Author's Note
Doesn't anyone write anymore? I've been going insane with the lack of new 'Monk' fiction. That, coupled with the third-season reruns.
Look who's talking. Has it really been eight days?
Anyway – enjoy.
I'll go find solace in the first twelve episodes.
ALSO – I've been receiving quick responses to my updates, so I assume that many of my readers are online in the evenings. I'd love to chat with other Monk fans. If anyone's interested, feel free to drop an instant message (AOL) to Shaky Sleuth. I can also do MSN Messenger.
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Chapter Eight– "A Friend in Wolf's Clothing"
Several months ago...
The prospect of leaving the house to walk to the supermarket when he needed food, or toilet paper, or water, or – God forbid – pre-moistened wipes... alone every time, for the rest of his life, was enough to keep Monk indoors for as long as humanly possible. That is, until the barest of necessities was exhausted.
"Holy hell," Monk flung the shriveled plastic tube against the sink basin, watching as it hit the edge, spun once, and slid to a rest atop the open drain. His jaw clenched. It wouldn't be long before the crumpled thing — lying there, label facedown – would begin to feast on his nerves. Oh, God... He felt a distinct itch rise up the length of his fingers, and he shot a glance at the wastebasket. Hell, it was unsightly enough to go to an incinerator. He rolled his shoulders beneath the pristine white t-shirt just as the goddamned, pretentious reflection shining out at him from the mirror snagged his attention. Monk's eyes grazed the image, suddenly overwhelmed with disgust. Turning his hands so that his thumbs were on the outside of the sink, he clamped down hard on either side of its lip.
The dark, miserable eyes stared back at him.
He scowled. The image returned the favor.
"Do I really have a choice?" The reflection was regarded critically, as though he expected it to supply him with an answer. With a sharp shake of the head, his gaze drifted to the sink once more, "No—not really. I'm going." With his attention diverted by the uncomfortable prospect, Monk's resolve snapped. He reached to catch the edge of the toothpaste tube between his index and middle fingers, murmuring, "Just—alone. Very... alone." The empty container clunked against the bottom of the equally empty wastebasket. He swiftly went about washing his hands.
I'll go, but... after a shower, he decided. The towel was replaced on the rack once he'd dried his hands and carefully matched the corners to refold it. This done, he freed the ends of the shirt from his waistband and his fingers paused, stroking the edge, where the soft fabric was folded beneath with careful stitches.
Did I really sit up all night? Still dressed... I must have. Monk felt disoriented. As much as he willed its destruction, every broken point in the circle was a slug to the head.
The knowledge that he was still partially clad in the clothing of the previous day sent a feverish prickle over the surface of his body. He peeled the shirt away from his skin, tugged it over his head before placing it in the hamper, and went to the linen closet for a fresh towel.
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A stirring of comfort within Adrian Monk was, ironically, not uncommon. For example, the bite of fervent drops slapping into the nape of his neck and rolling down off his shoulders in searing rivulets proved to be one of the few touches he never thought to greet with revulsion. Cleanliness, after all, was the man's preferred state. His lids began to droop ever so slightly as a puff of steam lulled the detective into some free corner of his mind.
As his fingers probed the tray for the new bar of soap he had placed there, Monk was blissfully unaware that an uninvited guest was making use of his living room couch.
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An odd sort of deliberation found Monk standing at the exact center of his room, just below the foot of the bed, a navy robe draped over his shoulders and secured firmly around his waist. As inevitable as his indecisiveness was, it was on a rare occasion that it affected him when choosing his daily attire. Dressing – one of several things that Adrian Monk normally did very well. After an indeterminable number of moments had passed, he strode hesitantly toward his closet and, tugging an unparticular gray shirt off its hanger, set it beside the t-shirt, folded with a pair each of briefs and socks, on the comforter. I will survive this...
He had survived Trudy's murder – most of him had, anyway – so how would it look if he didn't make it through this? What would it mean? No one had died. No great tragedy had occurred. His nurse had decided to quit. That's it. But no, it wasn't.
"Who are you kidding? Swallow your pride for once, Monk. This whole damn... mess," he pulled at the collar of the robe before striking his fist against the bit of exposed chest, "Drove your best friend away."So that was it, plain and simple. The discussion seemed to be closed as he went about dressing in physical and emotional silence. The hush trailed him through the door, down the hall, and chose to desert him once he hit the living room.
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Monk froze mid-stride, his steady breath tapering off. If he'd a conscious audience, the sight might have been comical. His eyes were trained hard on the obvious distraction at the far side of the room: there was a man in his house, lying on his couch. Sprawled on his couch, actually. The intruder himself was rather nondescript – short and wiry with a head of buzzed gray hairs – but his wardrobe... now that was interesting. The folds of a monstrous oversized trench pooled about him, over the back of the couch where one arm disappeared and onto the floor below the resting place of the opposite elbow, which was exposed beneath turned-back sleeves. Beneath? He was perfectly accoutered in a mint-shaded tuxedo – a color that glided down his short length to a pair of flashy leather shoes. His eyelids were shut, and his lips parted slightly.
"Well, good morning," he called. The detective's ravenous, unparalleled perception was at work immediately. There was definitely an accent: heavy once but lightened by a childhood of mixed residences. Originally Austrian, maybe.
"Uhm..." Why was it that when he really needed them, the correct words were always just beyond his reach? He flailed about for a distraction. Monk's hands managed to beat down the paralysis, moving to work into place the buttons of the silver jacket he had thrown on over his sweater. "Uh... I-I-Hadn't," one button, "Really," two buttons, "Uh... Noticed." Three. But this wouldn't do. "You'll h-have to excuse... Actually, I have. I wouldn't—I wouldn't have chosen that particular word t-to describe it. It's a little... ominous. You know? With the dark... and—uh—the clouds... and strange—strange—men in my living room?" A single, hazel eye slid open to peer from across the room.
"Adrian Monk. Please – excuse me. Fair warning, I realize, would have been polite," he sat up, gathering the voluminous coat about him with some difficulty, "But courtesy will always be outweighed by caution." Monk favored the displaced cushions in dismay before pushing his voice around the lump in his throat.
"You wished me 'good morning." The man blinked, the tip of his thumb flicking at the edge of his earlobe.
"So I did. It didn't seem dangerous at the time, but..." he paused as Monk's attention was again diverted by the disheveled piece of furniture upon which he was perched, "I see now that I may have been mistaken. Now... I'm—" Monk's focus shifted.
"I know who you are. Why don't you tell me what you're doing on my couch?" The intruder's face was remarkably unexpressive, Monk noticed.
"You know...?"
"You're the guy that scared my assistant's kid half to death. Now – leave? Please?" The tortured ex-cop was beginning to find that rage was infinitely more piquant an emotion than fear – a revelation that itself frightened him. The man pointedly ignored the request.
"My name is Hugo Wolf." It, of course, rang as "Volf."
"The composer?"
"I'm—"
"Not a composer. I know. You're into an even more lucrative profession, I'll wager," the dark eyes came to rest upon the diamond cufflinks at his companion's wrists, "And Hugo Wolf has been dead for at least a hundred years." Wolf (the legitimacy of his name still questionable) rose and tossed off his coat.
"You are a genuinely cursed man, Mr. Monk; brilliant and, thus, cursed. I judge that you are long overdue for some good news. " The events of the previous forty-eight hours gave Monk's heart a painful kick. He winced, and could do nothing but take the bait.
"Wha—What news?" Monk began to fidget.
"Your wife passed away how long ago?"
"Nearly... ten—ten years."
"Ten years of searching for the butcher. If you'll give me a few moments to explain, I can assure you that there will never be an eleventh."