"The air is just fine!"
"You have it way too cold!"
"It's not that it's too cold, it's that you have no respect for anything that doesn't fit the way your warped mind works!"
"Oh MY mind is warped!?"
"Yes, you heard me, Harold, you have the most warped mind in the country, perhaps the whole world!"
"I could say the same for you!"
"And I say it again for you!"
"Will the both of you please just shut up!" came the shout from the back seat of the 1988 Ford Probe. A very irked Troy Kroger leaned forward to glare at both men. "It's amazing my father could stand either of you, because after two and a half hours I'm already at wit's end!" he reprimanded them both.
"He started it, Troy," Adrian Monk pointed at Harold.
"No, you did!" Harold shouted at him.
"No, Harold, you did."
"No, you did!"
"No, you did!"
"Adrian, Harold, please, just come on," Dr. Neven Bell also leaned forward, looking exasperated himself, "Now I know the two of you don't like each other, but for all our sakes, I'm asking the two of you nicely to please put aside any ill will this week."
"Even though some of us weren't invited in the first place," Adrian glared at Harold next to him in the front seat.
"First off, smart guy, I most certainly was invited, by the producer of your big important show," Harold told him smarmily, "And secondly, since they'll be honoring Chuck along with you, I owe it to him to be here for him as his best friend."
"You most certainly were not," Adrian retorted.
"You're just a sore loser because you knew he liked me more," Harold snapped back, "And you're still upset about losing your dumb parking garage, so get over it."
"Speaking of getting over it, Harold, have you gotten over your, shall I say, wild side yet?" a big grin broke out on Adrian's face, coinciding with Harold glowering darkly at him. While the detective was admittedly still disappointed about the parking garage his wife was killed in being torn down-with Harold's firm support-he could at least rest easy knowing he'd gotten the last laugh on his nemesis. For, about two weeks after the terrible vote, Harold had suffered a major relapse of his hypnotic therapy while the city council was in the middle of live televised session debating income tax reform in the city. Viewers had then been treated to the spectacle of Harold taking off all his clothes and dancing what appeared to be the fandango atop the council table while singing a yodeling song. After that, as a topper, his OCD had returned in force, and Harold had decided, without a second thought, that the...milk producing apparatus, for lack of a better term...of the woman in the front center seat of the meeting hall were...well, misaligned, and had promptly set about trying to attain "realignment." It had been then that the station had yanked the plug on the broadcast, but wonderfully it was already too late for Harold; the very next day, the council had unanimously voted him off-Maria included, earning herself much redemption in the detective's eyes-and a week later the school board had followed suit, also unanimously expelling him from their ranks. Angry and sullen over his humiliation, and apparently needing someone to take it out on, Harold had been driving the detective crazy all the way up from San Francisco.
"Now gentlemen, there's no need to be hostile to each other," came the elderly voice from the driver's seat. The now Archbishop Bernard Fitzwater turned to the two of them. "I believe if the two of you look close enough, you'll find in the end you have more in common than you realize."
"Per-Perhaps," Adrian mumbled softly. He did think well of the archbishop, but he didn't have the heart to tell him that asking he and Harold to like each other was asking far too much. He was, though, grateful the former head of the St. George Monastery-the murders of whose monks he'd solved not long back-had agreed to drive him up for the big festival in his honor. Things had certainly gone well for Fitzwater since then; he'd been promoted to diocese archbishop six months ago upon the death of his predecessor, and was now also the host of a successful local bingo show-but judging by the fact he'd still held on to his old car, an increase in status hadn't changed him.
The detective glanced forward out the windshield and saw the latest sign featuring the image of the actor playing him on TV plastered on a roadside billboard. THREE MORE MILES TO MONKSTOCK I proclaimed the words underneath the picture; they'd been popping up along the side of the road since about twenty miles south of Redding on I-5. He'd been looking forward to the first big get-together for all the fans of his show; the producer had thought it would be a terrific way to celebrate the program, and the detective himself as well. After some wrangling, they'd found the perfect location for it as far as Adrian was concerned; at picturesque Breckman Lake in eastern Shasta County, about twenty miles due east of Redding to be precise. Many times as a child, Trudy had vacationed there as a child, he knew. She'd often told Adrian she wanted to take him there and show him what she'd liked about it, but unfortunately she'd died before she'd gotten that chance. Still, if what his assistant had often told him over the years had any basis in reality, Trudy WOULD in fact be with him in spirit. Nor would she be the only one; Adrian had gotten so many requests to attend at the special guest cabin he'd be staying at by scores of people he'd met over the years that he'd reluctantly had to call many of them and turn them down (how any of them would find any place to stay was beyond him, for going by what he'd heard, pretty much every motel room within a radius of twenty miles of Breckman Lake was completely sold out).
Of course, not everyone could make it in the end. The widowed Mrs. Kroger had turned down his offer, still finding it too hard to come to terms with her husband's sudden departure from the world, sending her son instead. Warren St. Clair, an apparent attempt on whose life had started Adrian's comeback from the depths of despair eight years ago, was too busy in the middle of his campaign for governor to take time off. The same stood for baseball star Scott Gregorio, who was in the middle of a ten game road trip through Atlanta and Pittsburgh during the week. And Detective Adam Kirk, who owed the detective much for being able to remain on the force after his biggest catch had tried to discredit him, was stuck in an undercover assignment for the duration of the festival. And then, of course, there had been Kevin. For the last few months of his life, Adrian's neighbor had been eagerly awaiting Monkstock-indeed, apart from his magic act, that had been pretty much all he'd talked about. While it had seemed annoying at the time, it made Adrian's eyes water now to know that Kevin-who'd initially volunteered to drive him to Breckman Lake-could never make it now (although he could take comfort knowing Kevin's killer had himself been killed in prison a few weeks ago, so some higher force must have believed in justice as well). And then just last week, his friend whale trainer Bonnie McCloskey, who'd also been looking forward to the festival, had finally succumbed to the syphilis that had long plagued her. Adrian had been on of the pallbearers, although he had left before burial could commence, not wanting to be around when the dirt started flying. But before she'd died, she'd shared with him research data she'd gotten from the esteemed Greenwood Whale Institute in Oregon that showed that Riptide the killer whale, whom she'd introduced him to on a case a few years back, had by now found another family to join to replace the one that had been slaughtered by poachers, and he appeared to be in the process of breeding again. Somehow, in the way Bonnie had worded the data, Adrian had felt she was trying to send him a message of some kind to do the same.
He took note of a familiar road sign ahead. "This, this is it, Raccoon Lane," he pointed out to Archbishop Fitzwater, remembering well from the map he'd been mailed that the guest cabin he'd be staying in was down the road. The archbishop made a left turn off the highway, and soon the Probe was on a narrow one lane road under the dense shade of numerous trees, many at or near their full autumn bloom. In about a half mile or so, the archbishop veered right onto a dirt path, at the end of which Adrian could already make out the outline of a very tall cabin amid the trees. And at the end of the driveway, a very familiar was already there waiting for him. Adrian broke into a big smile as the Probe slid to a stop right in front of the cabin. "Dwight, so you got here first?" he asked, climbing out of the car (very glad to no longer have to be right next to Harold).
"Actually, Adrian, Marsha and I have been here since Thursday," his father-in-law gave him a big hug, "So good to see you again. Any problems coming up?"
"Any problems!? Just name them and we had them!" Troy snorted sarcastically, grabbing his belongings out of the back seat in a huff, "Which room's mine!? I want to check in now; anything to get away from the two of them!"
He gestured at Adrian and Harold (Adrian was a bit disappointed; he and Troy had made seemingly good progress when they'd been buried alive together). "Uh, well, we haven't actually divided the rooms up yet," Dwight admitted, "But if you want to go scope it out, go right ahead."
"I'm going with him," Harold declared, taking his own belongings out of the trunk.
"Oh no you're not!" Troy warned him, hustling swiftly towards the cabin.
"Your father would have wanted us to bunk together, so I need to know which room we're sleeping together in," Harold countered, barrelling after him.
"Like hell we're sleeping together!" the teenager shouted defiantly at him. The two of them brushed past the tall, thin figure of Dwight's co-producer of the series as he was exiting the cabin. "Oh, Monk, good, you made it," Tim Kight all but bounced down the stairs towards him, "Pretty much on time too. Who else have you brought with you here?"
"Allow me to introduce Dr. Neven Bell, the current greatest psychiatrist in San Francisco," Adrian gestured at him, "And Father...actually, now Archbishop Fitzwater, we worked together on a case not long ago. Dr. Bell, Archbishop, meet Tim Kight and Dwight Ellison, they make sure the show runs perfectly."
"Bernard K. Fitzwater," the archbishop dug his cane out of the front seat for support and shook both men's hands jovially, "It is a delight to be here. And what an enjoyable setting indeed; as a child back in Wisconsin, I myself summered at a lake near the Green Bay area much like this many a year, so this week should bring back some good memories."
"And Adrian told me you and Trudy came up here to this lake too," Dr. Bell told Dwight, shaking his hand as well, "Don't tell me this is the cabin itself?"
"No, actually, this is Tim's cabin now," Dwight admitted, "Ours was way over on the other side of the lake, right about...there," he pointed to the far shore, "I'm sure we can stop over there at some point to take a look. But I don't think you'll find this one that bad."
"Not bad at all," Kight agreed, removing his glasses to clean them, "Actually, Roger Chalmers used to own this one before Mr. Monk here caught him for murdering Andy Faulk, and I bought it when the state auctioned off his personal holdings after he got slapped with his life sentence. I took out the most flamboyant aspects of his decor, but we've still got a lot of modern amenities; we've got a bowling alley in the basement, a pinball machine, lots of stuff."
"As, as long as there's a proper bathroom, that'll be fine by me," Adrian set a large trunk on the ground and opened it up. He wasn't surprised that Kight had toned down Chalmers's extravagance at the cabin; Kight, like Archbishop Fitzwater, had maintained a cool head despite his meteoric rise at the Walt Disney Company from nowhere desk staffer to a strong member of the board of directors thanks to the strength of Adrian's show, which he'd seen through from the beginning. "What's that for?" the producer asked now as the detective began pulling what looked like yard ornaments from the trunk.
"Well I've got to make sure the snakes stay away from the cabin all week," Adrian pressed one into the ground, "The hardware store guarantees this will make them immediately leave the area when they smell them. Here," he handed a set to Dr. Bell, "You go clockwise around the cabin, I'll go counterclockwise."
Dr. Bell looked down at the snake repellers. "I don't think you really should worry about snakes too much, Adrian," he said, handing them back, "But if you insist, I'll let you try it on your own, and when you see after the week's half over there's nothing to fear..."
There came a honking from the road behind them. "Ah, that, that should be Natalie," Adrian said, walking several paces towards the lake and pushing another snake repeller into the dirt, "She'd spent the night in Redding so the ride wouldn't be as long; surprised actually she wasn't the first one here."
And indeed it was in fact the "Teegermobile" that came into sight from behind the trees. It slowed to a stop alongside Archbishop Fitzwater's car and tried to back up behind it...only to speed up as if the gas pedal had been hit instead of the brake by accident and backed hard into a spruce with a loud crash. The driver's side door flew open. "Oh God, oh God, oh God!" Julie was in near complete hysterics at the sight of the damage to the rear bumper, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...!"
"It's OK, really, it's OK," her mother stepped out and put a comforting arm around her, although Adrian could see an uncomfortable expression on her face at the damage, "That's, uh, that's...that's not so bad. I did that when I first tried parallel parking too, so don't be upset." She noticed her employer nearby. "So you beat us here, Mr. Monk," she conceded.
"I, I guess so," Adrian stuck another snake repeller into the ground near her feet, "Apart from this, I guess your ride up from Redding was fine?"
"Absolutely fine," the back door swung open, and the familiar figure of Bobby Davenport stepped forward, "Nothing but smooth sailing all the way up," he told the detective, stretching.
"See Dad, and you were so worried we'd be stuck in traffic for hours coming to this place," Jonathan crawled out after him. "Well, this is nice," he exclaimed, looking around the cabin and the surrounding property, "I could almost live up here. How about you, Mother?"
Peggy was the last Davenport to exit. Adrian could tell immediately from her expression she wasn't as keen as her son about a week in the wilderness. "Is this the best you could rent out!?" she almost retorted to the detective, staring disapprovingly at the cabin despite its expansive two story height, "I've seen luxury doghouses that are more impressive."
"Mother!" Natalie glowered at her. Adrian heard her whisper sharply in Peggy's ear after leaning towards her, "You promised you wouldn't complain about anything since this is Mr. Monk's week in the sun!"
"Well if I knew he'd rent a place like this, I'd've searched online for a better deal!" Peggy hissed back. With a growl of frustration, Natalie threw open the dented trunk and began dumping expensive suitcases on the ground. Adrian then noticed one final, familiar person in the car. "Oh, so you came along too, Wendy?" he inquired.
"Hey, how could I say no to the man who kept me out of prison?" Wendy Whitehurst eagerly bounded out of the car. The Olympic hopeful had spent two months with the Teegers after her mother had been sent to prison for murdering her coach and conspiring to take out her competitors in the gymnastics events when the Olympics had rolled into San Francisco the previous year (Adrian, though, had argued for leniency in court, not wanting to have completely split up the Whitehursts for good, and his request had essentially been granted, as Mrs. Whitehurst had gotten fifty years for her crimes in the end-less than half of what the prosecution had argued for-and with the possiblity of parole in fifteen years). She'd then gone off to live with an aunt in Santa Barbara, and from what Julie had hinted at from their many online conversations since then, was happier than she'd been in years now that she was no longer under her mother's tyrannical thumb.
"She begged and pleaded to take her along with us," Julie explained to the detective, putting an arm around her friend, "We pretty much had no choice; not that I mind, of course..."
"I, I can imagine," Adrian pushed another snake repeller into the ground equidistant from the last one, "So, Wendy, how are things up in Santa Barbara these days?"
"Pretty good indeed," Wendy said with a smile, "I've got some real friends now, and the positive mail from people saying I was a real champion giving Zlata the gold medal keep pouring in, so I really have no regrets about it now," (Adrian was quite glad she felt that way; he'd also thought Wendy giving the Kosovoan gymnast Zlata Tadic her gymnastic gold after the latter finished out of the medals in the finals was noble, and most sportscasters around the country seemed to agree. In contrast, Wendy's bitter rival Shannon Walker, who'd quit in disgust before the finals rather than compete alongside a reinstated Wendy, almost getting the American team disqualified because of it, had been almost universally slammed for such a selfish gesture, with many analysts calling it poor sportsmanship rivaling anything they'd seen in years, and some even calling for her to be hit with the same lifetime ban Wendy had almost received). "But also," the redhead continued, breaking into laughter for some reason, "I just have to tell you, Mr. Monk; I came across this psychic guy last month; you should really meet him some day. He's so clearly a fake, but you can't help love him anyway. He helped solve a break-in down the street, and the way he did it had me laughing harder than I have in years."
"Sounds, sounds like an interesting person," Adrian bent down and started clipping individual blades of grass with his clippers to even them out, "Exactly the time of person I WOULDN'T want to meet, though."
"Oh come on, you two would look great together," Wendy goaded him, "Trust me on that. Someday, when he probably has his own series like you, you'll have...who's that coming now?"
Adrian had heard it too: a loud, sharping blaring repeating over and over again. He looked up to see a large U-Haul truck coming up the dirt road, the horn blaring over and over again. Rolling his eyes, Adrian walked over to the passenger door as it jerked to a stop and rapped hard on it. "Yes, Ambrose, the horn DOES work," he shouted up.
"Isn't this great, Adrian!?" his brother stuck his head out the window, looking like he'd just won the lottery, "Dad took us up here in style. And he brought our other brother too, do you believe it!?"
"Hey Adrian!" Ambrose squirmed aside as the smiling face of Jack Monk, Jr. appeared in the window, looking even happier. Adrian had heard that he was going to be paroled in time for the festival, although he wasn't quite certain deep down whether or not he really wanted Jack Jr. at the festival. "You look great, buddy!" his half brother shouted, opening the door to the cab and hopping down. "So, how many other bad guys did you bring in since our paths last crossed!?"
He gave Adrian's hand an overly vigorous pumping. "Uh, well, Jack, I'd, uh..." Adrian gestured at Natalie for a wipe, "Once you, uh, bring the energy level down a couple of notches, I can tell you I've taken about six or seven people off the street since you went back to prison. Did Dad buy this truck?"
"No, rented it off a company at the airport," Jack Monk, Sr. strode around the front of the truck. He was wearing a sweatshirt with the show's logo on it underneath his jacket. "So good to see you again, Adrian," he gave his son a proud hug, "Hey, I'm so sorry about what happened to the Doc; he was a nice guy when we bunked together in Philly."
"Yes, we, we all miss Dr. Kroger too," Adrian admitted, "But I found a new replacement that's just as good, really; he's right over there, Dr. Neven Bell's the name," he looked around for his new psychiatrist, but couldn't see him. "Well, he must have gone inside already."
"Hold on, hold on," Natalie was eagerly digging out her camera, "All of you get together, I've got to get your picture. The entire Monk family, together at last."
"Yeah, isn't it just wonderful?" Ambrose said cheerfully, stepping next to Jack Jr. behind his father and brother, "This is basically what I've waited for since I was ten: the whole family, together again, even if just for a week."
"I'm sure you have, Ambrose," she smiled, raising the camera, "On three..."
"Hold it," Adrian raised his hand, "Uh, Jack," he turned to his half brother, "I, I think you're actually shorter, you should probably be up front here; it should be short in front, tall..."
"On three," Natalie wasn't going to give him a chance to wreck the historic moment, "One, two, three."
Adrian reluctantly forced a smile as she took the picture. It wasn't going to be what he'd wanted, but he supposed it would suffice for the moment. Ambrose wandered around the truck. "This is nice," he proclaimed, staring at the cabin in approval, "Oh yeah, I'm going to really like this place. So, I'll just get inside now while the going's good."
"Don't get too comfortable, Ambrose, I've got a surprise for you once you get the first couple of stuff away," his father told the instruction manual writer as he sauntered quickly towards the house. The former trucker trudged to the back of the U-Haul and opened the rear door. "Here's the stuff of yours you told Ambrose to hold on to for you, Adrian," he told him, dropping about ten suitcases at the detective's feet.
"Thank you, thank you very much," Adrian commended him, opening them and sighing in relief to see his emergency Summit Creek supply was intact.
"Ah, so you're the elusive Jack Monk, Sr.?" Kight approached with Dwight on his heels, "I'm Tim Kight; we've talked a couple of times on the phone about your show novels."
"Ah yeah, good to meet you at last, Mr. Kight," Jack shook his hand, "I'm so glad for your unwavering support for everything. I hope to get the next one I told you about as far done as possible while I'm here. And this is your much-talked of partner with the Adrian Monk juggernaut, right?"
"Yes, this is Dwight Ellison, Dad; he was-is-Trudy's father," Adrian told him. Jack's expression grew a bit more solemn. "Very nice to meet you," he said, shaking Dwight's hand firmly, "From what Adrian keeps telling me about your girl, she must have been one hell of a great woman."
"Yes, Trudy was the very best my wife and I could ever have hoped for, Mr. Monk," Dwight said, his eyes misting over, "I wish you could have met her in person."
"Yeah, I do myself these days too," Jack looked dismal at never having this prospect himself. "Well," he quickly recovered and started pulling more suitcases out of the back of the truck, "Might as well get unpacked myself; after all, I've still got that next novel to finish."
"Oh, I've been meaning to ask," Natalie spoke up, picking up some of Adrian's suitcases from the ground, "I have wondered; about that Joe the fireman you've created for my love interest in your books...?"
"I've had a feeling you'd ask about that, Mrs. Teeger," Jack nodded, "Actually, I've based him on a guy I knew in Texas that seemed to me like someone that would be right up your alley. Is something wrong with that?"
"Well no, but it's just...it was a little surprising the first time I saw you pairing me off with someone I never heard of before," Natalie admitted, handing Adrian another suitcase and trudging towards the cabin, where everyone else seemed to have gone inside already. "You've got all of yours?" she asked Jack Jr., lifting a large trunk of his own by a nearby stump.
"Everything's under control," the con man flashed her a big smile, adjusting the cap he was wearing with the show's logo embroidered on it after wiping sweat away from his brow. "Yeah, this'll be just great up here," he proclaimed grandly, staring around at the bright autumn surroundings, "A week far from civilization, all for my brother."
"So while we're still just arriving," frowning, Jack Sr. advanced towards his youngest son, "let me lay out the rules for you: no stealing from anyone, no con games here or at any festival activities, no gambling, no wild parties, and you better not have smuggled any pot with you out of prison, because I'm not going to stand for it with kids here."
"All right, all right, keep your shirt on!" Jack Jr. protested, upset, "God, you've nagged all the way up here like you don't trust me or something!"
"Have you ever given me reason to trust you!?" his father glared at him, then trudged towards the cabin himself with several more suitcases. Adrian followed suit with those of his own that Natalie hadn't taken for him. The porch was enclosed with screen and had a small bookcase with numerous titles. His mother-in-law was in a rocking chair, reading one of them now. "Oh Adrian, good to have you here," she greeted him warmly, giving him a hug.
"It's, it's good to be here, Mom," Adrian smiled himself, "I, uh, hope there's enough room for everything I've brought; most of my stuff's still on the way."
"Well, we'll find room somewhere, Mr. Monk," said the black-haired woman next to Marsha with a large, clearly pregnant stomach. "So you're Elizabeth Kight, then," Adrian had never met his producer's wife before, "Tim always speaks highly of you. How much longer before the new one comes?"
"About another month or so," Elizabeth rubbed her chest warmly, "We've settled on Kaylee as the name for her. Although the timing could have been a little better for it; the doctors' current timetable has her coming out around the exact anniversary that Joshua..."
She lowered her head. Adrian more than understood; the Kights' son had been killed in a hit and run several years ago, and like Trudy's case, the killer was still at large with little or no evidence to follow. The detective had promised his benefactors he'd do what he could to work on it in his spare time, but so far even he could make no headway with what little there was. "He always had an affinity for nature," the woman continued somberly, "He wanted to be a zookeeper some day. This would have been a thrill for him to be up here too."
"I'm sure it would have," Marsha tapped her sympathetically on her hand, "But as I found when I turned to grief counseling after I lost Trudy, you can really only move forward no matter how glum things might seem, and just remember the times you did have. The killer can never take those away from you, just like this Judge person can't take away the thirty-four years my own daughter had."
"Yes," Adrian agreed, "I'm starting to see it that way myself now. Largely because Natalie drove it relentlessly into my head with her excessive cheerfulness that should really be made a federal offense, but it has helped in the end, basically."
He became aware of shouting inside the cabin. Hefting his essential belongings again, he stepped inside and took a good look around at his lodgings. The cabin had an open center, featuring several large sofas and chairs and a wide-screen TV in the corner. The kitchen and downstairs bathroom branched off from the center, and three bedrooms each lined the sides. Upstairs, the detective could make out a long line of small bedrooms-hopefully all ten by ten, he hoped-around the circumference of the building. And bedrooms seem to be the matter at hand for the argument in the middle of the room. "...specifically requested the biggest bedroom you had!" Mrs. Davenport was protesting to Kight.
"Well I'm sorry, but my partner and his wife have been staying in the largest one since they showed up here," Kight said calmly, "If it's really that important to you..."
"Actually, no, it isn't that important," Jonathan told him. Behind him, his sister nodded firmly, eager to get the confrontation diffused.
"Well to me it is," Peggy wasn't bending, "I was told this was the best cabin on the lake, and..."
"Marsha and I would be willing to relocate if it would make you feel any better," Dwight offered reluctantly, "It really doesn't matter to us, Mrs. Davenport."
"Thank you, that probably will help," Bobby commended him, shooting his wife a pleading look not to make any more conflicts so early on.
"Meanwhile, while we're getting these laid out, I'm with Troy," Harold spoke up from upstairs.
"You come in here and you're a dead man!" Troy shouted from what he'd chosen as his room.
"It was your father's dying request, and I have to honor it!" Harold shouted back.
"Liar, he didn't even know this was going to come together like this when he died!"
"Hey, I'll sleep with you," Jack Jr. called up to Harold.
"And you are...?"
"Jack Monk Jr., I'm Adrian's brother.
"Not even when Hell freezes over!" Harold snapped at him and ducked out of sight. "Wonder what his problem is?" Jack Jr. shrugged, "Oh well, guess I'll bunk down with you then, Adrian."
He put an arm around the detective. "Uh, well, Jack, here's, here's the thing, I was kind of hoping to get a room of my own," Adrian told him slowly.
"That may not be possible, Mr. Monk," Kight shook his head, "With everyone else who signed up to stay here, there probably won't be enough room, so you'll have to bunk with someone."
"Oh. Um...Ambrose, I guess it'll be you and me, then," Adrian gestured at his full brother, "Since we each have our own needs, we'd probably cancel each other out."
"Fine by me, Adrian," Ambrose apparently had no qualms with this arrangement, "Better go unload the rest of my stuff then, Dad."
"Actually, come on along with me, Ambrose, and I'll get you that special present I promised," Jack Sr. led him towards the door, "Come on now, we're just outside the cabin, nothing to be afraid of."
Ambrose fidgeted, but nonetheless followed his father out. Adrian did as well, intrigued by what the present could be, but his attention was diverted by another familiar car pulling up right in front of the house. "Captain, you made it," he greeted his superior as he got out.
"Hey there, Monk," Captain Leland Stottlemeyer shook his hand, "Say, this is one pretty nice place they picked for us indeed."
He nodded in satisfaction at the cabin. "Better, better pick your room quick; it's pretty much a free-for-all in there now," Adrian cautioned him.
"Sounds good," Stottlemeyer nodded again, "Has Mr. Kight said what we'll be doing tonight, or does the fun stuff only begin tomorrow?"
"He hasn't really said yet, Captain," Adrian told him, "But I think we might do the first set of interviews."
"Lovely," Stottlemeyer groaned, "After her last picture went straight to the top of the box office, she's gone right back to where she was before..."
"Come on, Dad, you promised not to be hard on Mom at all," demanded his younger son from the middle of the front seat. He and his older brother climbed out themselves, surprising Adrian at how much they had grown since he'd last seen them. It was a bit hard to believe they had been mere grade schoolers when he'd first met them, and now Jared was already in college and Max a junior in high school.
"Yes, yes, you're right, I did promise," Stottlemeyer admitted to his children, "And I will keep my word, and I won't say anything bad about her at all." He leaned close to Adrian and whispered softly, "As long as she doesn't try too hard to provoke me."
"If she does, please keep control, Captain," Adrian begged him, "You do still remember what happened when you were convinced Karen had killed Arthur Schmidt?"
"Every day, Monk, every day," Stottlemeyer sighed softly. Another man got out of the back seat as the captain's children took their belongings and trudged towards the cabin. "Well Adrian, how do you like it up here?" Sergeant Joe Christie asked him warmly.
"It, it seems pretty nice, Joe; maybe I'll actually end up liking it by the time we go home," Adrian told him.
"Actually, Monk, glad you're here, because Joe's got a surprise for you that you're going to like," Stottlemeyer told him with a smile.
"Captain, you know I don't like surprises," the detective sighed.
"Oh, but I know you will like this one," Stottlemeyer said, "Take a look at who Joe brought with him."
Adrian stared at the back seat...and had to blink. And then blink twice more just to make sure. It look so much like...could it possibly by some chance from heaven be...?
"Tommy," he breathed in rapt excitement. For so long, he'd hoped to see the baby he'd raised for a little while again, and now, his wish had come true; it was unmistakably Tommy in the back of the car-six years older, but definitely the same. "Tommy," he proclaimed again, "Natalie, Julie, come on out and see who's here!" he shouted excitedly back to the cabin. "Oh, Tommy," he flashed a grin at the boy, "I hope you remember me, I'm Adrian...Monk, I took care of you for a little while. Remember the crash helmet, the 9-1-1 call I made when...?"
"What's going on?" Natalie came huffing out of the cabin with her daughter in tow. "Oh my God!" she recognized Tommy as well, "Tommy, how are you!?" she greeted him warmly, "Do you remember us?"
But Tommy merely frowned deeply. "Who are all you people!?" he asked sharply.
"We, we were once good friends, sort of, kind of," Adrian explained, "I can tell you all about it once..."
"No, I just want to get this week over with," the boy cut him off abruptly, "Which room is mine!?"
"Whichever one you want," Julie helped him out of the car, "Can I carry your stuff there?"
"No!" he pulled it close and marched off towards the house. Adrian's heart sank. "He didn't remember me," he mumbled softly.
"Well Mr. Monk, he was about two at the time," Natalie comforted him, "You can't expect him to remember things from that age." Concerned, she turned to Christie. "Is he doing all right?"
"Not lately, I'm afraid," the sergeant shook his head, "You see, the family he got placed with was killed in a car crash about two months ago. I always wanted a child, so I put my name in for adoption, and I ended up with him. The problem is, Tommy was really close to his new family, so he's seen me as an interloper trying to replace them. I've told myself it'll take some time, but it's starting to take longer to win him over than I'd expected."
"Well, he'll come around in the end, I hope," Adrian tried to put a positive spin on it, hoping he was right, "Why didn't you tell me earlier you'd adopted him? I would have come over then."
"He wanted to surprise you, Monk," Stottlemeyer told him, "Plus, I think he was thinking Tommy would have accepted him by then."
There came a sudden excited cry behind Jack Sr.'s truck. Moments later, Ambrose wobbled into sight on a bicycle much like the one Adrian's father had given him after they'd buried their wounds when they'd first reconnected. "Focus on a center of gravity, Ambrose," Jack jogged behind him, keeping one hand extended to keep Ambrose upright, "Now turn to the left, nice and easy. That's it, you've got it! Now pick up the speed a little, I'm right here. Yeah, you're flying like the wind now!"
"Smile!" Natalie raised her camera again and took a picture of Ambrose at full steam. The instruction manual writer was in pure glee as he started circling the cabin. "I'm king of the world!" he couldn't help shouting.
"Yes, that you are, Ambrose!" Jack shouted encouragingly, now having to run to keep up with him. "Yep, you can definitely tell those two were meant to be here together," Stottlemeyer said, smiling himself, "At least they won't have to...well, look who's coming now."
A brand new-looking blue Cobalt with a New Jersey license plate inscribed FLEM18 was pulling up the road now. It swerved to the right to go for one of the few remaining parking spaces...but abruptly hit a large pothole and veered to the right towards the lake, prompting the driver to swing too far to the left to compensate, and as a result smacked side-on into the Teegermobile. "Oh my God!" Natalie was undeniably aghast this time as she sprinted over and morbidly took in the direct hit her car had taken to the passenger side, causing notable damage, "Oh, my car!"
"It's OK, Natalie," Stottlemeyer patted her on the shoulder, a wry smile crossing his lips, as if he'd been waiting for this moment for some time, "I know exactly how you feel."
"Me too," Julie looked relieved that she wasn't the only one who'd messed up parking. She walked up to the car and tapped on the driver's side window. "You're not dead," she called inside.
The window slowly rolled down. "Are you sure!?" was Benjy's meek reply. He looked pale and was staring straight ahead without moving at all.
"Hey, I smashed into a telephone pole myself right after I got my first license," the short-haired blond in the passenger seat tried to reassure him, "No big deal."
"Maybe not for you, Gail, but tell that to everyone in town who lost their power for four hours because of, including me at Regina Salmanti's party," snorted the longer-haired blond next to her. She squeezed past Benjy out of the car. "Adrian."
"So glad you could make it, Sharona, how was...?"
Without warning, she suddenly slapped him hard across the face. "What was that for!?" he protested.
"That was for getting me all worked up that you were dead, Adrian!" she shouted at him. Before he could recover, she delivered a second slap. "And that was for making me waste two grand on an airline ticket and a hotel room I didn't need to use!"
"You, you don't understand, I really had no choice but to pretend I was dead," Adrian tried to explain, "Dale the Whale and the sheriff were right up my back; if I didn't do something to throw them off track, they'd've caught me in the end, and Dale would be out on the streets-well, not exactly on the streets, but..."
"I can't replace that money so easily, Adrian!" she continued ranting at him, "Is it your purpose in life to suck me completely dry!? The next time you die, I better know for sure it's for real!"
"Don't worry we'll let you know if it happens again. I'm so glad you made it as well," Natalie stepped forward and embraced her predecessor. Adrian never could understand why so many people seemed to always assume Sharona and Natalie would be bitterly jealous of each other. While there had been some friction early on after they'd met-largely of Sharona's entire doing-the two of them had since become very close-even closer in fact since the previous time they'd been together when Sharona's medical know-how had likely saved Julie's life after she'd been shot in Gettysburg. "And I see someone's got a new car," Natalie commended Benjy as he got out himself, the color slowly coming back into his face.
"My treat for his high school graduation," Sharona rubbed her son's hair proudly, "Of course it took a lot of reserve cash I preferred not to spend," she shot her former employer another harsh look, "But since he deserved it, it was worth it."
"So, Benjy, what college did you say you were going to again?" Stottlemeyer asked him, "Sally something, was it?"
"DeSales, just outside of Allentown," the very lovely Becky Turcotte got out of the back seat and stood by her boyfriend. She definitely looked much better than when Adrian had first met her during the Christmas in Gettysburg, when she'd been in terrible shape after having been kidnapped and starved, "We both applied for TV and Film, and we're enjoying it so far."
"Which reminds me, Mr. Monk," Benjy told him, "I do appreciate what you sent me about the Scali family you worked with, but I kind of want to take a break from new TV shows now."
"We're breaking into feature films next," Becky proclained grandly, "We've started conceptual work on what we want our first one to be about."
"And they're very good artwork, believe me," came her father's voice. Adrian thought John Turcotte also looked much better since last they'd met-given he'd been put through hell by the Harvey brothers, and since he'd stated he was retiring from the CIA after that mission, it was basically to be expected. "Hello Monk," he greeted the detective cordially, "When Becky told me she was going on this, I had to come along too; I missed too much with her when I was in the Company, and I'm not going to miss this."
"Good, good for you," Adrian commended him, "It's better when...oh look out."
Out of control now, Ambrose skidded towards the "Flemingmobile" and crashed into the rear bumper, sending himself flying onto the rear windshield. "I'm OK," he announced quickly, "Oh Sharona, you're here."
"Yes, and very good for you, clearly," she said, quickly examining him for any sign of injury, but satisfied in the end that he was all right. "Oh, and you're here too," she said more coolly to Jack when he came running up, "So who's running your motel for you?"
"I hired an assistant earlier in the year; he's handling everything for me, Mrs. Fleming. What, you think I'd blow my son's tribute off?" Jack told her defensively. Adrian wasn't surprised at their reactions; he knew Sharona still held too much against his father for leaving his family for forty years to ever truly forgive him, although at least the two of them could usually manage a reasonable detente. "You OK, Ambrose?" he asked his oldest son, helping him down to the ground again.
"I'm fine, Dad. Hey, Jack Jr.'s here too," he told the nurse excitedly, "You're going to love to meet him."
"Oh yeah, the pot-smoking con artist," she seemed less than enamored of this prospect. She shot another harsh glance in Jack, Sr.'s direction. "And I wonder why he ended up that way?"
"So it's entirely my fault the lout turned out so bad!?" the former trucker was definitely miffed, "I just love your logic, Mrs. Fleming."
"Well you know how the expression goes, like father..."
"OK, well, maybe we'd better get you guys inside so we can get the luggage all unpacked," Stottlemeyer quickly cut in, opening the Flemings' trunk and taking their belongings out. He leaned in the front passenger door. "Everything okay in there, Gail."
"Oh, yeah, of course," Gail Fleming very quickly hopped out, but Adrian could see the misery on her face over something (the Flemings' mother had also been invited to the festival, he knew, but Cheryl had been battling cancer for some time now and couldn't skip her chemotherapy; she had urged her daughters to go on without her, though, when they'd initially insisted on staying with her). She walked very briskly towards the cabin without turning around. "Something's bothering her," he inquired to his former assistant.
"Oh, Gail's been upset that her latest relationship fell through, and she kvetched all the way up from San Francisco about how she'll never find the perfect man," Sharona grumbled, clearly tired of her sister's problems for the moment, "I told it to just forget about him and move on, but she won't let go of...oh no, don't tell me that's...?"
But it was. Lieutenant Randall Disher's car was coming up the drive now. With no available parking by the cabin, the lieutenant instead tried to squeeze into the narrow space between Natalie's car and Archbishop Fitzwater's car. A terrible scraping sound rose up as he scraped their sides. "Stop, stop, stop!" Stottlemeyer waved his hands wildly at his adjutant, "You can't fit in there!"
Disher stopped the car and leaned out the window. "What?" he called loudly.
"Look what you've done!" Natalie was almost on the verge of tears at how badly her car had been abused in the last ten minutes. The lieutenant looked it over. "Oh," he said softly, "Well, a little paint should cover it up pretty nicely."
"A little paint!?" Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes. The lieutenant tried to back up, but he had wedged himself in. Shrugging, he climbed out the window. "These are for you," he handed Sharona a handful of flowers that Adrian surmised he'd simply pulled out of the ground back in San Francisco before driving up, "It's a disengagement present. I'm thankful for your affections over the years, but Cathy and I have come to a big decision we'll announce when we're on stage later on."
"I'll remember these always," she mumbled, handing them to her son to get rid of when the lieutenant momentarily looked away, "Surprised then she isn't with you now."
"Oh, her plane was late; she's grounded in Sioux Falls right now waiting for some big thunderstorms to blow over," Disher explained, "She'll rent a car and come on up when she gets in to San Francisco; she MapQuested the directions and won't...you need a hand there?"
Dr. Bell had come back outside and was straining tremendously to lift a very large steamer trunk out of the back of Archibishop Fitzwater's car. "Yeah, let us help you with that," Turcotte offered, joining Disher in trying to pull the trunk out. Their efforts were unsuccessful, though, and eventually they dropped the trunk to the ground, where it broke open, revealing it had contained a huge concrete chunk with the faded number B-5 still visible on it. "Adrian..." the psychiatrist glanced at the detective, his eyes silently demanding an explanation.
"The council said I could take it as a compromise," Adrian protested, stacking the broken pieces of suitcase in a pile, "If I can't have the garage still standing, this is the next best thing."
"And what did I say about letting go?" Dr. Bell pressed him.
"I combined that with what Dr. Kroger said a couple years back that I'm best taking things in short steps; I've let go of the garage to focus my attention solely on the last thing Trudy saw before she was blown up," Adrian answered firmly, "Maybe in a couple of years, say, ten or fifteen minimum, I can let go of this too."
Before Dr. Bell could say anything else, there came the loud blare of more truck horns. "Ah, that'll be the rest of my stuff," Adrian said quickly, eager to change the subject.
"I should say," Stottlemeyer's eyes were open in shock. A whole convoy of trucks, stretching back as far as the eye can see, was pulling up to the cabin. Everyone inside rushed out to see what was going on. Adrian noticed their eyes all go wide. "Well, we've got a lot of stuff to unload; everyone might as well pitch in," he called, walking up to the first truck, "We can all do it together and have what passes for fun, just like friends and families seem to do together a lot, I think."