Chasing the Monkey King

by D. C. Alexander

  THREE

  Severin’s eyes popped open. It took him a moment to realize he was in bed at home. Again, his heart was pounding and racing. He took his pulse, discovering that it was over 130 beats per minute. His throat felt dry and tight. He tried to swallow, but found he couldn’t. His fingers and toes felt cold.

  He got up and, without turning on any lights, stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of water. Then he stood in the darkness at his living room window, gazing down at the light 3 a.m. traffic racing north or south on Interstate 5, taking a dozen deep breaths, waiting for his heart to calm down.

  Initially, he’d felt ambivalent about Janet’s abrupt exit from his life—even a bit relieved. He was, after all, something of a lone wolf. But now, alarmed by the worsening behavior of his heart, standing in darkness and watching vehicles pass by on the freeway, each of them rushing off to somewhere else, the weight of his solitude bore down on him. To his unhappy surprise, he ached with loneliness.

  *****

  The next day, Severin slept in until 10, then rose slowly. Looking out his bedroom window, he saw that it was raining. A slow, steady rain from low-lying clouds. He thought about finally calling a doctor about his episodes. But his medical insurance was crap, and he couldn’t afford the co-pay. Plus, he hated going to the doctor.

  Maybe the episodes would just go away. He’d been having them for several months now. But still, maybe they’d stop just as abruptly as they’d started. Perhaps if he changed his diet or drank less coffee. Perhaps if he started meditating, doing yoga, or drinking special calming teas. He’d always figured naturopathic and holistic approaches to illness were goofball nonsense, if not utterly fraudulent. But they were sounding better and better all the time.

  He was tempted to get back on the internet for purposes of self-diagnosis. But the last time he made that mistake, he’d found that his symptoms could be attributed to anything from dehydration to ALS to brain cancer. So his attempt at figuring out what was wrong had only made it harder for him to sleep. Made him all the more anxious.

  Donning a terrycloth robe, he made his way to his tiny kitchen, brewed a pot of extra strong coffee, and sat down at the kitchen table to go through mail. There was an overdue cable bill he tossed into the trash can without opening. But there was another overdue bill he couldn’t ignore quite so easily—this one for his credit card. Scanning the statement, he noted a $450 charge from a bar in Bellingham and wondered whether it was fraudulent. He had indeed been in Bellingham on the specified date. But he had no recollection of the bar. Or did he? He vaguely remembered making a late night stop at a dumpy place with an uneven pool table down near the waterfront. But $450? What had he done, order a round of 20-year-old scotch for the whole bar? His balance was now at the card maximum of $10,000, not counting the past month’s interest charge. He thought about applying for a new card with an introductory 0% rate on balance transfers. It would give him some breathing room.

  He listened to voicemail on his land line as he poured himself another cup of coffee. Three prerecorded messages from politicians urged him to get out and vote for such-and-such or so-and-so in the upcoming election. Then there was another message from Greg Carlsen. “Hey, jackass. Trying your home phone now. You really should call me. Got something you should hear about. Check your text messages for my numbers. Call me. Really.”

  That sounded ominous. He gave a moment’s thought to returning Carlsen’s call, then sucked down his coffee and headed for the shower instead.

  *****

  An hour later, Severin stood in the office of his employer, an organic foods certifier called Agrisymbiosis. The company shared office space with two accountants in a neglected, drafty, and perpetually damp converted 1920s bungalow on Lower Queen Anne Hill, near old U.S. Highway 99.

  “The mileage log and gas receipts are in the envelope,” he said as he laid his investigative audit report on the desk of a slightly younger, unwashed man in a wrinkled flannel shirt who sat just inside the front door in what had once been the bungalow’s living room. The man—whose official role was that of assistant to the firm’s director, but who had also, with the director’s apparent blessing, appointed himself the director’s gatekeeper and first point of contact for contractors like Severin—was flipping through a men’s fashion mail-order catalog. He had long blond hair that he’d obviously gone to a lot of trouble to make look as though he didn’t care about it. A touch too perfectly unkempt.

  “If you could just slip that into Amber’s mailbox,” the man said without bothering to look up at Severin.

  “Is that a request, Channing?”

  The man made brief eye contact, sneered, and gave a quick nod.

  “I take it they didn’t teach grammar or sentence structure where you went to school,” Severin said, taking the report back and walking it over to the mailbox area. You flip little Fabio-looking moron, he might have added.

  “Did you include an exhibit list this time, like Amber asked you to?”

  “Of course, Channing.” To keep himself in check, Severin visualized sending the man falling over backward in his chair with a solid palm heel strike to the underside of his chin. “You’ll find a reference to it in the table of contents, under the title ‘exhibit list.’ Imagine that.”

  Severin had Channing pegged for a fraud. He did the ‘friend of the earth’ thing not because he was a believer, but because it got him dates. Because it gave him—a buffoon with a third-rate bachelor’s degree from a third-rate university—a way to fool himself into thinking that he was of use to society. Severin was convinced that it was because of people like Channing that important environmental protection issues got so little traction among American conservatives. What conservative would ever pay heed to an abrasive, repulsive moron like him? Severin could just picture him taking the message to the street. Hey, dude. You have to, like, sign my petition and, like, give money to save the whales. Or else you’re, like, a jerk.

  Having delivered his report to the director’s mailbox, Severin made to leave without saying goodbye, and was half way out the door before Channing blurted, “Amber has another assignment for you.”

  “Tell her to call me.”

  “No, you have to depart today.”

  “Where to?”

  “Greenleaf Farm in Lewiston, Idaho. They’re expecting you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Severin turned and glared at him. “Are you kidding me? Lewiston? I was literally across the river from Lewiston yesterday. Why didn’t you tell me that while I was out there so I wouldn’t have to drive 11 unnecessary hours back and forth to Seattle while spending all your client’s money on gasoline?”

  “This week’s assignments were determined at the strategy meeting this morning.”

  Severin stared at Channing, contemplating the nerve bundles and pressure points that, if struck, would inflict the greatest possible pain on the man.

  “Email me the file,” he said, heading out the door.

  *****

  Needing a walk in the fresh air, Severin made his way down through Belltown to the downtown Seattle waterfront where he ordered a large halibut and chips from Ivar’s Fish Bar. It was cool out, but not cold, so he took a seat at one of the outdoor tables at the edge of the pier. Seagulls circled overhead, hoping diners would spill their cups of French fries. Severin could hear the low rumble of the massive diesel engines of one of the state’s ferries as it offloaded cars at Colman Dock, a couple hundred feet to the south.

  When he was half way through his meal, his phone rang again. Guessing it would be his boss, Amber, he licked his fingers and, without looking at the caller I.D., answered.

  “Severin.”

  “Thanks for calling me back, jackass.” It was Greg Carlsen.

  “Oh, hey Greg, I just, uh—”

  “Oh, hey Greg, I just, uh, nothing.”

  “No, Greg, really. I just got in from Clarkston. Catching up on voicemail, snail mail, email. All that good stuff. What’s up? How are you do
ing?”

  “Like you care. You don’t even send me a Christmas card.”

  “I don’t send anyone Christmas cards. I’m a man.”

  “I send people Christmas cards.”

  “I rest my case. So what’s up?”

  “I’ll catch you up on all the very interesting details of my life over the thank-you beers you’re going to buy me when this is all said and done. The reason I hunted you down is that I have a possible under-the-table sort of job for you. Probably a big payday for a fairly limited time commitment.”

  “Under the table? The hell does that mean? I’m not going to bodyguard a drug dealer.”

  “Would I do that to you?”

  “No comment.”

  “Lars, this is a cherry gig. Easy money. Real money.”

  “I appreciate that you thought of me, Greg. But I kind of have a full plate right now.”

  “Arthur told me you’re doing some kind of low-paying contract inspector thing?”

  “I’m delighted to hear that my friends are talking about my low income. And Art’s description is an oversimplification. But yeah, that’s basically what I’m doing.”

  “Lars, man, you definitely need to hear me out then.”

  “Fine. What’s the deal?”

  “I don’t have all the details. But you remember my Uncle Pete who lives on Lopez Island?”

  “No.”

  “The guy who burned the hell out of his hand with fireworks at that 4th of July party we went to down near Shelter Bay.”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember him.”

  “Long story short, he plays bridge with this multimillionaire guy who also lives on Lopez. Orin Thorvaldsson.”

  “Orin Thorvaldsson? Never heard of him. Is he a Viking?”

  “Apparently his niece is a U.S. government employee who up and disappeared while on assignment in some rural part of China. Nobody knows what happened to her. The State Department did some minimal investigation, threw out a few theories, and called it a day.”

  “What were the theories?”

  “Again, I don’t know the details. But in a nutshell, they think she and her colleague are dead. Murdered. That’s where you come in. The State Department report was inconclusive and light on facts. The family wants answers.”

  “Hold on, Greg. It’s been years since I investigated anything criminal, let alone a homicide. Plus, China? How is that going to work?”

  “You speak the language.”

  “I speak just enough Korean to survive a consular cocktail party.”

  “Korean’s pretty close to Chinese, isn’t it?”

  “No, moron. It isn’t close. And which of the 50 million dialects of Chinese are you even talking about?”

  “Well, you have experience working overseas, right?”

  “In Korea. And that was a Customs thing. I haven’t touched a homicide since I worked in Anacortes with your silly ass, what, eight years ago? And then, of course, there’s that sticky little jurisdiction thing. You think I’m going to be able to prance around in China investigating a murder? You’re cracked.”

  “I don’t think this Thorvaldsson guy is expecting that you could act like a full-blown murder police over there. I think he has in mind more of a simple fact-finding mission.”

  “A simple fact-finding mission. In a country where I don’t speak the language, where my pasty, 6-foot-2 self is going to be as conspicuous as all get out, and where I might not even be legally able to drive a car.”

  “They’re talking about a big payday. I mean like tens of thousands, for a couple weeks of work. Probably just interviewing people.”

  “Greg, listen. It isn’t the perfect setup, but I’m gainfully employed. I have a shred of stability in my life for the first time in I don’t know how long. I can’t drop everything for this wild goose chase sounding thing. Thanks for thinking of me. But I’m sorry. This isn’t for me.”

  They chatted for another minute or two, making halfhearted promises to meet for beers and catch up at some point. Then, as Severin finished up his fish and shoved his plate into an overstuffed garbage can on the sidewalk, he watched a small white BMW whip into a disabled parking space. A disabled parking placard hung from its rearview mirror. A perfectly able-bodied woman emerged and ran through the main entrance to Pier 54, probably for a coffee. As he strode by, he tried the car door. It was unlocked. He reached in, grabbed the disabled parking placard, and tossed it in the next garbage can he came to as he strode along the waterfront walkway.

  FOUR

  That afternoon—the sky darkened by overcast—Severin repacked his duffel bag with several pairs of socks and underwear that he hadn’t had time to wash since his return a day earlier. He put on the last clean shirt he had. It was an ancient red and brown flannel—a grunge music scene relic from the days, decades earlier, when he followed a half dozen soon-to-be world-famous bands from the Off Ramp, to the Crocodile Café, to the OK Hotel, to every other hole-in-the-wall Seattle venue where they once played. He microwaved and choked down a frozen bean burrito, bought a new pouch of leaf chew tobacco at a corner market near his place, and set off, tired and irritated, for Lewiston, Idaho.

  Nearing the high desert east of the Cascade Mountains, he stopped to refuel at a dusty gas station in the town of Vantage, on the right bank of the wide Columbia River. A cold wind was howling down the Columbia River Gorge, so he jumped back into his car as the tank was filling, knocking his chew spit cup over onto the passenger seat as he did so. Oh, crap. With the cold wind blowing under his shirt and up his back, he searched the pump island for a paper towel dispenser, and, unsuccessful, went in to beg napkins from the clerk. A few minutes later, the brown chew spit wiped up to reveal a large new stain on the fabric of his car seat, Severin, with excessive force, turned the key in the ignition. The starter went through several cycles, making an anemic sound, but the engine wouldn’t engage. Had he left the lights on? Even if he had, it couldn’t have been more than five or six minutes since he turned the car off—not long enough to drain a half-decent battery. He turned the key back to off, checked that his headlights were off, waited a moment, and tried again. This time the starter was slower. The engine still wouldn’t start. Two tries later, and the starter refused to budge.

  Perfect.

  He thought about buying a battery from the service station. But they’d charge him through the nose. His credit card was maxed out anyway, and his ATM card was linked to a bank account that wouldn’t have more than $30 in it until his next payday at the end of the week. He could use the company gas card. But they wouldn’t look kindly upon that, even if he was on assignment for them. They were beyond anal about extra expenses. No, he’d just get someone to give him a jump.

  It took Severin the better part of half an hour before he could find someone who had jumper cables and was actually willing to help him out. By then he was freezing. Shivering. He thanked his rescuers, got in his car, and headed back toward eastbound Interstate 90. However, just short of the ramp, he pulled over and sat for a moment with the engine running, still shivering though his heater was on full blast. He was beat. But it was still another three hours to Lewiston. He packed a fresh wad of chew into his cheek and stared straight out the windshield.

  What was he going to do—find somebody to jump start his car every morning in Lewiston so that he could go to work from his motel? Call Channing, admit to the bastard that his personal financial situation was pitiful, and then grovel to be allowed to purchase a new car battery with the company gas card? And to think he’d told Greg Carlsen that he finally had a shred of stability back in his life. Pathetic.

  He squeezed the steering wheel with both hands until they grew tired. Then, popping a CD into his stereo—the one high-quality component of his car—he took several minutes to close his eyes, breathe meditatively, and listen to his cherished Seattle symphony rendition of the second movement from Sonata Pathétique–Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 8 in C minor, Opus number 13. The piece nearly always helped
him calm down—helped him regain focus. The music carried his mind away to a happier time. A memory of a warm and sunny day. A sandy 4th of July beach of his childhood, just he and his parents sharing hot dogs and lemonade by the water’s edge. A sailboat passing 100 yards offshore. The smell of salt on the gentle Puget Sound sea breeze. Everyone smiling. Everyone happy and healthy.

  The sonata ended. Severin took one more deep breath, turned his car around, and headed for the ramp to westbound Interstate 90. It was two hours back to Seattle, and another hour and a half or so to the San Juan Islands ferry terminal in Anacortes. That would give him plenty of time to get back in touch with Carlsen and get the contact information for Orin Thorvalddson, the mysterious multimillionaire of Lopez Island. He’d call Thorvalddson for directions once he was west of the mountains.

  FIVE

  That afternoon, rain began to fall from a darkening sky as Severin made his way through Anacortes on his sojourn to the ferry terminal servicing the San Juan Islands route. His windshield started to steam up despite his dying defogger being on maximum power, and he had to wipe it with his sleeve in order to see. Just after passing a small shipyard on the right-hand side of the highway, he made a conscious effort to not look to his left, where a little neighborhood of well-kept houses climbed a gentle slope toward Cranberry Lake. If he’d allowed himself to look, he might have caught a glimpse of a small, old, white Cape Cod-style cottage that to most people would appear unremarkable. But to Severin, it would always be remembered as the place where he first peered into the abyss. His life had been forever split into two distinct periods divided by the day he last set foot in that house. No other point in time held the same defining, terrible meaning for him. Not even the day his parents were killed.

  *****