They all sat in the living room. Natalie got all the guests some water. "This idiot believes we kidnapped him when actually we rescued him," Sherlock explained.

"I prefer you not call my brother an idiot," Adrian said.

"Oh come on, you know he is."

"He's only saying that because Ambrose screamed in our ears for the past half hour," John said apologetically.

"You forced me out of my domicile and took me to places against my will," Ambrose argued. "By legal definition, that's kidnapping; therefore, I was within my rights to scream!"

"We were taking you to your brother!" Sherlock argued.

"Well, you never told me that!"

"We would've if you shut up!"

"Look, that doesn't matter," Adrian said. "You know Ambrose is agoraphobic."

"He does?" Natalie said.

"Well, if he doesn't, I'd be sorely disappointed."

"Yes, of course I do!" Sherlock answered, somewhat offended.

"Then no matter where you take him, you might as well lock him up in the worst torture chamber in the world!"

"There was no other option, Mr. Monk." He lowered his voice. "Moriarty's after him."

Monk only lifted an eyebrow. "Is he?"

"He impersonated a United States postage worker and delivered this parcel." Sherlock pulled the package out of his coat and tossed it to Monk. "He knows where your brother lives, and he will kill him."

Monk handed back the package. "Look, if you want to do a goose chase, I can recommend some detectives in the area to help you, but I'm much too busy."

Sherlock stood. "This is the man who kidnapped your wife's daughter! Who nearly killed her, and you, and me, more than once! It's no goose chase, Adrian! You knew this day was coming. He told you he was coming to America one day, and you asked for my help." He held out his arms. "Here I am."

"What are you even doing here? What brought you here? Did he tell you this was it, that he was coming to America to kill me and Ambrose? I mean, what other evidence do you have?"

Sherlock gave him an astonished look. "You called me!"

Monk looked equally confused. "No, I didn't!"

"Mr. Monk, I'm talking to your assistant. Didn't he call me, Miss Teeger?"

"Oh!" Natalie put her head in her hands. "I'm so, so, sorry, Sherlock. Early this morning, I meant to call Stephen, and while scrolling through my contacts, I dialed your number by mistake! You know, I was half asleep, and I didn't see the screen clearly. I'm really sorry; I didn't mean to cause you such trouble. Look, I'll try and reimburse your airfare, your rental car, your gas—"

"It's alright, Miss Teeger, that's not the only reason. The fact is, that's not the first time it's happened. You really should get voice recognition."

"Yeah, I know, but I can't afford it, not on my salary." She glanced over at Monk.

"I'm sure no salary's big enough," John mumbled.

"No, something else was suspicious," Sherlock said as he got out his phone and going through his setting menus. "When you called me, I first heard that someone had assigned to you a different ringtone."

He touched Monk's name, and they all heard a man's voice cheerfully singing, "It's not unusual to be loved by anyone."

"Tom Jones?" Natalie said. "That's not his style."

"As I suspected," Sherlock answered as he turned it off.

"Well, what was it previously?"

"A standard ring. I don't assign ringtones, so I knew someone had tampered with it, which means it's important."

"You sure? It could be just a practical joke."

"NO!"

"Don't ask," John whispered.

"I checked all my contacts. Mr. Monk's the only one that's altered." He looked at Monk. "Well, what do you think it means?"

Monk shook his head and shrugged. "I don't know. I don't like Tom Jones."

"Dad did," Ambrose said. "So did Mom. They loved that song. I think it was their song. I remember, before Dad left, they play that record late at night and would dance to that song. I mean, this is back when we still had a record player."

"Thank you, Ambrose," Monk said bitterly.

"Don't ask," Natalie mumbled to John.

"So the whole reason you came down here is to share with me a song?!"

"You're right," Sherlock said. "It is a little ridiculous. If you had Skype, it could've saved me time and airfare."

"Oh, so it's my fault that Natalie dialed the wrong number?"

"No, it's your fault for not keeping in contact with me."

"I was busy. Cases, cases, cases. San Francisco never sleeps."

"Well, neither does London. It's not an excuse."

"Guys, guys, please!" Natalie stopped them. "OK, the ringtone is weird. Maybe we can figure it out if we put our heads together. Let's just do some catching up now! Or maybe we can go to headquarters and see if the Captain's got something for us, you know, to pass the time while we try to figure it out."

"I have a better idea," John said. He picked up the package. "Let's find out what's in this."

"Good idea, John," Sherlock said. "Whatever's in here has got to be important."

"Are you sure we should open this?" Natalie said. "It could be a letter bomb."

"Not this light."

"Yeah. Letter bombs are a lot heavier," Monk agreed.

"Plus, I always thought it sounded like a maraca," Ambrose added. "Bomb wouldn't have that many loose parts."

"OK," Natalie nodded, but she still looked uncertain.

Ambrose insisted that he open it since the package was addressed to him. He got out a knife and very slowly, carefully cut around the edges.

"It doesn't have to be perfect," John said softly.

"What I do, you do not understand now, but you will in the future," Ambrose replied.

"Yes, but we want it opened today," Sherlock said impatiently.

"Hang on, I almost got it. Just one more . . . here." He put the knife down. And then he very slowly opened the lid.

"OH, COME ON!"

"Look, we cannot risk the product being damaged. To do so compromises the goods before inspection."

"WE'RE NOT GOING TO DAMAGE IT!" Sherlock yanked off the lid, and everyone looked inside.

Ambrose picked up a beanbag doll of a cute, pink pig with a silly grin on its face. Almost immediately, he threw it down on the floor. "Ugh! I hate pigs!"

"Who wouldn't?" his brother agreed. "Revolting creatures."

"You know, they can eat just about anything?"

"Yeah, they roll around in the mud, in their own—I don't wanna even think about thinking about it!"

"I don't even eat pork. It's so greasy. It's bad for cholesterol."

"You know, I had a case that involved a dead pig. I never told anyone, but I was so glad it was already dead and eaten by the time I got there."

"Right, fine!" Sherlock interrupted. "Pigs are awful. We all hate pigs. Two legs good, four legs bad, fine. What does it mean?!"

"Well, I certainly wouldn't have any use for it," Ambrose said, "so it can't be for me."

Sherlock pointed at him. "Good observation."

Natalie picked it up. "We had a case once that involved voodoo dolls. Victims received dolls depicting the way they were going to die right before it happened. This is a lot like that."

"Natalie, if it were a voodoo doll for me or my brother, the last thing it would look like is a pig," Monk reassured her.

"That's true, but still I thought I saw . . ." She reached down and picked it up. "Yes. Mr. Monk, look at this." She held the doll up to him.

On its chest, where the heart should be, there was a cigarette burn. And suddenly, Moriarty's chilling words came back to Sherlock, "If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."

"Well, that's like I was saying," Ambrose said. "Pigs give you heartburn!"

"Let me see that, Miss Teeger," Sherlock said. She handed it to him, and he put his hand around it. "There's something hard in here."

"It could be like a sound card or something," Natalie suggested.

"I don't think so." He picked up the knife Ambrose used and cut a bigger hole around its heart. The Monk brothers both turned away. He pulled out a small videotape. "How archaic."

"Well, at least we know how to play it."

She found the camcorder, hooked it up to the TV, and started it. There was a little static at the beginning, but then there he was—the slick hair, the big brown eyes full of evil, the expensive suit, and that perpetually taunting voice. "Hello Adrian. It's me."

"That's him! That's the postal worker!" Ambrose said.

"Of course it is," Sherlock said.

The video wasn't one continuous shot, but it looked staggered like it had several edits. A few times, some images flashed on the screen, but they went by too quickly for anyone to tell what they were.

"I know this isn't the best medium. I was going to send you a DVD, but I don't know if you have a player. Then, I remembered, this is how you learned the truth of your dear wife Trudy. Ah, how romantic. I couldn't pass it up.

"I've lived up to my promise. I'm here. Sorry it took so long. But you know, I've been thinking about our last meeting, and I realize I've really been in remiss! I was rude to you, and I apologize. I never told you the best part.

"Do you remember what happened, what I said? Of course you do, look who I'm talking to. You went through your summation, and I told you that you did well but you left out the best part. I know it's tearing you up inside. Your fear is huge, but your curiosity is huger. I wonder about the size of your heart, Adrian. Just how big is it? Did it shrink after you lost Trudy? Did it grow three sizes after you found Molly? You know, I tested the size of our mutual friend's heart. It was bigger than I thought. It was bigger than he thought, I'm sure."

His voice got colder. "Anyway, that's why I'm here, to make it up to you. I have something to tell you, not just what you missed, but I know a few secrets not even our friend knows. I'm going to tell them to you. And you can get his help, if you want. I really don't care, because this time it's not about him. It's about you. It's all about you.

"I'm at the end of the trail of blood, Mr. Monk." He leaned in close to the camera and whispered, "Find me, if you dare." Then he smiled and leaned back. "Ta-ta!" Then, the picture went blank.

"That didn't sound good," Natalie said.

But Monk didn't seem to be listening. He got the tape out, and then he handed it to Sherlock. "Have fun."

Sherlock crossed his arms and wouldn't take it. "He said it wasn't my case."

"It is now. I got better things to do with my time."

"What, like polishing your light bulbs and dusting for the millionth time?" Natalie said.

"Better make it a million and one now that I have guests, and some of them are from foreign lands. Who knows what they track in?" He held out the tape again. "Stop by and tell me how it went."

"So you really don't want to know what he has to say?" John said.

"I already know. I'm not interested."

"You know?" Sherlock asked. "So, what is it?"

"You don't know?" This time, Monk's voice went cold. "Then I am very disappointed in you. I expected better."

Nobody knew what to make of that. Everybody was silent and still. But then John looked at the pig on the floor and picked it up. "I recognize this pig! I've seen it in the stores. It's evidently a new educational cartoon on British television. I think it's called . . . Pinky."

And then Sherlock began remembering other things. "I thought I recognized that callous on your pinkie," Monk had told him. And then he told Sherlock to love both his hands because he knew someone who was kidnapped and got his pinkie finger chopped off.

"The violinist," Sherlock said aloud.

Everyone looked at him. "What?" John and Ambrose said at the same time.

Sherlock looked at Monk. "You told me you once had a case in which a violinist was kidnapped and the abductors severed his pinkie finger. Perhaps this effigy is harkening to that."

"What?" Monk said.

"Surely you remember that case, Mr. Monk."

"That case . . . that case . . ." Just then, the phone rang. Monk promptly picked it up. "Captain! Thank you for calling . . . . Long story. What can I do for you? . . . . What?! No! . . . . Absolutely, we'll be right there." He hung up and looked at Natalie, his eyes starting to well up with tears. "Tommy Gracer disappeared."

"Oh no, little Tommy?" she said.

"Who's Tommy?" John asked Ambrose, who shrugged.

"HE'S MY SON!" Adrian cried out.

Everyone jumped at that.

"Well, he's not . . . technically—" Natalie started to explain.

Adrian got up. "Captain says there's evidence he wants us to inspect at headquarters. We have to find him. Now. Come on, Natalie, let's go."

"You're not leaving without us!" Sherlock called after him. Monk looked back at him. "Give me the address. I'll drive.

"Uh, that's not necessary. We can get there."

But Natalie was already writing the address down. "Here you go. Thank you for the offer. This will save us some gas."

"It's not your case. You already have your case."

"What are you saying, Mr. Monk? Two world-class detectives are better than one. He'll help us find Tommy faster."

"Well, I guess I could use another pair of eyes. The Captain would probably be impressed." Then he went up to Sherlock and looked him in the eye. "But you need to remember, you're on my turf now. You're playing my game. I'm not playing yours."

Sherlock leaned closer. "Your move," he said softly.

"Thank you." Monk stood and took their cups, even though John wasn't finished, and took them to the kitchen.

"Wait, what about me? What should I do?" Ambrose asked anxiously.

"Relax, Ambrose. I'm sure your brother's house is your house."

"Excuse me? NO!" Monk yelled. "I know what he does in his house. I'm not going to have him stacking newspaper and old mail all over the place."

"I didn't mean that," Natalie said. "Mr. Monk, he needs a place to feel safe."

"And it's not here!" Sherlock interrupted. "Miss Teeger, with all due respect, that's a ridiculous suggestion. If Moriarty knows where Ambrose Monk lives, he certainly knows where Adrian Monk lives. In fact, any acquaintance to him is off-limits."

"Excuse me?" Monk said. "It's my game, remember? That's the deal."

"Very well, but when you sign your brother's death certificate, don't say I didn't tell you so."

"You can defend yourself, can't you?" Natalie whispered.

"I've written many safety manuals for guns and tasers. I'll be OK," Ambrose nodded.

"Alright, come on, let's go," Monk said as he headed out the door.