserved just for us."
"You can afford your own shuttles too?" Natalie was impressed.
"Comes in handy for folks who don't want to waste gas going out to the battlefield and back," Jack explained, helping to load her own rack into the back of the shuttle marked MONK'S ECONOMY INN, "I hire a couple of people out for it, so that brings in a couple more bucks too. I'd say...Ambrose, are you all right?" he noticed his older son was shivering heavily in the crisp early evening December air, "Didn't you bring a coat?"
"Well Dad, up till now I haven't NEEDED a coat," Ambrose pointed out, "I'll be just fine, though, since I'll just be in the room the whole time."
"Ambrose, this is Pennsylvania in December; you can't go out without a coat," his father pointed out, "Mrs. Teeger, you want to help me go look for one in the terminal? I think there's a shop by the Continental gates."
Natalie nodded. "Come on, we'll get you something nice and warm," she told Ambrose, gently taking his hand. Adrian watched them disappear back inside. "I told him so," he remarked to no one in particular, "An IQ of 207, yet he can't bother to bring a simple coat. If I didn't..."
His gaze abruptly fell on the ridge across the causeway. "What is it, Monk?" Disher followed his glance.
"I could swear someone was standing atop that hill looking at us," Adrian pointed.
"There's no one there now, Monk," the lieutenant pointed out. Indeed, the ridge was now deserted. Adrian's eyes narrowed. Had it been his mind? "Don't worry about it, Monk," Stottlemeyer patted him on the shoulder, "It's probably just some guy who can't find his car."
The captain took a deep breath. "Fresh country air," he said in contentment, "I really needed this after everything that happened over the last few months. Nice change of pace, don't you think, Monk?"
"The snowdrifts, they're all uneven," Adrian pointed at several snow banks flanking the terminal, "That's, that's the downside with December; it's going to be hard to fix all these...and what's up with these tires?"
He bent down and examined the grooves of Jack's tires to make sure they were all even. Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes. "On the other hand, some things never change," he remarked to Disher, "I wish those sleeping pills had a longer effectiveness period."
"That house there, they messed up the light patterns," Adrian pointed to the Christmas display on a rather large home along the side of the road, "We should stop and inform them."
"Mr. Monk, we're all tired, we want to get to the motel," Natalie told him as patiently as she could. She turned to Ambrose in the exact center of the rear seat of the shuttle (as Adrian had vehemently asked for, to keep it even). "Holding up all right?" she asked him.
"Very well, thank you," Ambrose returned a warm smile. He clutched the only coat they'd been able to find for him-a rather loud black and white striped woman's fur coat that Cruella de Vil wouldn't have been caught dead in-tighter around himself and glanced at the rural scenery flying by outside. "Nature," the instruction manual writer commented, "A very interesting concept. Maybe I'll get to like it in the end. Then again, maybe not."
"You will," Julie reassured him. She leaned forward toward the driver's seat. "They've arrived already?" she asked Jack.
"Three days ago," Jack told her, "He seemed quite eager for you to show up, in fact; I think he considers you one of his best friends now after everything you've done together for Adrian lately. Of course, they're not the only ones there; a couple other interesting people are staying for the holiday from out west, and I think their stories might make for...and here we are now."
He eased the shuttle into the parking lot of what was now Monk's Economy Inn. "Interesting," Adrian remarked, noticing that roof was decorated with a large menorah (with three candles already lit), an Advent wreath (also with three lit), and a Kwanzaa candelabra (unlit).
"Yep, figured the best way to appeal to travelers was to cover every religious festival this time of year," his father explained, "You're in rooms 24 through 27, that's right by the office."
"But the candles are starting to melt from the heat," Adrian pointed, "I can't sleep if they're like that. If you've got a ladder, could you get it out so Natalie can go up there and fix it?"
"Absolutely not," she frowned at him.
"Well I'm not going up there," he protested, "It's cruel and unusual..."
"All right, all right, promise I'll fix it as soon as possible," Jack told him patiently. "Might as well tell everyone you're here.."
He walked over to Room 24 and knocked hard on the door. "We're back," he announced out loud. The door slowly opened and a familiar face appeared in the crack. "Took you long enough," she told him, sounding almost but not quite cross.
"Uh, merry Christmas, Sharona," Adrian greeted his former assistant, "You're not under the weather, so I know before I...?"
"Two words Adrian: severance pay," her tone was undeniably cross with him, "Fork it over right now. I'm tired of waiting after two years of you making excuse after excuse."
She shoved a hand in his face. "Um, I, uh, would if I had it," Adrian mumbled quickly.
"All right, how much did he bring?" Sharona turned to Ambrose.
"Two thousand seven hundred and forty-three dollars," the instruction manual writer commented, "And thirty-seven cents."
"Fifteen hundred right now Adrian; it went up every month you didn't give it to me," she demanded. Adrian sighed and placed the money in her palm. He leaned towards his brother and muttered under his breath, "I'm going to strangle you..."
"Ah, Sharona," Disher stepped forward with a big goofy smile at the woman he once had a crush for, "I have an early Christmas present for you."
He held up a large bouquet of orange chrysanthemums. "Willst thou be mine holiday date?" he proposed.
"You never do learn, do you?" Benjy appeared from behind his mother, rolling his eyes, "She's not for sale."
"Just thought I...oh, never mind," Disher slowly stepped back and tossed the flowers into the bushes.
"Amd how's TV's best writer doing lately?" Natalie gave Benjy a warm smile.
"Pretty good, Mrs. Teeger; with everything Julie's been giving me lately, I think we're set for at least six years as long as the ratings remain good," Benjy shook his "partner's" hand, "And come to think of it, maybe I'll branch out; some of the other people who showed up here..."
"So, the famous Adrian Monk's staying here for Christmas too," a thin black-haired man stepped through the door of the room next to the Flemings', "Benjy here said you'd be coming. I'm Agent Don Eppes, FBI, Los Angeles sector; we hear of your exploits a lot down in L.A. even before your show became a hit."
"Good, good to know word gets around," Adrian casually shook his hand, then waved at Natalie for a wipe, "Hope you're just as successful in what you do."
"Oh, I have some help," Don reached back into the room and pulled forward a wild-haired man in semi-formal attire, "namely from the greatest mathematical mind in all the continental U.S..."
"So now I am the greatest on the North American continent?" the long-haired man half-joked, "It was never further than the L.A. Basin all those years. Adrian Monk, good to meet you too," he also shook Adrian's hand, "I'm Professor Charles Eppes, and we're..."
"THE Charles Eppes?" Ambrose was very intrigued, "The same Charles Eppes that published the paper on the inverse theorem of cotangential space relationships."
"That's me," Charlie shook the instruction manual writer's hand firmly, apparently not noticing the confused glances everyone else was giving Ambrose, "Nice to meet you, Mr..."
"This is my brother Ambrose," Adrian stepped forward and him formally, "If, if you watch my show, you're going to meet him formally in a couple of weeks, I think, maybe."
"Are you kidding? I don't miss it for the world," commented a third man in the room, an older man with graying hair, "It's just about the only show on TV worth watching these days. Alan Eppes," he gave Adrian hand a hard shaking, "I used to work in city planning."
"Could, could you pull some strings then and ask them to realign the streets in Los Angeles?" Adrian proposed, "It's not quite a perfect grid."
"So, anyway, the Eppeses here signed up for rooms for the holidays about a month ago," Jack cut in, lugging several pieces of luggage from the shuttle, "What they do's almost as interesting as what you do, Adrian; indeed, Benjamin here's most interested in recording their exploits for possibly something down the road, I noticed," he nodded towards Benjy, "Anyway, anyone want to give me a hand with these?"
"Sure, we'll be out in a minute," Stottlemeyer nodded. He sided up to Sharona as everyone hustled towards the door and whispered in her ear, "Before I do, I think you should know some things. In private."
"Sure," she followed him out the door and around the back of the motel. Adrian tagged along behind; he knew he had to be present for the moment as well. "All right, you should know that some divers found a body just south of the Golden Gate last week," the captain said softly once they were completely alone, "Now it's going to take at least another week before all the ID testing's complete, but what we've got right now matches Trevor's DNA almost exactly. So you can start sleeping easier at night; he is dead after all. Here's the proof if you can verify it."
He handed a large manila envelope to her. Sharona slowly looked at each paper inside. She nodded very slowly, a look of deepest relief crossing her face. "This is Trevor all right," she said softly, "So I...I guess I should be..."
"It's closure," Adrian finished the sentence for her, "Closure always helps a lot. I should know; I'm still looking for it. The funny thing is," he looked puzzled, "I almost feel sort of sorry for him."
"You?" her eyes went wide, "You, who would have happily suffocated him with your own hands, feeling sorry for him?"
"It, it was a couple of things, really," Adrian admitted, kicking at a nearby snow bank that was very lopsided, "One thing, I guess meeting my own father again made me realize how important a father is in a person's life. Plus, I did have a dream the other night where he was accused of a crime he didn't commit, and he sort of came across as sympathetic there. It made me see another side to him. He did love Benjy till the end, so you can't really fault him for that. Of course, that doesn't really excuse him for having you kidnapped and trying to kill you, then blowing up our houses and consorting with terrorists and trying to kill all of us, but I guess I understand him a little more now. Who knows, maybe there's another reality out there where he is a complete innocent. Maybe there's infinite realities with infinite possibilities, like all those stories about me they have on the Internet."
Sharona stared at him in wonder. "How big a dosage of sleeping pills did they give him on the plane again?" she asked Stottlemeyer.
"Not enough, I figure," Stottlemeyer shook his head as he watched Adrian measuring the length of branches on a beech nearby, "That aside," he continued, "How've you been lately?"
"Good," Sharona admitted, "It's a little hard dealing with people hounding me on the streets asking for autographs, but I tell myself at least it won't last too much longer. Once they switch over to when he hired Natalie..."
Stottlemeyer nodded, shaking his head as Adrian started scraping at the branches with his file, "Benjy keeping busy?"
"More than you can imagine," she looked a little bittersweet, "He's actually got a steady girlfriend now. He wanted to bring her along, but she couldn't make it."
"Um, they, they haven't been having...you know..." Adrian started humming loudly in nervousness at that very thought.
"Not yet, but I'm keeping my eyes open at all times," the nurse said firmly, "Her name's Becky; I think you'd like her if you got the chance to meet her."
She extended a photo towards her former employer. Adrian nodded; Becky at least physically seemed like the kind of girl he might-MIGHT-have had a crush on when he was younger and before he met Trudy. "Well, better go get unpacked now, or it'll be morning until we're done," he said quickly. The three of them trudged back around to the front of the motel. "You get number 27 all to yourself, Adrian," Jack told his son, pointing to the large stack of Adrian's luggage in front of the room in question. The Eppeses were helping take several of them inside. "Just, just be sure to keep them in order," the detective told them, "They are numbered; it's rather important."
"Well it's kind of hard to miss," Don pointed out the very large numbers on the suitcases. Adrian went in the room and opened Suitcase Number One. "So, I take it you two work together a lot?" he inquired, placing Trudy's picture on the nightstand as usual.
"We have a lot more over the last few years," Charlie switched two suitcases into the correct numerical order, "And I've come to really enjoy it, in fact."
"So you're into mathematics, then?" Adrian started dusting the radiator.
"Where have you been?" Ambrose stuck his head in through the door, "Professor Eppes happens to be one of the greatest mathematical minds in the country today. I've read all of his papers."
"Since obviously you've got nothing better to do on a sunny day, being inside all the time," Adrian muttered under his breath, examining the wallpaper for whatever reason.
"I'm glad someone reads them," Charlie smiled at the instruction manual writer, "Anyway, FBI cases often prove to be fairly simple to solve once the patterns of the crime become apparent. Every crime involves the same mathematical principles as everything else we do in life."
"If only it all were that easy," Adrian grabbed a bottle of window cleaner, "See if you can find me a clean rag; whoever was in here last smoked too much; I can see the nicotine residue here."
"Uh," Don searched through another suitcase, "Right here. You know, I'm more like you," he told the detective, "I like to find the cold hard facts at the scene. Not quite as elaborately as you do, though." He glanced at Trudy's photo. "Any luck finding who killed her lately?" he asked sympathetically.
"No," Adrian shook his head sadly, "Haven't had a break in a good long while. I'm, I'm really starting to wonder if I'll ever..."
He sat down on the bed and cradled his wife's picture close to his chest. "Hey, don't give up just yet," Don tried to reassure him, "All it takes is one little break; I've seen it happen before. You'll find the guy someday."
"I hope," Adrian mumbled softly. He stared longingly at Trudy's smiling face. "Well, better, better get back to work," he said quickly, reaching for the window cleaner again, "It's Crimestoppers night tonight, and my week to call in."
"No it's not," Ambrose protested loudly, "You had it last week."
"No, Ambrose, leaving the house has clearly blown your microcircuits," Adrian rebuffed him, "It's my turn."
"Hey, just because I almost threw a fit leaving the house this afternoon doesn't mean I've lost my senses," the instruction manual writer told him firmly, "But since you're going to be an island on the whole thing, go ahead and call. I'll still beat you to it."
He disappeared from the doorway. "Don't, don't mind him," Adrian told the Eppeses, "You probably won't see him for the rest of the week; he's probably going to seal himself in his room. Agorophobic," he added when he noted they looked confused, "Until this year he'd only left the house twice in the last thirty-five years."
He wiped the windows down. "Might, might as well let him call, though," he conceded, "It'll give him a feeling of accomplishment, given that we probably won't have much more excitement this week."
"Talk!" a shadowy man was demanding at that very moment in a darkened room to another man handcuffed to a chair before him.
"I've told you everything!" the captive man pleaded desperately.
He was slapped across the face. "I think not," his jailer growled, "We've got ways of getting you to tell us everything!"
"Please, don't...!" his prisoner begged before getting another slap. A second man appeared next to the first. "Any luck?" he asked.
"He's probably spilled everything he does know," the first man shook his head, "It's not much to go on, but at least we know something."
"All right," the second man thought things over, "Give him another one-over. I'll go ready everything. We'll take care of what we can right now. Nothing to worry about. They won't find anything out."