“Adrian,
I don’t think we’re supposed to be here.”
The
detective in question looked back over his shoulder and frowned.
His assistant- or keeper if he was being honest with himself, which
he usually wasn’t- was still tottering along behind him on
her high heels despite her trepidation.
Monk
was busy trying to pretend the walls weren’t there infecting
him with invisible cooties as he scooted along. “Maybe, but
if we want to know what really happened, we have to follow where
the evidence leads us. It led us here.”
The
here in question was an old warehouse, down in the Waterfront section
of San Francisco. It was grim in the dark, all shuttered windows
and gloomy lighting. It was also locked, but that had never stopped
Monk when he was on a case. And on a case he was. Randolf Litterman
died on Thursday and most people thought it was accidental death.
Not
Adrian Monk. He knew better. He knew that people just didn’t
fall over dead for no reason, not without some physical reason.
The medical examiner said she’d never seen anything like it
and Captain Stottlemeyer was inclined to believe her.
But
that didn’t mean it was an innocent death.
Oh,
no, not at all.
Because
Monk had found a clue in the dead man’s fingernails, which
led them here, carefully avoiding spider webs and carefully pretending
there were no spiders on them. Spiders were definitely on the list
of things that Monk just didn’t deal with. So they tiptoed
as quietly as a neurotic detective and his nurse assistant could
tiptoe, looking into windows as they went.
“There,
there! That’s where he was.”
Sharona
just looked at Monk. “It’s a chair.”
“Yes,
but it’s a particular kind of chair.” Monk blinked.
“And it’s glowing.”
He
turned puzzled eyes back to the woman at his side. “Sharona,
why is the chair glowing?”
Her
mouth agape, she had no response.
That
is, until three figures melted out from the shadows, looking more
than a little demented, with ridged brows and sharp teeth and –
“Aiieeee!”
Sharona was picked up by her entirely inappropriately short skirt
and slung over the shoulder of the first of the attackers.
“Adrian,
help me!”
“Shut
it, Snacky, I don’t like my food to talk.”
By
this time, Monk had revived himself from the shock of seeing fanged,
deformed thugs drooling in his direction- he wasn’t used to
drooling in his direction in any form, food related or otherwise-
and was attempting to scuttle away- without touching anything- as
the menacing monsters menaced him thoroughly.
It
was becoming more and more difficult to refrain from brushing up
against the grimy wall, and Sharona was being dragged further and
further away. He was just about to do something drastic- he hadn’t
decided what, as most options involved picking up the dirty old
boards lying around- when the creatures jumped him. He went down
with a thud and fully expected to lose a finger or two when he tried
to pry the certainly germ-filled mouth from his arm.
But
the strangest thing happened. The cretin pinning him down suddenly
evaporated into a pile of dust.
A pile
of dust that was all over Adrian Monk.
He
was so mortified he didn’t even hear the young woman asking
if he needed any help. He did notice an older gentleman crouching
down and handing him a clean and pressed hankie, which Monk grabbed
like it was salvation itself.
He
looked up, face distraught, and said. “There’s dust
on me.”
The
man frowned and pulled Monk to his feet by his elbow. “I’m
sure you’ve had quite a shock, Mr.-“
“Monk,
his name’s Adrian Monk, and I’m Sharona Fleming, his
assistant.” Sharona came wobbling his way, limping on one
broken high heel, helped by the young woman with short reddish hair.
“Mr.
Monk, my name is Rupert Giles, and this is Vi Roberts.”
Monk
just stared at his dust covered shirt, hands, legs, feet, skin,
nails, hair and said, “There’s dust on me.”
“That
happens sometimes.” Vi gave a lopsided grin. “But at
least you aren’t dead.”
Sharona
rolled her eyes. “You’d think. What were those things?”
Mr.
Giles frowned. “Nothing, but it’s not safe here. What
were you doing down here this time of night?”
Monk
grabbed the babywipe Sharona held out and began scrubbing. She sighed
and said, “A case. This guy, Randolf whatsisface got whacked
the other day, but no one believed us. They thought he just died
of bizarre natural causes. So we came to prove them wrong.”
Giles
and Vi exchanged glances. “Just died you say? Interesting.
Well, I shouldn’t worry about it now, Ms. Fleming-“
Sharona
batted her eyelashes. “Oh, call me Sharona. You have a lovely
accent.”
“Er,
quite. As I was saying, this has all been taken care of, and you
can rest assured no-one else is going to drop dead of unnatural
causes.” He removed his glasses and began to polish them furiously.
Sharona leaned a little closer and smiled. Giles polished faster.
Monk
finally decided to notice the world around him again and gave a
little shriek. The other three gave small jumps.
“What,
Adrian? What’s wrong?”
He
stared at her. “There’s slime on them, on their coats.
Green slime! It glows! You touched slime. Now you have to walk home.”
Sharona
put her hands on her hips. “Oh no you don’t, buddy.
You nearly leave me to get munched on by mister less-than-perfect-hygiene,
and now I have to walk home?”
Monk
gave her pitiful eyes and clutched his babywipe. “Slime, Sharona,
slime. And dust.”
Vi
gave Giles a look. “Okay, that’s weird. Usually they’re
all ‘oooo, we almost died, and ahhh, we have to run away now.’”
Giles
shook his head. “Somehow, I don’t think we rescued the
average victims, Vi.”
But
the detective and his assistant had already forgotten the strange
pair in their haste to leave the dreaded, dirty alley. Right now,
Monk was more than happy to go with unnatural natural causes for
death. Anything, really, if it meant Sharona would wipe some more
dust from Monk’s face.
She
smiled at him fondly. “Come on, Adrian, let’s get you
home and cleaned off.”
The
smile that spread across Monk’s face could rival the sun.
He gave a contented sigh, “No more dust.”
~Fin~
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