Once he is seated and has stopped his initial nervous fidgeting, I look over at him again. He's staring down at his feet, which are now bare, probably feeling extremely vulnerable. It's impossible to know what to say.

"Good job," I say to the petrified man. "You can lie down now, I'm going to sleep. I'm sorry for being mean to you earlier; I was just really fed up with this place. Goodnight." I turn over onto my left side and face away from him, hoping he won't get out of the bed and return to his pacing, insomniac state.

I hear some shifting and squeaking of the mattress, and I very slowly pull the covers to chest-level.

"Natalie," the curly-haired man says, and I turn over, watching him squirm in his upright position against the headboard. "I-I can't do this…"

"Yes you can," I say. "This is much easier to do then standing in front of hundreds of people on a stage or walking through a sewer." I grab his shirtsleeve and yank it gently. "Just… scoot down the bed, and lay back."

He's looking at me like I'm crazy. There's this blatantly obvious look of fear in his eyes, which are now wild with horror.

"Please… Mr. Monk…. You need your sleep. Please… just lay down…." I'm turning into a beggar, but I'm really tired and don't think I can take more of his indecisiveness.

He shifts his butt down the bed a bit, but is still sitting straight-backed on the motel's blanket.

"You should get under the sheets," I say, with a bit of motherly sternness. "They are much cleaner than the blanket is."

He pulls his sleeves down over his hands and uses one hand to prop his body up, and the other to yank the covers towards the foot of the bed. Another uncomfortable-looking movement, and the sheets are covering his feet. Now he's stuck. He's going to be under the same sheets that I'm under, oh my…. I'm getting a headache from rolling my eyes so much at the absurdity of the situation….

I turn away from him again, and can tell he is pulling the sheets up to his waist. He's still seated; I can see his shadow on the wall from the moonlit window.

"Natalie," he mutters, almost at a whisper, "could you pull the covers up?"

I flip onto my back, giving him a bit of a glare. "What are you talking about?"

"Your shoulders…" He points at them. "They're bare…."

"So?" I sigh deeply.

"They are… nakedish…."

"I'll cover up if you lay down," I state flatly.

He begins to slowly sink into the bed as I watch him from my low vantage point flat upon the mattress. Once he is lying fully on the mattress I turn over once more, hopefully for the last time, and pull the covers up around my neck. I usually snuggle in them anyway, but the room is a bit too stuffy and warm for my taste.

"Goodnight, Natalie," he whispers, turning onto his right side, away from me.

"Goodnight, A—Mr. Monk," I say, almost slipping. I hear him chuckle in a deep voice. Apparently my flub-up is funny to him, but at least he's comfortable enough to find humor in it.

"You know," he says. "Now that we are going to be… 'sleeping' together… you can call me Adrian—that is, if you'd like to…."

I smile at his comment. He really can be, what do you call it, sweet, when he wants to be. "Alright then," I murmur. "Goodnight, Adrian."

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Trudy has joined me tonight, in the flesh, the detective muses, gazing lovingly at the silhouette of his wife and her tousled blonde hair spread out over her pillow. Oh, God, how much I've missed her…She always has and always will mean everything in the world to me, and now she's returned to me, hopefully for good… I have to touch her; I have to feel her once again, her warmth against me, her breathing in rhythm with my own. Oh, we had such a connection, a beautiful, perfect connection. I'll never forget each night I spent with her in those seven wonderful years, and all the love we shared… holding hands all night, embracing each other until we awoke the next glorious and perfect morning. She's really truly here with me…

He watches the side of his wife rise and fall rhythmically as she breaths the night air quietly in her dreaming state. She's even breathing with me now, as we share our bed once more. He slides silently and stealthily across the bed, as cautiously as possible so as not to wake his beloved Trudy. Ever so discreetly, he slips his arm around his wife, and feels her soft curves once more, letting his hand find the spot where he had always placed it each night. She sighs quietly, snuggling up to him, her mouth curled into a smile, as he nestles against her body, breathing in the scent of her hair, which always did possess a characteristic odor that still remains in the pillow she had used. He is well acquainted with that scent, for he takes time to smell it every night at home, before he goes to sleep. Everything is so perfect, lying next to her, as it had always been when she was still with me. If I can continue this dream forever, please let me never wake again…

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I feel the soft warmth of breathing on the back of my neck, and a gentle shifting of the covers as the sleeping man snuggles up behind me. It is Mitch, and his body fits perfectly with mine, for there he is, barely making bodily contact with me, yet radiating a cozy heat along the length of my entire body. It is heaven, this feeling of peace that his presence gives me; I'm back home with him in our bed, under the patchwork quilts that his mother had stitched for us as a gift on our wedding day. The mere sensations of his body pressed against mine brings back the flood of feelings I have been pushing away for so long, and I smile with a peacefulness I haven't been able to find in years.

With extreme delicacy and gentleness, he drapes an arm softly around my waist, and I can feel the fabric of his shirt lightly rubbing against my warmed skin. Ever so slowly, his hand runs along my hip, eventually establishing itself at my midriff, and I get the old-fashioned chills that I've missed so very much. I snuggle into his warmth, allowing him to bury his face in my hair and breathe silently on the back of my neck. All those perfect nights Mitch and I spent together, and now I'm able to experience one more…. What did I do, to deserve such a perfect moment once more? Such sweet breath I feel emanating from Mitch, with its pepperminty smell streaming through my hair at each quiet expiration. I smile, taking the joy and comfort of his presence in one last time….

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I wake the next morning feeling extremely well rested and satisfied. It has been quite awhile since I've gotten such fulfilling sleep. There even seems to be a glow about me, for I can feel that my face is flushed, warmed within the nest-like confines of the bedcovers. An arm is around my waist, and a body is pressed up against my own. Lifting the covers slightly, I notice the maroon sleeve and the man's hand in the hollow of my stomach, and am automatically confused, but so comfortable where I am that I don't feel like getting out of this position.

It is then that the man behind me stirs, smacking his lips together quietly as he slowly regains consciousness. He hasn't moved his arm yet, but snuggles into my neck and sighs one more time before straightening his body out, for his knees had been bent at the same angle as mine. I turn my head slightly to figure out who exactly is behind me, when he clears his throat and sighs vocally. Oh my God, it's Adrian Monk, my boss! I wonder how long we've been in this position! Did we sleep all night like this?

I must twitch slightly in my immediate panic, for he soon yelps, yanking his arm away from me and distancing himself from me on the other side of the bed. I sit up partially, facing him as he gapes at me in horror and embarrassment. I attempt to compose myself quickly. I mean, it wasn't so bad… I was very comfortable, I woke up completely refreshed and happy, and he is very pleasant to sleep wi—Wait, he's my employer, and he's obsessive-compulsive and terribly germaphobic, so why was he so close to me? He had to come all the way over here from his side of the bed to touch me, and then he puts his arm around me…. Maybe that's why he was so adamant on us sleeping apart…. So I take it he likes me… maybe?

"Adrian, it's alright," I manage to stutter, finding myself breathing heavily as I speak. He's still in panic mode, gawking at me and panting like a disobedient dog, as he uses his left hand to rub his right sleeve.

"You did nothing wrong," I say, pulling the covers up to chest-level again, for they slipped down when he jerked away.

"Yes, I did," he mutters, with zombie-like composure. "I had no right to—"

"You were sleeping when you did it, Adrian," I reassure him. "You had no idea what you were doing."

"It doesn't matter," he replies, shaking his head and swallowing hard. "I crossed the line—"

"No you didn't," I say. "I slept just fine –the best sleep I've gotten in a long time, actually—and nothing happened."

He bows his head, staring down at his legs. "I slept well too… the entire night, for once…." He allows his voice to trail off as his face reddens.

I smile at him. "Well, see there? It helped us both sleep. Now what's the harm in that?" I'm still feeling a bit strange, uncertain of how to look at him now. Every time I close my eyes, even for a split second, I can feel the extremely gentle and warm embrace of my widowed employer, and how perfect and natural it felt.

"You'll probably leave me now, won't you?" he says, ashamed of himself. "I-I guess I can… understand if you wa—"

"No, I'm not going to leave you," I say, sounding a little too insistent. "Especially not over something as harmless as that." Pulling myself up to a seated position, I lean towards him. "Adrian, what you did in your sleep tells me a lot about you—" He's gaping at me now in anxious anticipation—"and it's all good, so please don't worry about it anymore, okay?"

I can see him visibly relax, allowing his shoulders to go slack as he lets out a long breath of air. He's now smiling, and his whole face is infiltrated with the relief he must feel at my comment, even though his eyes seem distant.

"Are you telling me the truth?" he asks me, averting his distant gaze for a split second.

"Yes, completely," I reply quickly. I make an 'x' over my chest, in the old childlike fashion. "Cross my heart and hope to die, it's the truth." This conversation is getting way too intense for my liking, for the little comments and postures he is making are affecting me a bit too much for some reason. I glance over at the alarm clock for a change of pace, and see that it is only 7:30 in the morning. "Why don't we go back to sleep?" I ask him in the best gravelly morning voice I can conjure. "It's too early…."

"No…" he states. "I… can't…. I—uhm—have to do… some things…." His smile is appearing on and off, and it seems to me that he doesn't know what to think either.

I watch him search for his shoes that he has positioned by the side of the bed, and then he attempts a lying position to grab his footwear without having to touch the floor. I have to stifle a giggle at the silly pose he is making as he extends his arm to the ground, grunting with exertion. Eventually he grabs his shoes, slips them onto his bare feet, and shuffles over to the suitcase then to the bathroom with the clothes he chose for himself.

He closes the door behind him only one time and I sigh loudly, realizing that the earlier we get started, the better, and so I should get up as well. Maybe he'll figure this case out before tonight, although I'm not quite sure if I want that…. Gosh, what is wrong with me?

After about fifteen minutes, he emerges from the bathroom smelling strongly of some kind of cologne. I had never known him to wear cologne, although he always does smell good in his own subtly fresh way.

Grumbling in the gravelly voice, I slip on my shoes and grab my shampoo/conditioner bottle, heading quickly into the bathroom. If I think too much about last night, I'll drive myself insane.

I see that the two towels used last night are identical, and can't remember for the life of me which side I happened to put mine on. They have both dried considerably, so there's no way to tell, but, heck, I'm not going to say anything to him.

I kneel down in front of the spigot and turn on the taps. It's amazing how well the stainless steel came clean, for it looks brand new. The water soon heats up to the desired temperature, and I duck my head under, to begin.

All of a sudden, Adrian comes bursting in the room, almost tripping on me, making me jerk my head and hit the underside of the spigot.

"Oww," I mumble, rubbing the knot that has started to form on my scalp, and turning to look at the new impulsive Monk.

Apparently this scene of me kneeling by the tub is too much for him to bear. "Wha—what are you doing?" He's scared to death. "Why are you bent over the t—"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" I remark. Can't he see that my head is soaking wet, and the bottle of shampoo is sitting by my hand? Watching his silent and wide-mouthed response, it is then that I realize he actually has no idea what I'm doing, or else is assuming something much worse.

"I'm washing my hair," I say, holding the bottle up. "I didn't wash it last night, so I'm doing it this way to avoid taking a complete shower again."

"Wh-what's wrong with more than one shower?" he asks, looking offended.

"Nothing is wrong with it, I just don't want to take the time." Hopefully I've answered his question. "Why did you come in here?" I ask earnestly. It strikes me as strange that he didn't even knock before he came in. Was he expecting me to be taking a shower? Oh gosh, my head is spinning….

"I—uhm—the guests…there was another death last night…they—they're all talking about it in the hallway…." He's signaling frantically towards the hallway, and he takes a couple of steps back, realizing he's still wearing his shoes on the clean floor.

"Alright," I reassure him as nicely as I can, with the new pain throbbing in my head, "I'll be out really soon."

"Well…" he stutters, "I ca—Captain Stottlemeyer said I can't leave the room without you…. So please hurry up…."

I squeeze the shampoo/conditioner combination into my hand, and rub it into my hair as he continues to stand above me in the doorway. Apparently he's a bit distressed watching this personal grooming, so he shuts the door, leaving the room completely after only a few seconds of my hair-washing routine.

I finish up washing and drying my hair in record time, and head out into the main room, where the detective has been fixing the bed. We pack some notebooks, writing utensils, and extra wipes into my oversized purse and head out into the main hallway. I then remember that I don't have my car keys, and immediately my mood is changed.

"Adrian," I state, as we close the room door behind us, "I think that the captain had someone take my keys, because I most certainly don't have them, as we found out last night."

"What are we supposed to do then? I need to get out of this motel," he says in a clear, urgent tone. I don't know what to say to him.

"Well, let's try to call him," I say. "Do you have your cell phone with you?"

"Uhm… it doesn't work out here," he mutters, fidgeting in his pant pocket. "Does yours?"

I turn around and unlock the room door, getting my cell phone out of yesterday's pair of jeans. There are no reception bars on it. I shake my head.

"We're going to have to use the room phone," I say. "You may as well come back in here."

"But—room phones only call locally. San Francisco is too far away—"

"It's alright, Adrian," I say. Wow, it feels a lot better to refer to him using his first name. It's as if we're on the same plane, which may or may not be a good thing for him. "I have a calling card."

I use the calling card to dial up the station, where Disher answers the phone. He assures me that neither he nor Stottlemeyer had anyone take the keys to the Grand Cherokee, with my house keys on the same damn keyring….

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I hang up the phone in disbelief, angrily staring at a stain on the carpet as I scratch my head. Adrian is gaping at me from his spot on the threshold, clutching the handle of my purse as if it's going to rescue him from certain death.

"I don't get it," I mumble. "He says they didn't take the keys…."

"You mean—" the detective begins— "you don't know where they are then? We're going to have to stay here!"

"Well, they have to be around here somewhere…" I say, walking over to my suitcase and delving into its contents, throwing clothes everywhere in the process.

"We're stuck here then, in this mote-hell," he grumbles. "I knew it!" He's shaking his head like a stubborn mule, waving the purse around. "That's how the captain planned on getting rid of me for good, sticking me in this dump forever…."

"Now, you know that's not true," I pipe up, noticing his clever pun, 'motel' to 'mote-hell.' "He adores you; the whole department looks up to you." I glance around the room, making a complete circle in the process, as the detective stares on expressionlessly. "The keys have got to be somewhere in this room…. " I suddenly remember the fight for the keys that had occurred last night, and it setting the car alarm off. For some unknown reason neither of us had happened to remember that.

After searching through my luggage, patting down the bedsheets and pile of bedding, and opening every drawer of the dresser, nightstand, and medicine cabinet, even peering behind the furniture, I find that my efforts are fruitless. However, in my search for my keys, I have realized that my compact is missing as well—all my makeup, in fact. My makeup bag itself has disappeared, along with my change purse.

I stand in the center of the room for a few seconds staring blankly as I think deeply about last night's events. Where the hell is my makeup bag?

The detective clears his throat and twitches his shoulders, approaching me. I then realize that I never did check his luggage, and I hastily cross over to it and open it up. After turning over a few bagged pillowcases, I find my makeup bag, buried between his pajama sets. I'm sure that the keys have to be in here as well.

A hand grabs my upper arm and yanks me away from the suitcase. "Wh-what do you think you're doing?" he asks me, irritated to no end. "Y-you can't j-just dig through my stuff…. That's personal…"

"Personal?" I say defiantly. "A pillowcase is personal? I saw your pajamas last night, so they're no longer personal." I pull myself towards his bag again, noticing my change purse between two bags of socks. "I'll bet my keys are in your bag," I state, jerking out of his grip. I wave the makeup bag and the change purse in front of his face. "See, I've already found these."

I begin to dig into his suitcase, and he's probably staring on in horror, but I don't care, and I don't look behind me, where he's standing right now. I'm being careful not to wrinkle anything; besides, it's impossible to anyway. Every article of his clothing is bagged separately, and is completely flat in even piles. After I sift between the flattened pairs of socks in baggies, I stack them up on top of my closed suitcase. He's whining and moaning in a tortured voice, but I can't feel bad for him right now.

"J-jus-just let me do it," he says, shoving me forcefully aside with an elbow, after I reach what appears to be a stack of underwear, each as white as the driven snow and folded in neat little baggies. He turns his back to me, blocking my view of whatever he's trying to hide, and soon lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Did you find them?" I quip, crossing my arms as I stand by the window. I turn around to glance at his back, and his shoulders fall. Yep. I was right.

"Yes, they're here," he says, turning around with my keyring on the tip of his index finger. He's not making eye contact with me, but I figured he'd be too embarrassed or disgusted to do so, once he found them.

This whole process is taking way too long. I approach him quickly and snatch the keys away as I make my way to the door. After grabbing my purse from the bed, we head out.

There are probably a dozen people in the hallway, discussing their 'ghostly' encounters in hushed whispers, and our arrival from the room causes them all to stop what they are doing and stare at us.

One middle-aged man in a group of about five speaks up first. "So, did you see the 'ghost' last night?" he questions in an exaggerated spooky tone of voice.

"Uhm… no, we didn't," the detective mutters uncomfortably. "Apparently you all did."

The group of guests collectively nod. I pull out the notepad and a pen, ready to take notes for Adrian's group interview.

"Can anyone tell me about the images you saw?" he asks, a little embarrassed by the enraptured crowd around him.

"Well, it was one image really, just flashed on the screen a couple of times," a man mumbles from the back.

"It was a woman, probably in her mid-eighties. Looked like she was in a hospital bed or something," a college-age man adds.

"Is there anything about the woman that can help us identify her?" the detective asks the group.

"She was… very frail; her eyes were closed, and she had really thin white hair," a woman timidly remarks. "She seemed to be dead already; did anyone else notice that too?" She turns to the crowd, enjoying having the attention on her.

There are collective nods and yesses from the crowd and its extremely variable array of members. Most of the guests here are probably in their twenties, but there are also some middle-aged people, and some who seem to be even older. Most are dressed completely in black, I happen to notice.

"Alright then, let me get this straight," Monk begins. "A frail old woman in a hospital bed was seen last night?"

Another round of nods of agreement, and the detective turns to me, a puzzled look on his face. "What is so profound about the death of a frail old woman in a hospital? I thought these were astounding homicide cases…. Someone could have taken that picture before she died," he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

A few of the guests are paying rapt attention, and they speak up in turn. "It was really creepy," one says. "The time of death, 4:30 am, was displayed under the picture, and she really did look dead," another adds.

"Okay, okay," Monk turns around, obviously flustered by the attention. "Did anyone notice anything else about the picture, besides the woman herself?"

"Well, the sheets she was laying in said diagonally across them 'Property of Mohave Valley Hospital,'" a middle-aged woman states.

"Interesting…." the detective mutters. He looks over at me, as I feverishly write the woman's observations. "Now, did any of you happen to notice when you saw this… thing…."

"It was about quarter 'til 4," one guest states.

"No it wasn't," a man grumbles. "It was twenty 'til."

"I checked, and it was exactly 3:47 am," yet another argues.

"I clocked the image at 3:47 as well, Harry," a scruffy guy states, apparently knowing the other guest.

"Nah, it was about ten 'til for me," a woman breathlessly adds.

A skinny man steps out of his room nearby. "I saw it at 1:30," he proudly exclaims. The whole group turns and gapes at him, and he bursts out laughing. "Just kidding, guys," he chuckles. "I've only been here one night."

The detective turns to me. "You getting these all down, Natalie?" he asks me coolly.

"Yep," I say, continuing to scribble the various times on the paper.

"So I take it, everyone who saw the image has stayed at this motel for more than one night," he comments. The guests nod, throwing out numbers like 2 and 3 and 4 nights. "Was there a… sighting… the night before last?" he asks, having noticed the larger, 'non-2' numbers in the mix. You'd think they'd be satisfied, seeing one 'ghost.'

"Nope," a man in slippers states, shaking his head. "I've been here three nights now, and this is the first time I've seen one."

Other people soon pipe in. "The ghosts don't happen every night, or every other night. It's pretty sporadic," a gothic-dressed guest mentions.

"Well, how long have you been here?" the detective asks the skinny bespectacled man wearing solid black from head to toe.

"I've been here… a week and a half now…. I've seen…" He uses his fingers to count—"five ghosts."

"Five?" the detective is disturbed by this amount. "Did you notice any… pattern, at all?"

"Nope. I saw one my… second night… and my fourth and fifth… seventh as well… and last night, was the tenth night I've been here. I didn't see anything my first night, but others claim to have seen one…."

"Don't you realize that you don't see ghosts the first night?" a short bald guy retorts.

The comment is so absurd that I almost burst out laughing. These people are all sheep, wanting to get a bit of excitement in their lives. It's too bad they have to go about seeking out 'ghosts' at some dump in the middle of nowhere to get their kicks….

"Does anyone recognize this woman, or know where this 'Mohave Valley' hospital is?" Monk asks the group again, seeking to break up the banter that has now commenced between the two male guests.

"Nope, never heard of it," is heard, as well as various other negatives to both questions. The detective turns to me.

"We have to call Captain Stottlemeyer, and find out where this hospital is. Then we can find out about the victim; maybe this death is linked to the others…."

I nod, and we wave off the crowd and head back into the motel room. Once inside, we contact the captain, and the detective first mentions the whereabouts of the Mohave Valley Hospital. In order for both of us to pick up on the information, we put him on speaker phone.

"The Mohave Valley Hospital is in… Bullhead City, Arizona," the captain says, obviously referring to computer data, for I can hear typing in the background.

"Did anyone die there today?" Adrian asks. There is a pause on the line, as Stottlemeyer instructs the lieutenant to call the hospital. We wait for two minutes or so in anticipation, and soon the captain is back on the line.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, a woman by the name of Virginia Becker passed away early this morning at… 4:30 am. She was 85…. Also, a man named Bu—"

Monk interrupts him, the information registering in his brain. "Do they know anything else about this woman; how she happened to die?"

There's another decently long pause. "Well, she had been in the hospital for a decently long time; she had congestive heart failure…. Apparently, she died of… hmph…" he snorts. "No surprise there. Natural causes." His curiosity is piqued now. "What, was she the 'ghost' last night?"

"Yes," the detective replies. "None of the guests know her, and they said it looked like she had already been dead in the image. They claim to have seen the image from about 3:40 to 3:50 this morning."

"So the image flashed across the screen for ten minutes?" the captain asked.

"No," Monk mutters. "Some of the guests saw it… before other guests…. It's kind of spread out how they happened to see the picture."

"Strange.…" the captain mumbles. "What do you think, Monk?"

"I'm not sure," the detective responds, deep in thought. "How far away is this hospital? Maybe I should go there and—"

"You'd better not, Monk," the captain replies. "It's almost 275 miles—more than 6 hours—one way. You need to be at the motel tonight, because apparently these sightings can happen at any time…."

"I'm well aware of that," the detective snaps back, irritated. "Why am I here then, if I can't go to the victims themselves?"

"You are there to analyze the image, and figure out where these damn things have been coming from, and why. We're not here to make these deaths homicides, understand? First things first."

"—But the images had the precise time of death under them," Monk adds. "Someone had to be acutely aware of when these people passed away, and I can only think of one type of person who would be found in a hospital at 4:30 in the morning to witness the deaths…."

"A nurse…." Stottlemeyer completes the sentence. "But why?"

"I'm not sure…."


Personally, this was my favorite chapter to write. What do YOU think? I value your opinion!