MR. MONK AND THE MONKS

BY

BOB WRIGHT

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I finally got the basic idea for this down. It will probably be shorter than previous stories, but I think I've got a basic enough kernel to work with. Again, best to keep track of my continuity so you know where I'm coming from.

Adrian Monk and all related characters and indicia are registered trademarks of USA Network, Mandeville Films and Touchstone Television. And now, sit back and enjoy the story.

...when we return to Incredibly Stupid Celebrity Stunts, Rob Schneider lights himself on fire and drives this motorcycle at a hundred and fifty miles and hour into this solid brick wall," the announcer on Adrian Monk's television proclaimed grandly, "And then, Jessica Simpson throws herself into an alligator-infested swamp. Don't miss it!"

Adrian, however, could very much miss it. He bent down from atop his sofa and hit the off switch. It seemed increasingly that there was very little good on television anymore.

He picked up the nozzle of his vacuum and returned to vacuuming his ceiling. The clattering of heavy raindrops against his window could still be heard over the suction. It had been raining solid for the last two days now. But that had mattered little to Adrian, for he hadn't been out at all. Indeed, he had little reason to; very few cases had come his way over the last few months, and most of his inner circle had been away for most of the week--his assistant had caught a vacation flight to Alaska without telling him (although since he was used to this by now it wasn't a shocker), Captain Stottlemeyer and Lieutenant Disher were down in Sacaramento being honored for their work in the line of duty, and his psychiatrist was at a convention in Santa Fe. So for the first time in many years, he'd found himself utterly and completely alone.

Except of course for the protesters parked out front of the building for the last few weeks. Much as he'd feared for so long, there had been many fans of his series who had not taken well to Natalie becoming his assistant so abruptly. Unaware that there was a gap of three years between what was happening to him now and what was happening on the air, he'd been bombarded by picketers demanding he bring Sharona back immediately, apparently not concerned that there was no way he could and that he no longer wanted to if he could have. While they had started thinning out over the last week or so as the inevitable had become apparent, a dozen or so diehards were still camping out front despite the landlord's threats to have them hauled off by force, and Adrian had been unable to get a decent night's sleep for a while, particularly when several of the extremists had taken to banging on his door at three in the morning. He was now starting to wish Natalie had invited him to go with her so he could get away from the whole mess.

His work for now done, he shut off the vacuum and plopped down on the sofa. His gaze fell on the nearest portrait of his wife hanging on the wall. He sighed sadly. Adding to the misery of feeling alone was the fact that Trudy's birthday would be at the end of the week. He'd always pulled into a shell during that time, and every year without her was more excruciating that the one before. At least, however, this year he could rest easily knowing the six-fingered man had finally paid the price for his crime against her, even if it had not quite been the way Adrian had hoped it would be. Now that he had new information about who had hired him, he'd eagerly sent it out to his new contacts at the FBI and CIA in the hopes they'd have something on "the Judge." Nobody seemed to know anything, however, and the old feeling of being stuck in a rut with the only case that really mattered was kicking in again, making him even more depressed.

There came a knocking at his door. "Adrian, got your wipes," came the familiar voice of Kevin Dorfman. Adrian strode over to the peephole and glanced out to make sure his neighbor didn't have an irate protester with him before opening the door. "Were, were you followed?" he asked.

"Let's see," Kevin assumed a thoughtful expression, "When I came up a middle-aged womanon the stoop begged me to make you reconsider everything; before that, a homeless man on the corner of 5th and 12th told me to tell you he thought you were crazy to let her go without a fight; before THAT, the guard at the store told me he probably wasn't going to watch your show anymore because it wouldn't be any fun, but his partner countered that Natalie fit you quite well; before THAT, I got a call from my aunt asking what the whole story was; before THAT..."

"I, I get the point, you weren't followed," Adrian cut him off. He pulled out the ten bags of wipes in the bag Kevin had brought and weighed each of them in his hands. "No good," he announced, "This one contains a deformed wipe. You'll, you'll have to take it back."

"You sure?"

"I think it only common courtesy," the detective pushed the wipes back into the bag, "But again, thank you for agreeing to do this for me; I, I don't know if I could manage at the moment with everything."

"Well isn't that was neighbors are for?" Kevin gave him an overly eager pat on the back, making Adrian wince, "You know, Adrian, this does remind me of the time my second cousin got stricken with a bad case of the mumps (he apparently did not notice the horrified look on Adrian's face as he said this). We started to suspect he was playing out the illness longer than..."

Perhaps mercifully, there came another knocking on the door. Adrian, however, was anything but pleased. "When will it ever stop?" he groaned out loud. "Look, I had no control over it!" he shouted at the door, "She left right in the middle of the night, I didn't know until that morning, and I couldn't...!"

"Mr. Monk, if I could have a minute of your time please," came an older voice from the hallway. Adrian hesitantly opened the door to reveal a priest standing in the hallway, silver haired and with a metal cane. And completely sopping wet. "Mr. Monk, I'm..." he started forward.

"WAIT, WAIT, WAIT!" Adrian waved for him to halt. There was no way he was risking rain water and mud on his carpet. He dashed into the kitchen and grabbed several boxes of his industrial plastic. "Here," he tossed several to Kevin, "You start by the window and meet me in the middle."

Kevin shrugged but eagerly joined his neighbor in tearing off the plastic and laying it on the floor. Within five minutes, every surface in the apartment was covered with plastic. "All, all right, you can come in now," Adrian gestured at the priest once they had finished. The priest glanced slowly around the now sterilized room, but merely shrugged and walked in. "Mr. Monk, I'm Father Bernard Fitzwater," he announced, shaking Adrian's hand.

"Father, good day, I'm Adrian, this is Na--" Adrian instinctively gestured to his right before realizing that Natalie was not there--and that he had no wipes handy. He waved desperately at Kevin to give him one. "So, what brings you here, Father?" he asked, wiping himself down.

"Mr. Monk, if you're not too busy at the moment, I have something that may be of interest to you," Father Fitzwater told him, "I'm the vicar at the St. George Monastery in Alameda..."

"I've heard of that one," Kevin proclaimed, "On the island by the old naval station, right?"

"Indeed it is," Father Fitzwater nodded, "Over the last week, two of the monks there were killed. The authorities are convinced it was a simple set of heart attacks, but I have reason to suspect it may have been murder. Both of them were in fine physical shape up till the point they died. No one seems to think the word of a vicar means much, however. So I was wondering if I could hire your services to look into the matter."

"Um..." Adrian thought it over carefully, "Here's, here's the thing, Father; well one of a couple of things. First, uh, you said you were on an island, I, I really don't do well traveling over water. Second, you do know how cramped monasteries are; germs could spread there faster than you can imagine. Third, it's, it's my wife's birthday later in the week, I really need to be here."

"Oh," the priest mumbled, "How old is she?"

"She, she would have been forty-six," Adrian's expression tumbled, "She died, eleven years ago."

"I'm most sorry," Father Fitzwater shook his head, "Indeed, I do remember reading about that in the papers when it happened. That aside, Mr. Monk, I also believe that what happened to the monks might have been more than what they seemed; lately I've been hearing strange noises at night, banging and drilling of some kind that don't happen naturally in the years I've been vicar. I'd be willing to pay you hansomely for it."

"You would?" Adrian inquired, "I'm...my assistant...associate, she'd be falling head over heels for that if she were here. I'm, I'm not sure I should take it without her, she'd be...she'd want to be..."

"Go on Adrian, give it a shot," Kevin encouraged him, "I think Natalie would want you to take the risks without her for once. And at least you'll be away from all those protesters you don't like."

There came at that moment a thumping sound against the walls. Adrian rolled his eyes; two or three of the most extreme protesters had taken to throwing pebbles at the window over the last week. "The monks at your monastery, they don't have time for television, do they?" he asked Father Fitzwater.

"We have no modern ammenities like that," the priest shook his head, "I do get a newspaper every day, but they don't. I doubt any of them would even know who you are."

"Good enough for me," Adrian nodded. By now any break from the protesters would be up his alley. "I'll, I'll just pack a few things, and we'll, we'll go see what happened to your monks."