“What’s happening to us?” asked Yo-Yo. She sounded like a frightened little girl.
Straight Bob looked at Rain. “Maybe you’d better start from the beginning and tell the whole thing. Then the rest of you. Something’s happening here, and we need to understand what it is. Now. Together.”
Outside there was a flash of lightning and a deep bass boom of thunder. They all flinched, but Straight Bob actually grinned. “It’s a dark and stormy night.”
Rain licked her lips and tried to return his smile. “I guess that fits,” she said shakily, “because I think what’s happening is that we’re all in a monster story. A real one.”
They all nodded once more, but now no one was smiling.
Rain told her story.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Monk recognized the young man. Rain’s guy. Joplin. He was a wreck. Pale, shaken, hollow-eyed, confused. Monk walked him away from the dead man. The hall was otherwise empty. None of the other tenants had come out to see what was going on. The silence was oppressive.
“I … I heard a strange noise,” said Joplin. “I came down to … to … you know…”
“You know who he was?” asked Monk. “His name?”
“Hoto. Don’t know his first name.”
“Any idea why he’d do this?”
“God … no.”
Monk studied him but did not see any traces of guile. The kid was fried by this. “Look, I’m an investigator. Maybe Rain told you about me.”
Joplin blinked, then nodded. “Monk?”
“Yeah. I’m going to go look inside Mr. Hoto’s apartment. See if there’s anything that might give me a clue as to why he did this.”
“But—”
“I need you to call 9-1-1. Do not—and I need to be clear about this—mention my name or that I was here. I can’t be tied up here for hours answering questions I don’t have answers to. This might be tied to something else I’m working on. I need you to call this in, and then you’re going to wait right here until the cops come. You found him, you called, and that’s it. Okay?”
“Is … Rain in some kind of trouble?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Monk. “But maybe. If she is, I can’t help her if the cops know I was here. Can you help me out here, or are you going to fall apart?”
That seemed to flip a switch in Joplin, and he wiped his mouth and straightened, nodding, blinking his glazed eyes clear. “Sure, sure. No problem.”
Monk clapped him on the shoulder and walked over to the body, used his cell phone to take pictures, and then pushed Hoto’s door open with his elbow. “Make the call,” he said and went inside.
The apartment was small, cold, ugly, and nearly empty. A few Spartan pieces of furniture but no comforts at all. No TV or laptop. No art or framed pictures; however, there was a cluster of Buddhist iconography on the walls. And those same words, Gomen’nasai, written thousands of times on the floor, walls, ceiling, and even on the little futon in the corner. It was clear that Hoto was in some specific kind of hell that was tied up with guilt. Gomen’nasai. A profound apology.
Apology for what? Monk wondered. Apology to whom?
He saw something on the floor near the futon, and he squatted down to study it. A silver pocket watch and a coil of chain. It looked brand new, though the crystal face was cracked. He took a picture of it, then used a tissue from his pocket to turn it over so he could take a picture of the back, which had a key slot. There was no key around and no time to look for one. He stood, tucking the tissue back into his pocket. He’d touched nothing else. Monk took another two minutes, taking more than sixty photos of the apartment. Then he left.
Joplin, looking rocky and green, was in the hall staring at the dead man.
“Go down and wait for the cops in the foyer,” Monk said. “I was never here, okay?”
Joplin nodded and followed him down the steps.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Alyson Creighton-Thomas found the tiny windup watch on the table by the front door. It sat on top of the mail, shiny and pretty.
She picked it up, looked at the face, turned it over, and saw the keyhole, glanced around to see if there was a key, did not see one. It was not her watch. Maybe it belonged to the housekeeper. In which case it had no business being on top of the mail.
When Alyson went into the kitchen to get more ice cubes for her vodka, she dropped the watch into the trash can and never gave it another moment’s thought. She limped back to the living room, sank back onto the couch, and took the dance videos off pause.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
This time, Rain didn’t hold back.
She broke all her rules and told them the name of the monster. All bets were off now that he knew Dylan’s name. All bets were off now that she knew the monster was already in the lives of her friends.
“Doctor Nine,” said Gay Bob, pronouncing it slowly, carefully. Cautiously. Tasting the words, marveling at them. Rain flinched to hear that name come from someone else’s lips. It was different when Caster Bootey said it in her dream because that was only a dream; this was the real world. She braced her hands against the table as if expecting the floor to tilt and was surprised when nothing horrible happened to her friends.
Gay Bob told his story next. About the dreams he had and the stories he’d begun to write. He paused for a hard moment before telling them the rest of it. About the OxyContin tablets and how he had found himself perched on the windowsill, ready to jump. When he was done, he produced the Little Red Monster and placed it on the table. They recoiled from it as if it were a scorpion.
“Monster story,” he said, and Rain nodded. They glanced at Yo-Yo.
“I wrote that poem,” she said, “because I had to. It’s how I deal with stuff. Ever since I was a little girl, I used to write poems when I woke up after a nightmare. It usually helps. It’s like writing it down traps the nightmare on the page and keeps it from hurting me.”
“Yeah,” said Gay Bob, “I get that.”
Yo-Yo shivered. “It didn’t work this time. I … feel like I did something wrong by writing his name down. Something stupid. Something bad.”
“I get that, too,” admitted Gay Bob. “He doesn’t like when anyone says his name. He doesn’t even like us to write it down.”
Rain wanted to cry. “All my life I’ve been afraid that I was crazy. Doctor Nine—wow, it feels so weird to say his name—I felt like he was my personal boogeyman. That’s what he’s always been.”
Gay Bob and Yo-Yo nodded. Straight Bob did not.
“It’s always the nurse,” he said. “Just her. She’s bad enough. But that name, Doctor Nine … it’s familiar. It’s in my head somewhere, in some bad place. Like maybe the same place where my addiction lives.” He gave Rain a sheepish look. “Does that make any sense?”
“It makes a lot of sense,” she said. “Remember a few months ago when I talked about that thing the therapist told me to build, the place where I put the stuff I’m afraid of?”
“Your Box of Rain,” said Straight Bob.
“Right. When I have dreams of him, that’s where I put them.”
“Like my poetry journals,” said Yo-Yo.
“And my short story files,” said Gay Bob. “Safe places.”
Rain shook her head. “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think they’re safe anymore.”
They sat with that thought. With that truth.
The thunder rumbled again, closer now. It sounded like a growl of something big and hungry.
It was Straight Bob who finally broke the silence. “What’s it mean?” he asked. “Is this some kind of shared psychic experience? Are we having the same dream?”
“No,” said Gay Bob. “The dreams aren’t the same. The stuff I’ve been dreaming is about Doctor Nine coming here. Of him maybe finding us. It’s like I’m dreaming a kind of prologue to what’s maybe happening now, if that makes any sense.”
“I don’t know how any of this makes sense,” said Rain. “But righ
t now, hearing this … I think that’s exactly what you were dreaming. About how Doctor Nine came here.”
“Is that what you’ve been dreaming, too?” asked Yo-Yo.
Rain shook her head. “Not exactly. I never had a dream about Doctor Nine coming here because in my dreams he’s always been here.” She paused, then gave another shake of her head. “No that’s not right, either. I’ve had dreams where he’s going somewhere else. To someone else. To the nurse, but when she was a little girl. I dream about how she called Doctor Nine to come find her. To take her. She was really crazy, and I think she murdered her sister when they were kids. Killed her because she wanted to know what murder felt like.”
“Jesus God,” murmured Gay Bob.
“I’m not sure if she was born crazy, like maybe a serial killer,” said Rain, “or if Doctor Nine turned her bad. Maybe it’s both. Like she was open to him and he reached into her head and did something. Made her bad. Or worse. Or something.”
“Corrupted her,” said Straight Bob, and after considering that for a moment, she nodded.
“There’s more,” said Rain.
“What do you mean?” asked Yo-Yo.
“Guys,” she began, and faltered for a moment, feeling panic swirl like a dust devil in her chest. She summoned what little courage she could muster and told them about what happened in her apartment. About Doctor Nine coming to her in the flesh, about her accidentally letting him know Dylan’s name. About everything. They sat in horrified silence for a long time.
“What’s it mean, though?” asked Yo-Yo, breaking the silence. “So what if he knows your son’s name?”
Straight Bob gave her a pained look. “In folklore, evil creatures like demons and such get power over someone once they know their real name. And, don’t jump on me, I’m not saying this freak is a demon. I’m just…” His voice trailed as he looked at the expressions on everyone’s faces. “No, I’m being pedantic and I’m talking too much because I’m scared. Forget I said anything.”
Gay Bob said, “What matters is that he’s real. Don’t know how, don’t know what that means, but he’s real.”
“Or we’re all out of our damn minds,” said Yo-Yo, “and somehow we’re in each other’s delusions.”
“No, he’s real,” said Rain. After a moment they all nodded.
“You said his name again out loud,” said Gay Bob. “Why risk that now? Is it because we’re all having the same thing happen to us? Because we already know the name?”
Rain nodded. “I almost didn’t say it because it scares me, but somehow, with you guys, I think I’m…” She fished for the word.
“Allowed,” he suggested.
“Yes.” She cut a look at the other people in the diner. “Not with anyone else, though.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Yo-Yo, “but what do we do? I mean, this isn’t real, is it?”
“Not sure I understand what ‘real’ even means,” admitted Gay Bob.
“I do,” said Rain. “Until now, I thought this was all me and only me. I was thinking that I’m dead or in a coma and this is all a dream.”
Straight Bob gave her a bleak stare. “How do you know it’s not?”
“Oh, hell no,” snapped Yo-Yo. “I’m not in anyone’s damn dream. I’m me and I’m right here and so are all of us.”
“Sure, but I could be dreaming that you’re saying that,” said Rain.
“I will be happy to kick both your skinny white asses to show you how real I am.”
“No, thanks,” said Rain quickly.
“Okay, okay,” said Gay Bob, “let’s cut that shit out. It’s not helpful. If this is a dream, then each of us is dreaming it at the same time, and as far as I’m concerned, it puts us in the same place. We still have to answer the same questions.”
“Which questions in particular?” asked the other Bob.
“Well, first off … who or what is Doctor Nine? In my dreams, in the stories I write about him, he’s arriving places. New cities, all over the place. Maybe all over the world. He’s hunting, but he’s following some kind of scent or call. Not sure what it is. What I do know is that my dreams go back a lot of years and he’s not always with the same people,” said Gay Bob.
“You mean the nurse and the—whatever it is who drives his car?” asked Rain.
“He’s called the Mulatto,” said Yo-Yo. “He’s a zombie, but not like one of those Walking Dead flesh-eating kind. He’s OG zombie, from Haiti. Voodoo and all that shit.”
They thought about it. Gay Bob and Rain nodded.
“He used to have other people, though,” said Gay Bob. “I can see them sometimes in dreams, but I can never make them out. They’re like shadows. I think they used to be real people, but it’s like…”
“Like they forgot how to be alive?” suggested Rain. “Or be human?”
Gay Bob nodded.
Straight Bob swallowed hard. “What about the nurse? Is she human?”
“No,” said Yo-Yo without hesitation, then she looked surprised by the force of her answer. “I mean … she’s not human anymore.”
“Then what is she?”
No one had an answer to that.
“What do we know about her?” asked Straight Bob. “Let’s start there and maybe we can figure out what she is from what she does.”
“She likes to hurt,” said Rain at once. “Not physically, but in other ways. Emotionally, psychologically.”
“It goes a lot deeper than that, Rain,” said Yo-Yo. “She’s mean, or maybe malicious is a better word. She gets off on doing deep damage to people. Somehow she gets into my head and pushes all my damn buttons. The bad ones. The ones that want to make me do bad stuff.”
“Like using?” asked Gay Bob.
Yo-Yo sipped her coffee and then held the cup, looking at it. “I … I have to tell you guys something. I don’t want to, but I have to.”
Rain tensed, knowing what was coming.
Yo-Yo was wearing a long-sleeved sweater and she slowly, painfully, pushed up her sleeve. There, tucked into the folds of her inner elbow, were several small black dots.
Track marks.
INTERLUDE FOURTEEN
THE MONSTERS AND THE BOY
They revealed the secrets of the windup pocket watch to him.
Every now and then, Doctor Nine would open one of the clocks, remove the crystal vial, and pour the stolen time onto his tongue. The doctor’s eyelids would flutter shut, and he would moan the way the nurse did sometimes when the doctor did things to her on the boy’s cot.
When he was nine, they offered him a taste.
“I don’t want to,” he said, and the nurse beat him with a big wooden spoon.
A month later, they tried again.
“Do I have to?” he asked.
The spoon again.
A month later, they tried once more. He realized that they would never stop. So he forced a shy smile onto his face, one he’d practiced by watching people on TV, and asked, “Will I like it?”
The doctor and the nurse smiled huge smiles. They glowed at him.
“You’ll love it,” said the nurse. “It’s soooo good.”
“It will change your life,” said the doctor.
The boy nodded. “Okay.”
The doctor produced a windup pocket watch, opened it, and removed the crystal vial. “This is a little drop, my boy. Not too much. Not the first time. A taste to whet your appetite.”
The nurse took the boy’s head and tilted it back and told him to stick out his tongue. He did, and for a long moment, he didn’t think anything was going to happen. He’d never actually seen the stuff they put into the clocks. He never felt anything land on his tongue.
Then it hit him.
It.
Hit.
Him.
The boy’s eyes snapped wide, but he no longer saw the basement or the TV or the chains. He did not see the doctor, the nurse, or the Mulatto. He didn’t see anything that was part of his life.
He was inside the mind and
the heart of a young woman in a filthy house in some part of Brooklyn. There were a dozen people there. Some of them were asleep. One might have been dead for all the movement the boy could detect. A few mumbled quietly to one another. One stood leaning on the doorframe, grinning and snatching at the front of his pants. A thin man with a rat face sat facing the woman. He had a vial, too, but it wasn’t crystal. It was a small plastic vial filled with tiny crystals and he rattled it in front of the woman.
“What have you got to lose?” he asked.
It was exactly the wrong thing to say and exactly the right thing to say, and the boy could feel the sudden upsurge of emotion. There was real anger there. Or maybe it was outrage; he wasn’t sure of the distinction. There was hatred, too, but it wasn’t directed outward. Not entirely. Most of the hatred stabbed inward. It was a very specific kind of hatred that the boy instinctively knew was called self-loathing. The woman was at a crisis point. Take the vial of crack cocaine and finish her slide downward. She knew, as the dealer knew and the boy knew, that if she did this, then it would be the tipping point, and the weight of her own disappointment would send her crashing down through all the rotted floors in the tenement of her life. The boy understood this even though he was too young because he was in the woman’s thoughts. There were flashes of her life before the drugs. There were flashes of real happiness. Of joy. Of passion. Of optimism. Those, however, were old and tarnished and fragile, and the weight of that vial would smash them beyond any hope of repair.
Beyond any hope.
The boy understood why Doctor Nine found this so delicious. It was not hope exactly that he craved. Hope was poison to someone like him. No, it was the last hope that was the drug. It was like the TV special the boy had watched about fugu fish. They were poison if prepared wrong but a delicacy if done just right. Hope was like that. Doctor Nine craved that moment when a person’s optimism failed and they were on the narrow ledge of their last true moment of hope.
That’s what the nurse caught as it fell. It’s what the doctor stored away in his windup pocket watches. It’s what fed him.