Ink

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Okay, so are we investigating a crime? I never saw ‘theft of memories’ in any list of felonies.”

  “Statutory crime?” mused Crow. “Probably not. Morally? If this was somehow a deliberate act—and do not ask me how because I have no freaking idea—then this is definitely an infliction of real harm. You know, Mike, I’ve been thinking about what it would be like if someone stole Val’s tattoos and her memories of the kids.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Mike sharply, then his eyes went hard and cold. “This is rape. Of a kind, I mean. Someone’s taking something precious that the victims do not want taken. Maybe not by force, but…”

  He trailed off, the point made. They drained their cups and took one last refill. Outside the rain fell and the distant thunder mocked them with its deep laughter.

  Crow’s phone rang and he looked at the screen display. Both of his eyebrows rose and he showed the phone to Mike so he could read the name. Then he punched the button and said, “Well, well, Jonatha … you’re just the person I was thinking about calling.”

  “Let me guess,” said the professor, “it’s about memories and ink, isn’t it?”

  103

  Monk drove out of Pine Deep and turned onto serpentine Alternate State Route A-32, which took him through farm country and past the place where he’d spent the other night in his car. There were two bridges branching off—one crossed the Delaware into Jersey and the other spanned a canal and emptied onto Route 32, which ran like a knobbed backbone from Easton all the way down to Point Pleasant. It was longer than cutting immediately over to 611, but it was prettier and Monk needed something pretty. The trees along the way were almost too fiery to look at, and the roadside grass was still a deep summer green. The cold of autumn seemed unable to sink its claws into the landscape. But that changed once he turned southwest onto 232. It seemed the farther he got from Pine Deep the more the season was successful in leaching colors from the leaves. By the time he reached Doylestown everything was brown and all the grass was dead and withered.

  He wasn’t sure what to read into that. Pine Deep was a colder, older, and demonstrably creepier place but managed to look like fucking Narnia, while the saner and more welcoming parts of eastern Pennsylvania looked like the suburbs of Chernobyl.

  His phone rang as he approached the outskirts of the town’s busy business district. It was Twitch. Monk punched the button.

  “I’m rolling into D-town right now,” he said by way of answering. Not precisely a lie.

  “Okay,” said the lawyer, “but that wasn’t why I called. Two things. First, how’s Patty?”

  Monk gave him the lowdown. Twitch made sympathetic noises.

  “She really doesn’t remember her kid?”

  “Not totally, but enough that it’s going to wreck her if it continues.”

  “And it’s not a concussion? Traumatic amnesia, something like that?”

  “Doctors say no.”

  “Well … hell. And no idea what happened to her tattoo? She spill some kind of chemical on her hand that dissolves ink? I’m fishing here, not even sure that’s a thing.”

  “It’s not a thing,” said Monk. “It’s not laser surgery, either.”

  He did not mention his own missing tattoo or the rest of the mystery. Twitch was not in the circle of trust of people who knew Monk’s secrets. Not those kinds of secrets anyway.

  “You should go talk to some other tattoo artists,” suggested Twitch. “It’s a community of sorts, right? Somebody might know something.”

  “That’s what I’m doing right now,” Monk said. “You said there were two things…?”

  “Oh, yeah, I had a call from Pine Deep Chief of Police Malcolm Crow.” He gave Monk the bones of the conversation. “I asked around and he gets a clean bill of health when it comes to corruption. Stand-up guy, my sources tell me, but they also said he’s a bit of a weirdo.”

  “Pine Deep,” said Monk.

  “That’s pretty much what people say. They should make that a meme. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that they also say he is not to be fucked with.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Whoever said that is someone you should listen to.”

  After the call, Monk wormed his way through crooked streets that seemed to have been arranged with no actual plan. Duncan had said the tattoo parlor where he’d gotten his tattoo was called INKredible. Might have been amusing on any other day.

  He found it and pulled up out front, but the windows were dark and there was a CLOSED sign hanging crooked between drawn blinds and glass. He went over to knock anyway, in the hopes the owner was in there somewhere. No response. Monk cursed under his breath and started to turn away, but stopped and turned back. Something was niggling at him but it was so small that it barely registered. He leaned close and placed his ear to the door glass. Nothing. He knocked again, three sharp raps; listened more.

  There it was. A faint buzzing sound, hard to hear, and it took him a bit to decide if it was the sound of an artist’s ink gun. It wasn’t. Close, but … no. Then he realized the sound was both closer and smaller than he thought. He raised his eyes and saw that a couple of fat flies were caught between the blinds and the door glass, their tiny wings making the buzz.

  “Shit,” he said and stalked back to his car. There were no posted hours, though when Monk checked the INKredible website on his phone it listed hours from ten to eight. Nothing about being closed, or opening late. It was less of a mystery than it was a pain in the ass.

  He decided to wait for a while, but didn’t relish another vigil in his car. There was a bar two doors up and on the other side of an alley that led to a parking lot.

  The bar was called The Dog. There was no picture of any breed of dog on the sign or window. Those windows didn’t look like they’d been cleaned since Hector was a pup, and most of the neon beer signs were dusty and dead. As he approached he could hear the thump-thump of a bass from inside. Canned music.

  He went in.

  The place was dark as pockets and smelled of old beer, testosterone, cleaning products, and fried meat. It wasn’t the kind of place to have a doorman or require a cover. No live music, no dancers. Just a bunch of lumpy guys hunched over beers or shooters, heads bent forward in conversation or leaning into their own murky thoughts. Monk had been in a thousand places like this in countries all over the world. There was an undercurrent of anger, disappointed dreams, and frustration, and the cleanup guy every night would likely be mopping up tears and blood as much as spilled beer.

  He went to the bar and was pleasantly surprised to see a very pretty Mexican woman wiping the counter. At first glance he thought she was late twenties but as she stepped up he added fifteen years. Good years, in terms of how fit and lovely she was, but every day of those years was there in her dark-brown eyes. Her red lips smiled but there was pain in her eyes so old that it was a defining characteristic. Some small scars, too, and a bit of challenge.

  “Thirsty?” she asked, then a half beat later added, “Or on the prowl?”

  He sat on the stool farthest from anyone else—an old man who appeared to be asleep, nodding over a schooner of dark beer, and a biker type methodically punching a message into his phone.

  “You got any IPAs with bite?”

  “You know Albatross? Out of Pittsburgh.” When Monk shook his head, the bartender poured him a sample. Monk tried it and it was hoppy as all hell. He nodded and she pulled a tall glass for him. Her hands went through the motions automatically, but those dark eyes kept flicking back to Monk. Trying to read him. He liked her enough to keep his eyes steady and let her figure out whatever she could. He was impressed she’d already pegged him as being on the job.

  She came and stood in front of him, with the bar-top between them. Dozens of beer mugs and shot glasses drying on a rack, stacked bowls for nuts and pretzels. Big jar of pickles—something Monk hadn’t seen in a tavern in years—and a stack of food-stained plastic-coated menus.

  “You here to caus
e me some trouble?” she asked.

  “You? No.”

  “I work here. Need the shifts and the tips and I can’t get either if you bust the place up or shut us down.”

  Monk sipped his beer and shook his head. “No badge.”

  “Chasing a skip?”

  “Most days, but not today,” he said. “Came to see the guy who runs INKredible, but his shop’s closed.”

  The woman grunted. “Spider? Yeah, well, he’s a little weird. Semiretired, so he isn’t always nine to five.”

  “He’s closed now.”

  “Give it time.” Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want him for? He in trouble?”

  “Nah, just following up on something,” said Monk. “Thought he might have something I could use for the case I’m working. Not here for anything else.”

  One of her eyebrows rose a tenth of an inch.”Really? Nothing else?”

  They smiled at each other.

  “Name’s Monk,” he said.

  “Sandy,” she replied and offered a small, cool hand. Strong, though. She was a petite woman, but not frail or delicate. She wore a silver blouse with the bar’s name on the right breast, and a pair of very tight black stretch jeans over sneakers. Lots of intricate and symbolic silver jewelry. Great lines, and a lot of tone. Moved well, stood easy.

  Monk found that he liked Sandy. More than her looks, too. There was a kindred thing that Monk was always sensitive to. This Sandy was another child of the storm lands. Like Patty. Like him.

  He thought he saw the awareness in her eyes, too, but she didn’t lower the drawbridge. If he was a woman in this fucked-up world, he wouldn’t, either.

  “It’s weird. Spider sometimes keeps crazy hours, but he’s here more than not. If he’s closed up it’s usually for a bathroom run or shopping. Or eating over here. Mostly, though, he’s in the shop,” she said. “Ever since his wife died a few years back that place is his whole life. Even on slow days he’s open. Or he hangs a note for people to come in here to find him.”

  “That’s brave. Telling people to find a needle-jockey in a bar.”

  Sandy laughed. Musical, but rich. Despite the hurt in her eyes, she knew how to laugh and there was some freedom in it. Her pain, he thought, lived in her skin but did not own her.

  “Actually, Spider doesn’t drink. He goes to meetings sometimes, you know? And before you ask, he comes in here for the fish and chips. I brew a pot of decaf for him and he sits right here at the bar. He has a lot of friends here. Local guys and such. And he picks up work here from those bikers.”

  She leaned a little on the word, and kept her voice low. Monk nodded. He’d spotted four customers with biker colors when he came in. One sitting at the bar and three at a table in the far corner. All of them Cyke-Lones. He filed that away as useful because Gus, the guy Twitch wanted found, rolled with them sometimes. The fleeting hope arose that there was a connection between Duncan and Gus, but it dissipated. Nothing in life was that convenient. He tried it on Sandy anyway.

  “Hey, you know a guy goes by the name Gus? Sometimes Dirty Gus. Runs with the Cyke-Lones.”

  He watched her face, saw the shutters drop behind her eyes. “You trying to game me, Monk?”

  “No,” he said honestly. “I asked because I have another case and it involves this guy Gus. He’s a biker and you got cats from the same club here. Taking a long shot.”

  She considered that and her reserve lifted a tiny bit. “I heard of him.”

  “Heard of him or know him?”

  She shrugged. “He comes in sometimes. Not here now. He’s mostly here late on Friday or Saturday, so I don’t think you’ll see him.”

  “Ah well,” said Monk. “Had to ask. Maybe I’ll come back on Friday.”

  “Maybe I’ll be working, too.”

  Sandy took a rag and wiped at a spot on the counter that didn’t need wiping. The jukebox was by the door, so the sound of Korn screaming “Freak on a Leash” didn’t drown out the conversation they were having. When she spoke, she did it without raising her voice and without looking at him.

  “It’s not Dirty Gus or even just Gus anymore.” Her eyes flicked to the other patrons at the far end of the bar, but the old man was still asleep and the biker was now talking on his phone, arguing with someone about a late child support payment he insisted had been dropped off in cash.

  “Okay,” said Monk quietly.

  “Goes by Earl.”

  “That’s his middle name.”

  “He’s not the brightest person I ever met,” said Sandy, a small smile there and gone. “Comes in here now and then. Not a regular.” She paused. “You’re a lot more likely to see Spider walk through the door. Stick around, Mr. Monk, and I bet he’ll be here soon.”

  Monk took a chance. “Should I stick around?”

  Now her eyes rose to meet his. There were questions in them. There was uncertainty and some fear, too. But something else as well. The question she asked took him off guard. It was so layered and insightful that it cut him to the heart. It was the right question to ask of someone like him.

  “Am I going to be sorry if you do?”

  Monk didn’t smile because he knew he wasn’t good-looking enough to make a smile look charming. Instead he let her take a second, longer look into his eyes.

  “I hunt bad guys, Sandy,” he said, “and that’s all I hunt.”

  Again he caught a lot of different things flickering in her eyes. Some people had eyes like that—deeper than you could swim, but often worth drowning in.

  “Then stick around,” she said.

  104

  Gayle was working late, sorting through lesson plans submitted by the teachers and enjoying the utter stillness of the school when everyone was gone.

  Her phone vibrated, and when she saw the number her heart jumped. It was her. Flash images of Dianna exploded in her mind—those dark eyes and the side of her throat, the shape of her lips, and the cool touch of her fingers.

  She cut a look to make sure her office door was closed and then answered the call.

  “Hi,” she said in a voice that was more hoarse and husky than intended.

  “Is this Gayle?” asked a stranger’s voice. Accented. Asian?

  “Who’s calling?” Gayle said, forcing herself to suddenly sound official. She double-checked the number on the display and it was Dianna’s phone.

  “My name’s Patty Trang,” said the caller. “I own the tattoo shop on Boundary Street. You know the one?”

  “I do. Why are you calling me on Dianna’s phone?”

  “She’s here with me,” said Patty, “and we’re hoping you can come to my store as soon as possible.”

  “Why?” asked Gayle, all of her defenses up.

  There was a rustle and a new voice came on the line. “Gayle?”

  “Dianna? What’s going on?”

  “Gayle, I need your help and I need it right now. Can you get away? Are you home?”

  “I’m at work, at the school…”

  “Oh, really? Okay. Can you get away, though? It’s important.”

  “What’s going on? You’re being weird and it’s scaring me.”

  “I’m scared, too, Gayle, but … after the other night … after we … you know … do you trust me? Can you trust me?”

  It was such a strange thing to ask and the practical side of Gayle wanted to end the call and block the number. Whatever this was had nothing to do with her, of that she was sure. And yet …

  There was such a deep vulnerability in Dianna’s voice.

  “Are you safe? Are you in trouble? Should I call someone? Nine-one-one?”

  “No,” said Dianna quickly. “They can’t help. This is not that kind of thing.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Please,” begged Dianna. “Please come over.”

  Gayle had a dozen reasons to say no, all of them practical, sensible, and safe.

  She said, “I’ll be right there.”

  105

  Monk nursed a second
beer and let the minutes burn off. He wanted a cigarette and didn’t think Sandy would yell at him for smoking, but he hadn’t bought a fresh pack and was half-ass glad of that.

  Half an hour in, his phone rang. He saw that it was Jonatha, so he told Sandy he’d be right back and stepped outside to take the call.

  “Hey, Professor,” he said, leaning a hip against his car. “You got something for me?”

  “Nothing and a lot,” said the folklorist.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that there is nothing in the literature that matches what happened to Patty.”

  “Well, shit, ’cause it’s not just Patty. It’s other people and it’s me.”

  There was a pause. “Yes, I spoke with Malcolm Crow. There may even be some you don’t know about. You should really go talk to him. You’re both pulling at different ends of the same thing. That’s what I meant by ‘a lot.’ This is a bigger case than you think, and if it is something paranormal or supernatural, then it’s new. Or at least unrecorded, and believe me when I say I searched.”

  “Maybe I will,” said Monk grudgingly. “I’m in Doylestown right now following up on a tattoo artist who may be involved.”

  “I’m serious … talk to Crow.”

  Jonatha ended the call, which left Monk feeling frustrated as hell. He drank his beer and went through every detail again in his mind. Nothing wrong with his memory—except for the stolen memories of Tuyet. Unlike Patty, who—thank god—still clung to something of that poor little girl, Monk felt as if she was really gone from him. From his life, his experience. It stabbed him with knives of grief.

  It also made him very damn angry.

  He stood up, told Sandy he’d be right back, and went to check on INKreadible, but the CLOSED sign was still there. He came back to a fresh beer and a bowl of mixed nuts. He drank, he crunched, he thought, and he fumed.

  Sandy came over a few times and that part was nice. And he needed something nice to think about. Monk was fascinated by her. From the jump he could tell she had some history, and he picked up clues as they chatted. No rings. She flirted but not in a guilty way, so Monk didn’t think there was a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. He’d watched the bartender watching a woman in tight jeans who’d come in for a drink with a construction worker. Sandy watched her, not him. But the same controlled interest in her eyes was still there when the woman left and Sandy looked at him. That was okay with him. Straight or bi, she was who she was, and she was lovely. He wondered if he was going to ask for her number. He wondered if she’d give it. He liked his odds betting on both.